I hitched my pack higher on to my back, grasped my cudgel purposefully and turned to walk on down the street.
As I did so, I happened to glance upwards, to a window on the right of the archway, which looked out over Crooked Lane. It was open slightly, and I was suddenly aware that someone, whether male or female I could not tell, was standing, a little withdrawn from the aperture, in the passageway beyond. While I watched, the figure made a forward movement, as though to open the casement wider, but as it did so a voice shouted: ‘Get back!‘ and, almost at once, the window was closed.
Alison Weaver and Philip Lamprey had both been correct in their information: the sign of the Baptist’s Head could plainly be seen on the other side of the alley from the corner of Thames Street and Crooked Lane, and one side of the inn did indeed overlook the river. Crooked Lane itself was not a long street, and, apart from the two hostelries, was walled in by tightly packed houses, whose upper storeys almost met in the middle. Today, a little thin sunshine filtered between the overhanging eaves, but in cheerless weather it must, I thought with a shiver, be gloomy indeed. There was, strangely enough, no twist or bend of any kind in the road, and I wondered how it had come by its name. The customary mounds of refuse were heaped outside of doorways, while the narrow channel separating the cobbles on either side of the street was full of rainwater and rotting food. The carcass of a dead dog lay on somebody’s doorstep. This, in London no doubt as in other towns and cities, was a serious offence, and the owner of the animal could be heavily fined.
The Baptist’s Head was entered directly from the street, not built, like its rival, around a courtyard. It was far smaller than the Crossed Hands, and, because of its location, less likely to be the recipient of passing traffic.
People who stayed there would know its reputation by word of mouth from other, satisfied fellow travellers. Its timber front looked clean and well painted, and the front door, which stood open, emitted delicious smells of cooking. Beef and dumplings, I thought, my appetite whetted. Whatever lucky person took supper here tonight would not go hungry. I stepped inside.
I was in a flagged passageway which ended in another doorway at the far end, also standing open to the light and air. Yet more doors flanked me on both sides, and a narrow twisting stair led to the upper storey. I wondered where they stabled the horses. This thought was answered a moment later by a high-pitched whinny and the shifting of hooves from the back of the inn. I walked the length of the passage and, sure enough, there were three stalls beneath a lean-to roof, together with piles of hay and fodder, facing me across a cobbled courtyard. Further investigation revealed that the yard was reached from Crooked Lane by an alleyway running along by the Baptist’s Head on the side furthest from the river. A horse, a big red roan, occupied one of the stalls, but the other two were empty. Trade was not brisk, it seemed; not, at least, for the moment.
I went back inside, but still there was no sign of anyone. The ale-room was uninhabited, but dinner had been recently served. Dirty plates and mazers scattered around the tables testified to the fact, while the absence of left-overs confirmed my impression that the food here was good. The smell of the stew was making my mouth water, even though I had recently eaten. I returned to the passage and hollered.
‘Is anyone about? Thomas Prynne! Are you there?’
There was a muffled answering shout from somewhere beneath me. Then a trapdoor in the floor of the ale-room was flung back with the resounding clatter of wood hitting stone, and a man came up the steps from the cellar.
‘Sir, my apologies,’ he began, but stopped when he saw me. ‘Who are you?’ He noticed my pack and waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’m sorry, but there are no women here just at present to be needing your gew-gaws.’
He was a short, powerfully built man, with a barrel chest, well-muscled arms and thighs, a thatch of grey hair and a network of fine wrinkles raying the weatherbeaten skin. His eyes, which were of a bright cornflower blue, had a twinkle in them, and his whole person radiated a contentment with life in general, and his own existence in particular, which was very reassuring. This, I thought, was a happy man.
‘Thomas Prynne?’ I queried, although I was sure of his answer.
‘Yes. But I’ve already explained-’
‘I’m not here to sell you anything,’ I cut in quickly. ‘A friend of yours, Marjorie Dyer, told me to look you up if I was ever in London.’
‘Marjorie Dyer? Of Bristol?’
‘The same. Also Alderman Weaver mentioned that you might be persuaded to give me a corner to sleep in for the time that I’m here.’
‘Alfred Weaver?’ he demanded incredulously. The eyes twinkled more than ever. ‘He said that? Now what in heaven’s name would one of our leading Bristol Aldermen be doing talking to a chapman?’ The West Country accent was still very strong.
I grinned. It was obvious that Thomas Prynne had the measure of his old boyhood friend.
‘It’s a long story,’ I replied. ‘Not one to be told in a moment. Later, perhaps, when you have more time. I’m off to the Cheap presently to sell my goods, if I’m lucky. But I’d like to be sure of a night’s lodging first. I can pay my way if the accommodation is not too fancy.’
Thomas Prynne shrugged. ‘Any friend of Marjorie’s can have a bed here for nothing, and welcome. We have only one visitor at present. Another is expected later this evening, but that leaves a room empty. It’s yours until we need it. Then, if you’re still here, you may sleep in the kitchen for as long as you like.’ He smiled, the lines deepening around the corners of his eyes. ‘But I shall expect you to take your food and ale here.’
‘Judging from the smells coming from your kitchen that won’t be any hardship,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘But Marjorie Dyer and I have only a passing acquaintance. I shouldn’t wish to take advantage of your generosity without making that plain.’
Thomas regarded me steadily. ‘You know, you’ve aroused my interest. Why should such a brief encounter have caused her to mention my name?’ He indicated one of the barrels ranged around the walls. ‘I have an excellent ale which I don’t hand out to everyone. Surely, you can delay your visit to the Cheap long enough to sample it with me and satisfy my curiosity at the same time. There are still sufficient hours of daylight left for you to sell at least some of your goods.’
I hesitated, feeling that I had already wasted enough precious hours that day, but in view of his most kind offer of free lodgings, what choice did I have but to comply?
I moved to one of the long wooden tables near the old- fashioned, central hearthstone and sat down. I noticed how beautifully clean everything was, the table-tops scrubbed, the sawdust and scattered rushes on the floor freshly laid. ‘I’ll answer any questions you want to ask,’ I said.
When I was a child, on winter-nights, when the door of our cottage was shut against the darkness outside and there was little else to do but sleep, my mother would sing to me. One of the songs I remember best was of the sort where you keep repeating the words you have sung before, but adding a little extra information each time. I reflected that my story was getting like this, growing in length with each retelling, so that now, it took me almost half an hour before I reached my arrival in London. Fortunately, Thomas Prynne was an excellent listener, giving me his full attention and not interrupting with unnecessary questions or exclamations of wonder and astonishment. When I had finished, however, he did permit himself a long, low whistle.