‘A very strange story. You intend to keep your promise to Alfred Weaver, then?’
I twisted my cup of ale between my fingers. ‘I have to confess that I had all but forgotten it by the time I got to Canterbury. If the truth be told, I thought the Alderman’s idea that I might be of some assistance extremely foolish. I thought — I suppose I still do think it possible — that Clement Weaver fell a prey to footpads.’ I could see by Thomas Prynne’s vigorous nod of the head that this was his own opinion. ‘But what happened in Canterbury made me less certain. It also seemed that God meant me to take a hand.’
My companion looked dubious. ‘There is such a thing as coincidence, a more frequent occurrence than you might at first imagine.’ He added: ‘Young Clement’s disappearance was a terrible thing, but robbery and death are not uncommon in London.’
I frowned, watching him pour more ale into my empty cup. ‘The point is, we don’t know for certain that Clement’s dead. And that is what bothers me. Why would footpads take the time and trouble to remove the body?’
Thomas Prynne grimaced. ‘A difficulty, on the face of it, I grant you. But there might be reasons. Perhaps, with winter coming on, they were desperate for clothes. Perhaps they were disturbed, or thought they might be disturbed, before they could safely strip the body, so they carried it away. Not as much of a problem as it seems, if there was more than one of them. And these fellows often work in gangs.’
The need for clothing was something I had not previously thought of. But even so, if the robbers had money, they could buy clothes. And there was still the disappearance of Sir Richard Mallory to be considered. I shook my head.
‘I’m convinced,’ I said, ‘that there’s some mystery about the Crossed hands inn. Do you know anything of Martin Trollope?’
‘I know him by sight, naturally, and to give the time of day to. Other than that, we have little contact. We are, after all, rivals for custom in the same street.’ Thomas smiled ruefully. ‘And all the advantages are on his side. Location, size, royal patronage and connections …’
‘Tenuous ones, if my information is correct.‘ What was it Bess had said? ‘Trollope is merely the cousin of a dependant of the Duke of Clarence.’
Thomas laughed outright at that. ‘It’s easy to tell, Roger Chapman, that you haven’t long been in London. Such a “mere” connection is not to be sneezed at. A great deal of trade at the Crossed Hands is by recommendation from the Duke himself. I wish I could boast as much in the way of royal support.‘ He sipped his ale, regarding me thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. ‘So! What do you intend doing by way of fulfilling your promise to Alfred Weaver?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘I haven’t as yet decided on a plan of action. But something may occur to me.’
‘I’m sure it will,’ Thomas assured me drily. ‘You seem a very resourceful and competent young man. A chapman who can read and write! Well, well! Wonders will never cease. I can read a little, myself, but putting pen to paper is a skill I have never mastered. I have to rely for that on my partner, Abel Sampson.‘ I must have looked surprised, because he laughed. ‘Did you think that I run this place single-handed?’
‘No. No, of course not. I just hadn’t thought about it at all, I suppose. As I’ve already told you, Marjorie Dyer and I had only the briefest of acquaintances. You’re not married?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘I’ve never felt the need. My experience is that wives are generally a hindrance. There are plenty of women for the having in any city, but especially in London. I learned to cook when I was landlord of the Running Man, and with only three bedrooms, not all of which are occupied at any one time, the demands on me are not excessive. Abel and I are our own cellarers, servers and chamberers. That way, with no other wages to pay, and no dependants, we manage to make a living. It’s not easy, but at least the place belongs to us, whereas in Bristol the Running Man was the property of St Augustine’s Abbey, and all my efforts simply resulted in the Church getting richer, with no reward to myself.’
‘You deserve to do well,’ I said, adding fervently: ‘This ale is the best I’ve ever tasted and, as I remarked before, the cooking smells delicious.’
‘You shall sample it tonight, when you return from the Cheap.‘ He rose to his feet, picking up our empty cups. ‘As for our ales, and especially our wines, Abel and I do the buying ourselves. The ships from Bordeaux tie up west of the Steelyard, at Three Cranes Wharf. It means early rising to be ahead of the vintners, but we don’t begrudge that extra effort. In time, we hope to gain a reputation for selling the best wines of any inn in London.’
I was beginning to admire this man more and more. He was plainly determined, against the odds, to make a success of his venture; and he had all the Bristolian’s canniness with money which should enable him to succeed. He also had humanity and a vein of humour which I found attractive, and I wished him well.
‘When I return this evening, ‘ I said, ‘ I should like to talk to you about the night Clement Weaver disappeared. If you can spare the time, that is.’
He smiled down at me. ‘We’re expecting another guest, as I told you, but he’s been on the road from Northampton for the past few days, and according to the carrier who brought his message, doesn’t anticipate being here until late. So, if the opportunity arises …’ He broke off with a shrug. ‘Our other guest, by the way, you’ll meet at supper. An impoverished gentleman who is rapidly becoming poorer yet on account of all the litigation he’s involved in. He’s come to London for the second time this year to petition the King. Something to do with land and a contested will.’ He sighed, as if for the folly of the human race. ‘London is full of people like him, pouring their money into the pockets of the lawyers.’
I nodded. I remembered seeing them earlier that day in St Paul’s cloisters.
A step sounded in the passage outside, and a moment later, a tall, thin man appeared in the open doorway of the ale-room. Thomas Prynne nodded towards him.
‘This is my partner, Abel Sampson.’
Chapter 11
A second glance showed me that Abel Sampson, though tall, was not so tall as I was. (I use the past tense here because, with the passage of time, I have become a little stooped. Arthritic limbs have inevitably taken their toll.) He was, nevertheless, a considerable height, standing well over five-and-a-half feet, the top of his head reaching to the level of my eyebrows. It was his slender frame which made him appear taller than he really was. I don’t say he was emaciated, but he was certainly extremely thin, and the contrast he made with Thomas Prynne was almost ludicrous. I had to school my features rigorously to prevent them breaking into a grin.
Abel Sampson was also a great deal younger than I had expected; not much above twenty-four or — five summers I guessed. He had sandy hair and eyebrows, pale blue eyes and bloodless, almost invisible lips which looked as though they did not know how to smile. Humourless, I decided. And here again, as so often in the past, my first impressions were wrong. In those days, as I have said somewhere before in this tale, I was not a good judge of character. I jumped too far and too fast to false conclusions. Abel Sampson suddenly smiled, and, like Richard of Gloucester, whom I had seen earlier that same day, his face seemed to light up from within, turning him into a different person.
‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ he asked his partner.
Thomas shook his head. ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ He spoke severely, obviously deploring this lapse of memory.