I laughed, remembering my mother. ‘They won’t stay ignored, that’s the trouble.’
He seemed, at last, to have found what he was looking for and triumphantly produced a folded paper from his pouch. ‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to me. ‘What a piece of luck you’re going to Crooked Lane. It’ll save me an extra journey. This letter’s from Marjorie Dyer to her cousin, Matilda Ford, who’s cook at the Crossed Hands inn. P’raps you’d be kind enough to deliver it for me.‘ As I took it from him, he gathered up the reins again and thanked me. ‘God be with you,’ he said, giving his horse the office to start.
I stared stupidly after him as he vanished up the street, the slow clop of the animal’s hooves dwindling into the distance.
Chapter 12
My mind was reeling. Marjorie Dyer had a cousin who was cook at the Crossed Hands inn! I just stood there blindly in the middle of the street, trying to make sense of this information.
Marjorie was also distantly related to Alderman Weaver, but whether through her mother or her father I had no idea. Whichever it was, this Matilda Ford was a cousin on the other side of her family; an obvious enough deduction, as the Alderman had plainly known of no connection with the Crossed Hands inn which he might have exploited at the time of his son’s disappearance. And Marjorie had not enlightened him. Why not? There was only one conclusion to draw, however reluctant I might be to do so. Marjorie Dyer was in league with the robbers.
No, no! The idea was preposterous! But why was it? What, after all, did I know about her, except what she herself had told me? And I had been a witness to the way Alison treated her, half-friend, half-servant; the very attitude to stoke the fires of Marjorie’s resentment. Furthermore, if she really had plans to become the second Mistress Weaver, Clement’s removal would be to her advantage. With him gone and Alison provided for by marriage to a wealthy husband, why should the Alderman not make a will leaving everything to Marjorie? Things began to make sense.
Another thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. I had seen for myself that Marjorie slept in the Alderman’s bed, so what more likely than that he confided in her from time to time? He had probably told her that Clement would be carrying a large sum of money on that particular visit to London, so all she had to do was notify her cousin in advance, sending a letter by the carter, and afterwards claim to be ignorant of the fact…
And yet… And yet… There were still pieces of the puzzle which did not fit. Marjorie could not possibly have foreseen the circumstances which would have deposited Clement outside the Crossed Hands inn, alone, on a dark and stormy evening. By rights, he should have parted from his sister at Paddington village and ridden on to the Baptist’s Head with Ned Stoner. My brain felt addled, but one fact stood out clearly, and I glanced down at the letter I was holding. At least, I now had a reason for entering the Crossed Hands inn, which not even Martin Trollope himself could quarrel with.
A hand descended heavily on my shoulder and a guttural voice spoke angrily in my ear.
‘Vy don’t you move? You are obstructing the vaggons. ‘
I turned to find one of the Easterlings glaring at me, and I also became aware that several of the carters were shouting abuse. I was blocking the traffic. I mumbled hasty apologies and made my way back to Thames Street, resolving on no more short cuts. I was not yet familiar enough with the London streets to attempt them, so I kept straight on until I came to the corner of Crooked Lane and the Crossed Hands inn. My eyes raised themselves instinctively to that window to the right of the courtyard entrance, but it was firmly closed and there was no sign of life behind it. No shadow, however faint, was silhouetted against the oiled parchment. Silence reigned.
Stifling a feeling of disappointment, I hitched up my pack and turned under the archway, clutching Marjorie Dyer’s letter like a talisman.
It wasn’t difficult to locate the kitchen on the north side of the courtyard; all the shutters stood wide open and there was a great clatter of pots and pans, as well as a strong smell of cooking; not the single, delicious aroma that emanated from the kitchen of the Baptist’s Head, but a mixture of scents; roasting meat, rising bread, simmering broth, together with stale fish and a whiff of garlic. It failed to whet my appetite, and I thought with contentment of the fragrant meal awaiting me a few yards further down the street.
There were plenty of people in the courtyard, stabling horses for the night, drawing water from the well, carrying food up the outside stairs to one of the bedchambers, but, by great good fortune, no sign of Martin Trollope. I walked over to the kitchen door and stepped inside.
For a while no one took any notice of me; indeed, I doubt if they were even aware of my presence, until the scullion, a pale-faced boy with a constant sniff, looked up from pounding some pine cones in a mortar and asked in a nasal whine: ‘Wotch you doin’ ‘ere? Wotch you want? The landlord don’t allow no pedlars.’
His words attracted the attention of others, and a fat woman with flour up to her elbows shouted: ‘Get off with you! Go on! Get out! Lad’s right. Master Trollope don’t allow no peddlin’. This is a respectable inn, this is.’
‘I’m not selling,’ I answered with a virtuous air of injured innocence. I waved the letter. ‘This is for the cook, Matilda Ford, from her cousin in Bristol.’
There was a moment’s silence while all heads turned in the direction of a table at the far end of the room, where a woman and two girls were preparing vegetables and skinning rabbits. The woman stared suspiciously at me for a second, then, wiping her hands on her apron, came slowly towards me.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘And why have you brought my letter? Marjorie usually sends it by the carter.‘ She was tall for a woman, but small-boned, with wisps of foxy-coloured hair escaping from beneath her cap; not at all how I would have expected a kinswoman of Marjorie’s to look. And yet she reminded me of someone. Was it Alison Weaver, now Lady Burnett? Perhaps I was wrong in my assumption that Matilda Ford was not related to the Weavers, but belonged to the other side of Marjorie’s family.
I explained my involvement as briefly as I could, but was met with nothing except a scowl as one thin hand shot out and grabbed the paper.
‘That fool of a carter had no business entrusting my letter to a stranger,’ she snapped. ‘All right! You’ve given it to me. Now get on about your business.’ Before I had time to protest at such uncivil treatment, her head jerked round to address the girls behind her. ‘And what are you great gormless lumps sniggering at? Get on with your work this instant! You know we’re shorthanded since Nell was dismissed. Do you hear me?’
The girls looked sulky. One, who plainly had more courage than the other, demanded truculently: ‘Well then, if we’re short ‘anded, why don’t that new girl come down and pull ‘er weight. Pretendin’ she’s ill all the time an’ stayin’ upstairs! She ain’t no more ill than I am. An’ the master lettin’ ‘er get away wiv it! It ain’t fair!’
‘You mind your own business, my girl,’ Matilda Ford retorted sourly, ‘or you‘ll find yourself turned off. If Master Trollope says she’s to be left alone until she’s better, that’s nothing to do with you.’ She added, muttering under her breath: ‘Though why he lets himself be taken in by such a baggage — ’ She broke off abruptly, recollecting my presence. ‘Are you still here? What are you waiting for? You’ve given me the letter, so get on about your own affairs.’ She went back to the table, picked up a wicked- looking knife and started on another rabbit. The girls, more sullen than ever, continued chopping vegetables.