The wind immediately snuffed out my candle, so I put the holder down on the floor inside the door, and tiptoed across the courtyard to the privy, which cast a thick black wedge of shadow in the moonlight. As I relieved myself, I heard the gentle snicker of a horse as it blew softly down its nostrils. Then there came an answering whinny from the stall at the end of the stable. Two horses? Of course! While I had been dead to the world, Master Farmer, the other guest, had arrived. I smiled ruefully to myself. What must my hosts think of me, so green and so unable to hold my liquor?
The chill night air had cleared my head wonderfully, and my limbs had ceased their palsied trembling. My stomach, too, had decided to behave, after one or two squeamish moments. I returned to the inn, carefully locking and bolting the back door after me. As I passed the ale- room, I could see where the last embers of the fire winked and glowed on the now almost empty hearth. I mounted the stairs to the landing, and my ears were at once assailed by the stertorous snoring of another guest, who had also drunk too deeply. I felt a little cheered to know that I was not the only drunkard. But there was no sound from behind the third guest-chamber door, the one furthest from mine. There all was silent as the grave.
An unexpected wave of nausea made my stomach heave, and left me once again urgently in need of fresh air. There was a window at the end of the landing and I hurriedly pushed it open, inhaling the smells of the nearby Thames. This window was at the front of the inn, and by turning my head to the left I could see the river as it flowed past the wharf at the end of the street, its surface washed first silver and then gold by the moonlight. Slowly the sickness receded and I began to feel better. I looked to my right, in the direction of the Crossed Hands inn, expecting Crooked Lane to be empty at this hour of the morning. And at first glance it appeared to be so. Then, suddenly, I was aware of a figure enveloped in a thick hooded cloak moving swiftly and silently up the street, hugging the shadows cast by the houses opposite. Whether it was a man or a woman was hard to tell at that distance because the cloak reached to the ankles and the hood was up, drawn tightly about the head. As I watched, my whole body rigid with anticipation, my fingers stiffly clutching the sill, the figure drew level with the Crossed Hands inn and vanished through the archway. At almost the same moment Thomas Prynne’s voice said behind me: ‘By Christ, Roger Chapman, you gave me a fright! What are you doing up and about at this time of night?’
He was wearing a voluminous white night-shift, which made him look like a friendly ghost, and a nightcap pulled well down over his ears. In one hand he held a lighted candle.
‘I’m s-sorry,’ I stammered. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.‘ He looked me up and down, smiling quizzically.
‘It’s something, I suppose, that you can stand on your feet. The state you were in, I didn’t expect you to come round until morning. You must have extraordinary powers of recovery.’
‘I’m not used to wine,’ I apologized. ‘I had no idea it would affect me so badly.‘ I remembered something. ‘And we didn’t have our talk about Clement Weaver.’
‘Oh, that!‘ He shrugged and shivered a little as the wind blew in through the open casement. ‘A waste of time, if you want my opinion. Shut that window, there’s a good lad.’ He frowned. ‘What’s it doing open?’
‘I needed some air,’ I explained. ‘I wasn’t feeling so well.’
Comprehension dawned in his eyes and he chuckled quietly. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Better get back to your bed now.’
As he turned away, I said: ‘I had to go downstairs, to the yard. You’d left the back door unlocked and unbolted.’
He shook his head. ‘Nonsense! You must be mistaken. I locked and bolted it myself. I always see to it personally before I come upstairs at night. With so many thieves about, I won’t risk leaving it to Abel. Young men are inclined to be careless.’
‘The door was open,’ I insisted. ‘I went into the yard to relieve myself, and it was unbolted.’
Thomas frowned again. ‘You’re absolutely certain? You didn’t imagine it? Wine fumes can be extremely potent and sometimes confuse the brain.’
‘No, I’m sure,’ I answered. ‘I’d been awake some while and was perfectly sober. But just now, through that window, I saw someone walking up the street to the Crossed Hands inn.’
‘At this hour?’ He sounded incredulous and, pushing past me, threw wide the casement again.
‘ Whoever it was has gone now, ‘ I told him. ‘He — or she — went into the inn.’
Thomas withdrew his head, once more closing and fastening the window. ‘Why do you say “she”? Did you think that it might have been a woman?’
‘It was impossible to tell. The person was wearing a long cloak with a hood.’
He gestured dismissively. ‘A late reveller, perhaps. A lot of respectable citizens break curfew and manage to avoid the Watch. It’s not difficult. I’ve done it myself.’ ‘I’m sure this wasn’t a reveller. There’s something suspicious about that place.’
Thomas smiled indulgently. ‘So you said before, but you haven’t really convinced me yet.’ He shivered again. ‘We’ll talk about this in the morning, if you want to, but for now, let’s get back to bed. I have to be up before cockcrow. I need my sleep.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t have kept you.’
‘Do you feel all right now?’
I nodded. ‘I gather Master Farmer arrived safely. I heard his horse in the stable, when I was outside in the yard.’ Thomas took a deep breath, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on here tonight, or if it’s all in your head, but there’s no horse but Master Parson’s in the stable. Master Farmer failed to arrive before curfew. He must be putting up for the night outside the city walls. We shan’t be seeing him now until tomorrow.’
I went back to bed but could not sleep, lying wide awake in the darkness. The throbbing in my head was now a dull ache, but I was no longer feeling sick. My stomach at last seemed able to cope with its burden.
Had I been wrong in thinking that I had heard a second horse? At the time I was sure that there were two in the stable, but I might have been mistaken. I had been shut inside the privy and had certainly not been at my brightest. Yet I could have sworn that one whinny had answered another. I got up and went over to the window, opening the shutters…
‘… horse. He says he heard it.’ It was Thomas Prynne’s voice, floating up to me from the yard below. I could just make out the faint glimmer of his candle.
‘I thought he was out cold until morning.’ It was Abel Sampson speaking this time. ‘Perhaps we’d better look round and make sure all’s well.’
Obviously, Thomas had been more disturbed by what I had told him than he let on, and had roused his partner to accompany him on a search of the inn and its premises. I closed the shutters softly and lay down again, first divesting myself of my shoes and tunic. The back door had definitely been open: I had not dreamed it. So, if Thomas was right and he had locked it, who could have drawn back the bolts, and why? And who was the person I had seen from the landing window, hurrying so furtively up the street and entering the Crossed Hands inn? Martin Trollope? The mysterious cook-maid? Matilda Ford? And who had he, or she, come to see at the Baptist’s Head? What, after all, did I know of Gilbert Parsons…?
My head was swimming, but pleasantly this time. I was by the Stour once more, making love to Bess. When I looked up, Alison Weaver and William Burnett were standing further along the bank, watching us. Alison said: ‘Leave Marjorie Dyer alone,’ and I saw that Bess had turned into the housekeeper. Alison smiled at the young man by her side, who was no longer her husband. She slid an arm about his neck. ‘This is my brother, Clement…’