I woke to find the shutters of my room now rimmed with a faded, rain-washed light. When I opened them, a chill wind hit me as it raced across the sky, blowing the clouds into an ever-changing vista of shapes. A spatter of rain drops touched my face, and the daylight which filtered between the neighbouring rooftops was murky and unwholesome. The weather had worsened during the latter part of the night. I shook myself free of the rags of sleep and the last, lingering echoes of my dream, put on my shoes and tunic, and made my way downstairs. The smell of frying bacon greeted me from the kitchen, and the fact that it made my mouth water and set my stomach rumbling proved that I was completely cured. The indisposition of the night had left me.
When I looked round the kitchen door I saw Thomas Prynne holding a skillet over the kitchen fire, in which he was cooking thick slabs of fat, salt bacon. On the table were a number of wooden bowls filled with oatmeal, liberally sprinkled with saffron, two big jugs of ale and a loaf of bread, half of it cut into slices. He turned his head at the sound of my footsteps and smiled.
‘Are you feeling better this morning?’
‘Well enough to do more than justice to your breakfast,’ I answered. ‘I’m just going to wash in the yard. By the way, did you and Abel discover anything after I’d gone back to bed?’ In reply to his questioning glance I went on: ‘I heard you talking under my window. I couldn’t really hear what you were saying, only a few words, but I gathered you were looking around.’
Thomas speared a slice of bacon with his knife and deftly turned it over. The fat spluttered and sizzled in the pan. ‘No, nothing,’ he said, ‘but I can explain the unlocked door. Our other guest, Master Parsons, had earlier had the same call of nature as yourself, and had carelessly forgotten to bolt it after him. He confessed as much when I took him his mazer of ale at first light this morning.’
‘And the other horse?’ I queried, beginning to feel remarkably foolish.
‘A figment of your imagination, I’m afraid. There was only Master Parson’s Jessamy in the stable.’ Thomas’s smile deepened. ‘It’s as I said. Wine fumes can play strange tricks.’
Abel Sampson came into the kitchen, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. ‘God’s Teeth, I’m tired. I always am when my rest’s disturbed.’
I felt guilty and edged towards the door. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I said, ‘when I’ve washed.’
It was quiet in the courtyard, except for an occasional flurry of wind and the steady patter of the rain on the cobbles. Since childhood, I have always loved the early morning, the sense of calm before the hurrying hours gather themselves together into the urgency of midday, slide towards the boredom of late afternoon, then surge, rejuvenated, into the bustle of evening. It’s a time for quiet and reflection, with a whole new day stretching ahead of me; an undiscovered territory; a promise as yet unfulfilled. I raised a bucket of ice-cold water from the well and bathed my face and hands. No doubt Master Parsons was wallowing in a hot tub in front of the fire in his bedchamber, but then, he was paying for his room. I returned to the kitchen and my breakfast.
While I swallowed my oatmeal and bacon, I discussed the night’s events — or non-events, as they had turned out to be — with Thomas and Abel.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘to have disturbed you for no reason.’
‘No harm done,’ Thomas answered thickly, through a mouthful of bread and honey. ‘And if the yard door had been left open all night, we could have been robbed. It wouldn’t have taken a good thief long to discover the trapdoor and stairs to the cellar.’ He swallowed his food and asked: ‘What are your plans? Do you intend returning here again this evening?’
I nodded. ‘I’m stopping in London for a while yet. I haven’t begun to get to the bottom of Clement Weaver’s disappearance.’
I saw the two men exchange glances before Abel said: ‘There isn’t any mystery, you know, except for what’s in the Alderman’s imagination.’
I accepted another slice of bacon and set about it heartily. ‘What about Sir Richard Mallory?’ I asked him.
Abel shrugged. ‘This is an evil city. We hear of robberies and murders every day of our lives, don’t we, Thomas?’
The landlord raised his eyebrows in agreement. ‘And in the late unsettled times, things have naturally been worse. To my way of thinking, both Clement and this Sir Richard were set upon and killed, and their bodies disposed of in the river. I’m sorry if I sound hard, because Alfred Weaver is a friend of mine and I’ve known both the children since they were little. I was as upset as anyone by Clement’s disappearance and the distress that it caused his family. But I don’t allow sentiment to cloud my common sense. I don’t believe, as his father does, that he might still be alive somewhere, or as you seem to do, that his death has something to do with Martin Trollope and the Crossed Hands inn. It was dark and stormy, black as the grave, the night he was due here and never arrived. The sort of night when every criminal in the city is up and about his evil business. I wasn’t worried when Clement didn’t show up. I thought he must have changed his mind and gone to his uncle’s instead, along with young Alison. It wasn’t until Ned Stoner rode in just after curfew that I realized that anything was wrong.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked him.
Thomas shrugged and looked at Abel, who obligingly continued for him.
‘We — all three of us — set out to search for him, of course. But there was nothing much we could do that night. It was too dark and wet, as Tom’s already mentioned. As soon as it was daylight, we searched again and alerted the Watch. Ned Stoner rode out to Farringdon Ward to discover if by some chance Master Weaver was there, but none of us had much hope of the outcome. Neither Tom nor I had any doubts by that time that the boy was dead, especially when we learned what sum of money he had had about him.’
‘That was much later, of course, ‘ Thomas said, beginning to gather up the dirty dishes. ‘ After the Alderman’s arrival. And now, we all have work to do, so let’s get on and do it.’ He paused beside my stool and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. ‘Leave it, lad, that’s my advice. Don’t waste your time hanging around in London. There’s a whole world out there just waiting for Roger Chapman’s wares. However hard it may sound, Clement Weaver and Richard Mallory are dead. Forget them.’
Chapter 14
But I had no intention of forgetting either Clement Weaver or Sir Richard Mallory. I did not say so to Thomas Prynne, however. There was something in both his and his partner‘s manner which indicated clearly that they did not wish to be troubled with the matter. And why should they? I asked myself, as I left the kitchen and crossed the passage to the ale-room in order to collect my pack and stick. They were convinced, as I had been earlier, that the two men had been set upon by thieves, robbed and murdered and their bodies disposed of in the river. They were busy people, and had no time for less credible theories. Furthermore, I had not told them of Marjorie Dyer’s duplicity. But, then again, was it duplicity? It was not a crime for her to have a cousin who worked at the Crossed Hands inn. It was simply that she had apparently not mentioned the fact to the Alderman…
Gilbert Parsons was in the ale-room, eating his breakfast, his lean, sad face wearing the same abstracted expression. He turned his soulful, watery blue eyes towards me and said in a hollow voice: ‘Nuncupative wills are the Devil’s handiwork, and lawyers the Devil’s instruments. Never trust them, and never pin your faith in litigation.’
‘I don’t intend to do so,’ I answered cheerfully, then paused, frowning. ‘You haven’t seen my pack and stick here anywhere, have you?’
It was Thomas who answered my question, as he came bustling along the passage to see if his guest wanted more ale.
‘They’re in your chamber. We took them up, out of our way, after we’d carried you to bed last night.’ He gave his deep throaty chuckle. ‘You mean you didn’t notice them? You must still have some of that wine clogging your brain, my lad!’