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And I knew that he was talking about Sir Richard Mallory. Once more, the scene dissolved, and I was lying with Bess by the banks of the Stour. I wanted to make love to her, but she wouldn’t let me. ‘Where is he?’ she kept asking. ‘Where’s Master Farmer?’

Suddenly I was wide awake, sweating profusely in the darkness. For a moment or two my thoughts were in total confusion and I had difficulty in recalling exactly where I was. Then, as consciousness returned, everything fell simply and easily into place…

What a fool I had been! What a blind, stupid ass not to have seen what, all along, was under my nose. The disappearance of Clement Weaver, Sir Richard Mallory and his man, and doubtless a dozen or so others, had nothing to do with the Crossed Hands inn nor with Martin Trollope. It was here, in the Baptist’s Head, that they had been robbed and murdered.

I pulled myself up into a sitting position, my back propped against the pillows. I was trembling with fear and excitement and, above all, the shock of discovery. Reaching for the half loaf of bread beside my bed, I tore a piece off and crammed it into my mouth. In moments of stress, I am always hungry. I glanced around me. The candle had gone out, and all the furniture of the room had assumed nocturnally gigantic proportions. It was late and everything was still. Once, an owl hooted, its desolate cry echoing weirdly over the roof-tops. Somewhere in the distance a horse snorted and stamped, one man called to another, a dog barked. Then silence drifted back, more profound than before. Wisps of smoke from the candle still hung about the room, uneasy spirits in search of a home.

I shivered violently. My mouth was dry and I had a job to swallow the bread. My hand went out for the jug of wine and the cup, then remained suspended in mid-air, hovering over the tray. I remembered the deep sleep into which I had fallen the previous evening, and realized for the first time that I might not have been drunk, but drugged. I recalled how disconcerted Thomas Prynne had been to find me up and awake in the middle of the night. He had not counted on the strength of my general constitution.

I withdrew my hand and sat up even straighter on the bed, trying to arrange my thoughts in order.

Chapter 19

First and foremost, there had only been Thomas Prynne’s word that Clement Weaver had never arrived at the Baptist’s Head. And because Clement had last been seen outside the Crossed Hands inn, everyone, including myself, had allowed themselves to believe that his disappearance might have something to do with the latter. Whereas the truth was that he must have walked down to the Baptist’s Head to be greeted with affection by the murderous pair. He trusted them. Thomas was his father’s friend; the boyhood friend, who had grown up to be deeply envious of the other man’s success. So envious, that he had moved from Bristol to London in an attempt to make his own fortune.

Thomas had bought the Baptist’s Head; but its location and the fact that it was overshadowed by the rival inn further up the lane had meant only very small profit for a lot of hard work. I had no means of knowing when and how he had met up with Abel Sampson, but I guessed that like had called to like. They were both ambitious, greedy and unscrupulous men. Together they had devised a scheme to murder and rob their wealthiest clients. Not all of them, of course, that would have been impossible; just those travelling alone or with a single servant. Maybe they had informants in various parts of the country, like Marjorie Dyer in Bristol, whose job it was to recommend the Baptist’s Head to any such people. She must have forewarned Thomas that, on this particular occasion, Clement Weaver was carrying an unusually large sum of money.

But Marjorie sent her letters to Matilda Ford at the Crossed Hands inn. That, of course, was a precaution in case anyone ever became suspicious. Matilda Ford certainly worked at the rival inn, but the first time I had seen her, she had reminded me of someone. And that someone was Abel Sampson. I wondered how I could have been so blind as not to see it. Hadn’t I said to myself that she was nothing like Marjorie Dyer? And I had only just left Abel at the Baptist’s Head. The resemblance — the sandy hair, the height, the thinness — had been staring me in the face, yet I had been unable to recognize it. I had no means of knowing what their relationship actually was, but guessed it was probably that of brother and sister. Perhaps Abel himself had once worked at the Crossed Hands inn and that was how Thomas had met him.

I went over once again in my mind the circumstances of Clement Weaver’s disappearance. His arrival alone and on foot must have seemed like a gift from heaven to Thomas and Abeclass="underline" they had only Clement to get rid of. The disposal of their victims‘ horses must always have presented a problem, but no doubt there were many shady dealers in London, and the sale of the animals had added more money to their coffers.

In the case of Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender, the horses had remained at the Crossed Hands, to be claimed and taken away later by Sir Gregory Bullivant. I could not know for certain, but I had no doubt now in my mind that Sir Richard had been lured to the Baptist’s Head after a ‘chance‘ meeting with either Thomas or Abel, during which he had been promised the finest wine he had ever tasted. Matilda would have informed the two men of Sir Richard’s presence, told them that he was a bird worth the plucking, and that, in Robert the steward’s words to me, he would ‘travel miles, brave all hazards, to taste a recommended vintage’. The maid at the Crossed Hands had told Sir Gregory Bullivant that she had seen Sir Richard and his servant apparently arguing in the inn courtyard. At that point their saddle-bags had been packed and they were ready to leave, so it was likely that Jacob Pender had been protesting against delay, but his master had overruled him. They had walked the short distance to the Baptist’s Head — and to their deaths…

Suddenly I could no longer endure the darkness and, leaning over, I fumbled for the tinder-box on the table beside me. The palms of my hands were sweating so much that I had great difficulty in coaxing a spark from it, but eventually I managed to light one of the candles. The flickering light cast distorted shadows which sent grotesque patterns leaping across the walls and ceiling. In my mind’s eye I could see the two unsuspecting men being led down the ale-room steps and into the cellar.

I lay back on the pillows, shivering. I remembered seeing Abel Sampson for the first time yesterday morning and thinking he was like Richard of Gloucester when he smiled. But then, to repeat myself, in those days I was a poor judge of character. I remembered, too, his words on seeing me. ‘Is this the man we’ve been expecting?’ And Thomas’s reply: ‘No, no! I’m sure I told you that Master Farmer would not be arriving until late this evening.’ I recalled now the emphasis he had laid on the name and realized its significance. Months ago, Marjorie Dyer must have warned them of my involvement in Alfred Weaver’s affairs; to be on the lookout for a chapman who might start asking awkward questions. I was indeed the man Abel had been expecting; although they must both have thought by then that I had changed my mind, or forgotten my commission, and was not coming.

Another memory stirred; something which at the time had troubled me, but which had been pushed to the back of my mind and its significance lost. Abel had immediately addressed me as Roger. I had told Thomas my name when I had told him my story, but there was no way his partner could have known, unless he had already been informed of it by Marjorie Dyer. But what of Matilda Ford’s attack on me this afternoon? If Martin Trollope had not sent her, then who had? The answer, of course, was obvious now that I knew. Either Abel or Thomas had hurried to the Crossed Hands inn as soon as I had left for Baynard’s Castle, routed her out from the kitchen and told her to follow and dispose of me if she could. But why? Answer: because although they had no particular wish to protect Martin Trollope, they did not want Richard of Gloucester’s attention drawn to Crooked Lane and the tale of mysterious disappearances poured into his ear. And where was Matilda Ford now? Probably lurking somewhere on the premises. She dared not return to the Crossed Hands in case I had laid information against her.