I wondered what o’clock it was, and cursed myself for having fallen asleep. If they had come for me then…! My blood ran cold at the thought. But they had had to wait for Master Parsons to retire, to drink his drugged wine and for the wine to take effect. And now it had. Surely they could hear that as well as I. It could not be long now before they went to my room and discovered that I was not there. I must be swift if I wanted to search the cellar. I was wasting precious minutes while I stood here imagining Thomas and Abel lying in ambush for me. I had proved to myself that there was no reason why they should be. Stealthily I crept into the ale-room.
All was quiet here, too. My eyes were now completely accustomed to the darkness, and I made my way between the benches and tables without difficulty. I knelt on the floor by the far wall and felt around, among the sand and sawdust, for the heavy metal ring which, when pulled, opened the trapdoor to the cellar. I found it easily, and, laying my stick down, got to my feet, stooped, clasped the ring in both hands and began to tug. Sweat, however, had made my hands slippery and for several moments I could get no purchase on it. Cursing silently, I wiped my greasy palms against my tunic, then tried again. This time the stone slab rose almost too swiftly and I had to let go the ring to catch it against my body, in order to prevent it thudding on to the floor. When I had lowered it gently to the ground, I peered down the flight of steps leading to the cellar.
At once I realized that I should need a light, and again called myself all the names I could lay my tongue to for not having foreseen such a contingency. I should have brought one of the candles from the bedchamber with me. Now, I would have to go and find one in the kitchen. Every moment wasted made my discovery more likely, but there was nothing I could do about it. I should find nothing in the cellar in pitch blackness.
I made my way back to the passageway, my ears pricked for the sound of any movement above stairs; but still all I could hear was the noise of Master Parsons’s snoring. It was probably not as late as I thought, and my sleep had been briefer than I imagined. The small hours, the dead time of night, were best for murder… I shuddered and cast a longing look at the inn’s front door, clearly silhouetted at one end of the passage. I could go now; make my escape while I had the opportunity. I even took a step towards the door before conscience halted me in my tracks. If I went, I could prove nothing. There were only my suspicions against Thomas and Abel’s denials; and I had no doubt that within hours of discovering I had gone, the inn would be swept clean of the last trace of anything damning. And although my allegations might make the authorities keep their eye on the Baptist’s Head for a while, they would soon tire when nothing further happened. And Thomas and Abel would make sure of that for as long as was necessary.
Reluctantly I turned in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, and at first I thought it was still in darkness. But as I approached the open door, I could see a faint glow. Hardly daring to breathe, I flattened myself against the wall, my hand tightening unconsciously around my cudgel. After a moment or two I could hear slight movements. As cautiously as I dared, I peered round the jamb of the doorway. The source of the illumination was a rush-light, which explained its dim uncertainty, but it was sufficient for me to make out a woman sitting at the table, eating.
Once more, I leaned against the wall, trying to quieten my thumping heart. The woman could only be Matilda Ford, and my fears that she had taken refuge in the inn had been only too well-founded.
She must have been somewhere around when I crept downstairs, but fortunately she had not seen me. If she had been aware of my presence, she would surely not be sat in the kitchen, fortifying herself for the night’s work which lay ahead of her… Not for the first, nor the last, time since supper, I found that I was shaking.
There was no chance now of obtaining a candle from the kitchen. And there was no possible use in braving the cellar in total darkness. It was, I told myself, clearly a sign that I should leave. God had changed His mind and no longer wished me to risk my skin. I was freed from my promise to Alderman Weaver. I began tiptoeing along the passage towards the front door. I was nearly there. Another few steps and I should be able to draw the bolts and let myself out into Crooked Lane and freedom.
A hand fell heavily on my shoulder and, as I spun round, a light shone full in my eyes.
‘Leaving us, Roger Chapman?’ asked Thomas’s voice, and I could just make out his face, framed in the aureole of the candle. Abel was standing in the middle of the stairs, behind him. Matilda Ford appeared in the kitchen doorway, a slice of bread still held in one hand.
Stupidly I stared back at them, the thought uppermost in my mind being that I should have known better than to think that God would let me go back on my promise.
Chapter 20
The smoke from the candle made my eyes water, and the flame bellied into pale, wavering circles with scalloped iridescent edges. I just stood there stupidly, a great dumb ox, saying nothing. But what, after all, was there to say? I could hardly claim to be going for a midnight walk.
Thomas said, smiling a little: ‘I wondered if the truth might dawn on you, but I was hoping for your sake it wouldn’t; that you’d drink the wine and go to sleep, so you’d never know what had happened to you.’ He added regretfully: ‘I’ve grown fond of you, Roger, in the short time that we’ve been acquainted.‘ Abel muttered something I couldn’t quite catch, but Thomas heard, and his smile deepened. He did not, however, make the mistake of turning his head. ‘Oh, I know you don’t care for our young guest, Abel, but when you’re my age, you’ll begin to appreciate loyalty. He gave his word to poor old Alfred Weaver, and nothing would persuade him to change his mind. I admire that.’
I found my tongue. ‘You lying, murdering, robbing hypocrite!‘ I shouted at him, raising my stick and dashing the candle from his hand.
Thomas swore furiously as the flame burnt his leg in its fall and extinguished itself on the flagstones. Then all three were upon me, trying to grapple me to the floor. In the end, they succeeded, being three to one, but not before I had done considerable damage with my cudgel. By the time they had manhandled me into the ale-room and Thomas had produced a tinder-box from his pocket to relight the candle, Abel was bleeding copiously from his nose and had a fast-swelling eye, Matilda had an evil-looking weal across one cheek and Thomas himself was limping painfully. All three regarded me with venomous hatred.
‘You know,’ Abel grunted softly, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand, ‘I shall positively enjoy this night’s work.’
Matilda had produced a coil of tough hempen rope from somewhere and they proceeded to bind my arms and legs. I struggled wildly, although I knew I was beaten before they began. Then Thomas took my head and Abel my feet and carried me, like a fowl trussed ready for the oven, towards the cellar steps. Matilda went ahead of them, holding up the candle. All was suddenly very quiet. Even Gilbert Parsons had stopped snoring. I opened my mouth and yelled.
Thomas chuckled grimly. ‘Shout all you want, ‘ he said, ‘no one will hear you. Master Parsons is dead to the world. And very few people come this way after curfew.’
I knew he was right. And if, by some remote chance, anyone did hear my call for help, they were unlikely to venture into the inn on my behalf. Londoners minded their own business after dark, and were undoubtedly wise to do so.