Matilda muttered something under her breath, then added aloud: ‘Then let me do it! I owe him a beating.’
‘A pleasure,’ Thomas said, and handed her my stick, which had been brought down to the cellar with me. ‘Use this. And not too hard, mind. We only want him unconscious.’
‘No!’ I shouted. At least, I think that’s what I shouted. To this day I can’t recall exactly what I said. My brain had ceased to function, and all I remember is a burning rage against God, who, I felt, was responsible for my predicament. I began wriggling around violently on the floor, so that Matilda Ford’s first swipe with my cudgel missed me by inches.
‘Hold him still!’ Thomas commanded Abel. ‘Sit on his legs!’
Abel threw himself to his knees and grabbed both my feet, pinning them to the ground. I kicked with all my might and loosened his grip, but only for a matter of seconds. He was on me again, this time pinioning me by the legs, while Thomas himself moved forward to assist. Their combined weight held me prisoner.
‘Now, Matty!’ her brother shouted.
She was at the back of me and it was impossible to twist my neck that far round. I wanted to meet death face to face, not be struck down from behind like some animal. I felt the rush of air as she raised her arm, and once again I shouted my defiance, trying to swing the upper half of my body out of the way. Thomas yelled something at his partner and their combined grip tightened. I knew that there was no real hope. I shut my eyes and waited for the blow to fall…
Nothing happened, while the moment of anticipation seemed to stretch on and on. After what seemed an agonizing eternity, I cautiously reopened my eyes, to see my captors staring, horror-struck and open-mouthed, in the direction of the cellar stairs. I realized that the two men were no longer sitting on my legs, and I was free to move. I shuffled round as best I could until I, too, could see the flight of stone steps leading down from the ale-room. There were men standing there, quite a few of them, and the leader was holding up a lantern.
A voice said: ‘In the name of King Edward, I arrest you, Thomas Prynne, you, Abel Sampson, and you, Matilda Ford, on a charge of murder.‘ The owner of the voice turned to the men behind him. ‘Take them away.’ Then the man himself jumped sideways off the flight of stairs and came towards me, holding his lantern higher so that it illuminated his face. ‘Well, Master Chapman,’ he said, smiling, ‘that was a close call. I was afraid I was going to be too late.’
I had recognized the voice as soon as he spoke, but had refused to believe the evidence of my own ears. Gone was the gentle, slightly apologetic tone. Master Parsons now spoke with all the authority of one who had the might and weight of the Law behind him.
‘I’m a Sheriff’s officer,’ he explained later, as we sat together in the inn parlour, a bottle of Thomas Prynne’s best wine on the table between us. It was quiet now, after the events of the past hour. Thomas and his two confederates had been bound and led away to prison, but I was still very shaken. Master Parsons poured more wine for us both and went on: ‘We’ve had suspicions about this place for some time now. Rumours have come to our ears of people who lodged here disappearing. But nothing we could prove, even to our own satisfaction. So it was finally decided that I should come to stay as a guest in the hope of discovering something.’
‘And did you?’ I asked him.
He shook his head. ‘Not until you came along, poking your nose in.’
‘What about Master Farmer, last night?’
Gilbert Parsons shrugged. ‘He genuinely did not arrive. Oh, Thomas and Abel, together with Matilda Ford, were waiting like carrion crows to do their evil business, but on this occasion they were balked of their prey.’
I protested: ‘I heard a second horse in the stables, when I went to the privy.’
‘Your imagination, I’m afraid.’ Master Parsons stretched his arms above his head until the bones cracked.
‘Jesu! I shall be glad to get out of this place and home for some sleep at nights. I’ve had precious little this past week.’
I barely heard him. I was too busy wrestling with my indignation. If I hadn’t been convinced that I should find some trace of Master Farmer, I should never have risked looking in Thomas’s cellar. God had fooled me again. All the same, I supposed I shouldn’t complain. He had watched over me and seen that I came to no lasting harm. He had used me as his instrument, and my debt for leaving the abbey was now, I hoped, paid.
I smiled at my companion. ‘For a man who, according to himself, hasn’t slept at nights, you snore very loudly.’ Gilbert laughed. ‘A trick I learned as a child to deceive my mother. My brothers and I used to take it in turns to do the snoring while the others played five-stones or spillikins under the sheets.’ He finished the wine in his cup and stretched again. ‘It’s almost daylight. Do you feel strong enough to come with me and swear you deposition before a magistrate?’
‘I think so.’ I, too, finished my wine, fighting down the urge to curl up in a corner and fall asleep. My first two days in London were days I would never forget, not even if I lived to be a very old man. For now, I should be glad to put the city behind me and get out once more on the open road, but one day I would return. I recollected that I had visits to pay to Canterbury and Bristol; particularly to the latter.
It would give me great pleasure to make sure that Marjorie Dyer’s part in this villainy was known. I glanced towards the cellar steps, where the trapdoor still lay open, revealing the cavernous hole in the floor.
‘How did you know what was happening?’ I asked.
‘I heard you yell.’ Gilbert Parsons grinned. ‘I guessed, when you made it so plain that you had changed your mind about moving on this morning, that they might try to silence you, but not that you would do anything as foolish as to try searching the inn on your own. I crept downstairs just in time to see them carrying you off, trussed up like a chicken to the cellar, and went immediately for help. I must admit that I despaired of rescuing you in time.’
‘Well,’ I said feelingly, ‘I’m very thankful you did.’ I reached for my pack and stick, which I had brought down from the bedchamber earlier and which now lay beside my chair. ‘I’m ready to go if you are. I don’t want to see this evil place again as long as I live.’
Gilbert Parsons nodded and we went out into Crooked Lane, breathing in the cold morning air. A seagull screeched overhead, looking for food. The Baptist’s Head lay behind us, shuttered and silent. At the top of the street, the Crossed Hands still teemed with life. Lady Anne Neville was safely in sanctuary; Martin Trollope, protected by the Duke of Clarence, still walked free. Thomas Prynne, Abel Sampson and Matilda Ford were locked up in prison and would pay for their crimes with their lives. But Clement Weaver, Sir Richard Mallory and others would never return, and I felt inexpressibly sad.
And that, my children — if you have bothered to read this far- is how it all started, that talent I discovered in myself, and honed over the years, of solving puzzles and unravelling mysteries. Of course, this first case was full of flaws and mistakes and stupid bungling because I was raw and green and still wet behind the ears. I didn’t really know what I was doing or letting myself in for. It happened partly because of my natural inquisitiveness, and partly because of that stubborn streak in my nature which hates to let anything go without seeing it through to the end.
Oh yes; and God had a hand in it somewhere. He always does. He’s as stubborn and as tenacious as I am about getting His own way. I’ve tried to free myself from Him often and often, but somehow I never could. And now that I’m an old man living on memories, I think I’m glad that I haven’t succeeded.