‘You wanted to know about the well at Brockhurst Hall, chapman.’
‘I was impressed by the excellent lid on it,’ I said, ‘and by the fact that it hadn’t been left as an open snare for children and animals.’
‘Ah,’ one of the other men explained, ‘some year back, a young chap from the village climbed down the shaft, slipped and broke his leg-’
‘And ’is arm,’ put in somebody else.
‘Ay, and his arm. Weren’t found fer nigh on two days. After that, village elders they instructed John Carpenter to make a cover fer the dratted thing. A good solid ’un, they said. Which he did, as you’ve seen fer yerself.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to fill the well in?’ I suggested. ‘I imagine it’s been dried up for a good long time.’
‘Ar, reck’n you’re right,’ the one called Rob agreed. Then, suddenly losing interest, they all reverted to the far more exciting subject of sheep.
A hand fell on my shoulder. Swivelling round on my stool, I saw Theresa Lilywhite, who must have returned to the alehouse without my noticing. She bent down to speak in my ear as most of the customers had now joined in the rollicking refrain of a highly improper song, which I had first heard sung by the sailors along the Bristol Backs. No doubt this was a cleaner version, in deference to the ladies present. I very much hoped so.
‘I’ve spoken to my daughter-in-law,’ she said, ‘and if you don’t fancy sleeping on the floor here, we can offer you accommodation for the night. Or for as long as you want to stay in Lower Brockhurst. There’s only the two of us since Eris disappeared. You can have her bed.’
‘There’s the dog, as well,’ I said, pointing to Hercules, snoring happily at my feet.
She nodded. ‘You’re welcome to bring him. Just keep him out of the way of our dogs, that’s all. They’ll think he’s a rat. But they’re tied up outside at nights, anyway.’
It was a more inviting prospect than sleeping on the straw-covered flagstones of the ale-room, particularly if I intended remaining in Brockhurst for longer than a single night. Besides which, I should be right at the heart of a mystery that was beginning to intrigue me. Surely I was bound to learn more about the missing girl from her mother and grandmother than from anyone else.
‘Thank you. I accept,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to come with you at once?’
‘If you would. We keep early hours. What else is there for two women on their own to do on long winter nights besides sleep?’
I hoped that on this particular evening I might tempt her and her daughter-in-law into conversation, but I didn’t say so. I simply begged a few moments’ grace to explain matters to William Bush and say goodbye.
The landlord, although patently relieved to be rid of me, nevertheless deplored my choice of alternative lodging. The Lilywhites obviously ranked alongside the Rawbones as people who had inflicted unhappiness on his daughter, and were not to be easily forgiven. They had spawned the siren who had stolen the affections of Rosamund’s betrothed.
‘Watch yourself then, chapman,’ William advised, failing in his half-hearted attempt to persuade me to stay.
I had a suspicion that his daughter might try harder if she knew of my intention to leave, so, while she was still flirting with Lambert Miller, I gathered up my pack, my cudgel and an indignant Hercules and followed Theresa Lilywhite outside.
It was quite dark now, the storm clouds no longer great bastions in the sky, but torn to witches’ hair by a rising wind. It was the dead time of year, cold and tempestuous, as late February so often is just before the earth begins to stir and put forth new shoots. The dank smell of sodden grassland teased my nostrils, and a few thin trees waved arthritic branches overhead as we crossed the wooden footbridge and left the village behind us. My cloak whipped around my legs, and Hercules cowered in the shelter of my arm, growling his disapproval.
‘What’s the stream called?’ I asked Theresa Lilywhite as we started climbing the slope towards the homestead, halfway between the village and the farm that I had noted earlier in the evening.
She laughed, the sound streeling away like a banshee’s cry on the cold night air.
‘Nothing. It’s just known as “the stream”. It’s probably got a name somewhere along its length, but not in Lower Brockhurst.’ She raised her voice against the increasing violence of the wind. ‘But the rill that flows down from the ridge, that’s known as the Draco. Don’t ask me why.’
‘Maybe from drakon, the Greek word for a serpent. Or from the Latin for a dragon.’ I remembered the snake-like meanderings of the little brook, although, as we trudged diagonally uphill across the sheep-bitten grass, it was lost to view in the darkness.
‘What sort of pedlar are you?’ panted my companion, as she pushed open a gate in a picket fence and led the way into a small enclosure.
Our entrance was greeted by the furious barking of two great hounds, each tethered by a long chain to a stake driven into the ground; while, somewhere on the far side of the one-storey building that stood in the middle of the compound, geese began to cackle loud enough to have awakened the whole of ancient Rome. Theresa Lilywhite yelled at the dogs, who, recognizing the voice of authority, slunk back to their posts and lay down. The geese cackled on.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized, ‘but there’s nothing I can do about those hideous birds. We’ll just have to wait for them to settle.’
‘The Romans found them better sentinels than dogs,’ I pointed out, and once again, she laughed.
‘I’ll have your story out of you before we go to sleep tonight,’ she promised. ‘So be warned. I have a long nose.’
‘So have I,’ I admitted cheerfully.
She gave me a curious glance and ushered me inside the cottage, but said nothing more for the present.
The long, narrow room in which I found myself served as living room and sleeping quarters all in one, a heavy curtain of unbleached linen dividing the latter from the former. I had been in many such places during my travels and had lived in smaller. Beneath a hole in the roof was a central hearth on which logs were burning, gnarled and hoary and covered with grey-green lichen. They blazed fitfully, spitting out showers of sparks and bearded with fringes of woodash that trembled into feathery, fan-shaped patterns. Near enough to benefit from their warmth, but not sufficiently close to be scorched by their heat, sat a woman, staring into the flames. She had been spinning, judging by the wheel and basket of wool beside her, but had now abandoned this occupation. She looked up as we entered.
‘Maud,’ Theresa Lilywhite said, ‘here’s the chapman I told you about. He’s happy to accept our offer of a bed, rather than spend an uncomfortable night on the alehouse floor. Chapman, this is my daughter-in-law.’
I gave a slight bow. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mistress.’
Maud Lilywhite, who I judged to be somewhere in her late thirties, rose from her stool, a slight woman in a dress of drab homespun, whose tired, careworn features still showed traces of the beauty she must have passed on to her daughter. (In a place the size of Lower Brockhurst, it would have taken a girl of exceptional looks to eclipse the pink-and-white prettiness of Rosamund Bush.) Her dark, liquid brown eyes retained something of the lustre that must once have set pulses racing, and which, long ago, had ensnared a young man from the big city of Gloucester.
‘Have you had food, Master Chapman?’ she asked.
‘Hercules and I ate more than well at the alehouse, I thank you, Mistress.’ I set my shivering animal down on the floor, where he immediately made himself at home, stretching out luxuriously in front of the fire.
‘Then you’ll take some mulled ale,’ the older woman suggested, coming forward and indicating the small iron pot that hung from a tripod over the flames.
I agreed very willingly; and while Theresa Lilywhite drew up two more stools to the fire, showed me where to put my pack and cudgel and hung my wet cloak on a nail behind the door, Maud Lilywhite fetched beakers from a shelf above the wall-oven and poured out three generous measures of the warm, sweet, cinnamon-flavoured drink.