‘I don’t believe it!’ my wife exclaimed in exasperation when I had offered my explanation of why I had again been delayed returning home. ‘Why are you always present at the exact moment when these things happen? Why do they never occur when other people are nearby?’
I gave a sheepish grin. ‘Luck?’ I suggested.
Or God’s will? It had always been my contention, although not one I shared very often with other people, that the Almighty nudged me into these affairs where my natural powers of deduction were used by Him to bring evil to justice. Perhaps it was arrogance on my part to believe so, but all too frequently I seemed to be involved through no volition of my own. As had happened last night and again this afternoon, I was on the spot when events unfolded more often than seemed warranted by simple coincidence.
Adela snorted. ‘Ill fortune, more like,’ she retorted. ‘Now come and eat your supper. And remember! The children are expecting that game of Snapdragon with you that you failed to give them yesterday.’
The game of Snapdragon in our house, with three excitable children and a cautious mother, was played not as it was by the gentry, with pieces of exotic fruit floating around in a pool of flaming brandy, but with slices of apple and a handful of raisins swimming in ice-cold water and having to be bobbed for with the teeth. There were screams of merriment as Nicholas, Elizabeth and Adam bent over Adela’s largest bowl and attempted to catch the fruit in their mouths. The trophies were not immediately eaten, but lined up in front of each child, to be counted when the bowl was empty to see who had managed to catch the most.
It was almost a foregone conclusion that the winner would be Adam. It was an equally foregone conclusion, of course, that he would cheat, butting with his head and jogging with his elbows to ensure that he had an unfair advantage. But as he shared his ‘snapdragons’ with Luke, who had been frantic to join in, but been forcibly restrained by Adela, his older siblings and I let him get away with it for once. The three older children and I now being extremely wet and cold, we towelled one another dry, then played a vigorous game of Hoodman Blind to warm ourselves up. This was followed by Oranges and Lemons, although with only five of us able to participate (Luke was carried round with Adela and screamed with delight whenever they were captured) there was no prospect of the tug of war which should always succeed the game.
We were, in any case, starting to flag and even I was beginning to look forward to my bed.
‘It’s your age,’ my wife said unkindly as she began herding the three older children upstairs, leaving me with Luke to entertain until such time as she could attend to him.
I quite properly ignored this remark and carried my foster son into the parlour, where I was able to rest my ancient bones in an armchair and rock him on my knee. Tomorrow, I reflected with relief, would be St John’s Day, and he being the patron saint of booksellers and writers — and now, presumably, of those who practised this new-fangled art of printing — it was likely to prove a quiet, uneventful day. At least, so I hoped.
But the next day, pushing my way through the Saturday morning crowds milling around the Tolzey marketplace, I felt a tap on the shoulder. Turning with a smile, expecting to see someone I knew, I was confronted by the lugubrious, bearded features of Humility Dyson, landlord of the Wayfarers’ Return in ‘Little Ireland’. He was not himself Irish — a native of Bristol born and bred, so I had been given to understand — but he was trusted by all the slavers as one of them and treated as though he were in fact an Irishman. Indeed, I believe he thought of himself as one of them and would have no more considered betraying them to the authorities than he would of cutting his own throat.
‘You’re wanted,’ he said tersely, jerking his head vaguely in the direction of Marsh Street.
‘Who wants me?’ I stalled, though I could guess.
‘Him.’
‘Who’s him?’
‘You know who.’
I sighed. This conversation could continue all day. ‘If you mean Briant of Dungarvon, why don’t you say so?’ I snapped.
The landlord gave a start and glanced nervously around him. ‘Lower your voice,’ he growled. ‘Yes, him.’
‘And what does he want me for? To stick a knife in me like he tried to do to Sir George Marvell yesterday evening?’
He shoved me — and I am not an easy man to shove — behind one of the booths with surprising ease. His hirsute face was pushed within an inch of mine. ‘He won’t harm you. I’ll vouch for that. And if you doubt my word,’ he added belligerently, ‘I’ll twist your head round so that it’s facing the other way.’
‘Very well,’ I said, considering it politic to submit. ‘Where is he?’
‘The Turk’s Head.’
This I knew to be the other ale-house in Marsh Street, also nowadays owned and run by Humility Dyson. I nodded. ‘But I’ll walk two or three paces behind you. I don’t wish to be seen in your company.’
He accepted this readily, knowing it to be a sensible measure and one which he would have suggested himself had I not done so.
‘Except,’ he amended, ‘you’ll walk two or three paces ahead of me so that you don’t decide to disappear.’
As it happened, I was too anxious to hear what Briant had to say for himself to do anything of the kind.
The Turk’s Head was twenty or so yards nearer the gate which opened on to the path bordering the great marsh itself than the Wayfarers’ Return, and strange to me. On the two previous occasions when I had visited Marsh Street, the Irishman had been lodging at the last named ale-house, but this time he appeared to have altered his habits. It was difficult to see why as the interior of one was very similar to the interior of the other; if anything, slightly more cramped and fetid with the stink of unwashed bodies.
There was the usual sudden silence as I walked in, followed by a resumption of conversation as it was seen that I was accompanied by the landlord. Briant had chosen his customary dark corner and motioned me to take a seat on the opposite side of the table to himself. I swung my long legs over the bench, cursing, as always, as I scraped my knees against the board, and requested Humility Dyson to bring me some ale.
‘And he can pay,’ I added shortly, indicating my companion.
The Irishman laughed. ‘Getting bold, aren’t you, Chapman?’ he asked. Nevertheless, he nodded at the bar keep, who prowled away in the direction of some kegs lined up along the further wall. Briant leant towards me, lowering his voice.
‘Our friend hasn’t called out the forces of law and order against me, then?’ There was no point in pretending not to know who he meant, so I shook my head. Briant grinned. ‘I knew he wouldn’t. He’d be too afraid of what I’d say.’
A pot boy came with my ale. I took a generous swallow. It was very good. I looked at my companion over the rim of the beaker. ‘You intended to kill him,’ I said, following his example and not mentioning Sir George by name.
‘I did. And would have but for you interfering.’
His face was suddenly grim and my heart missed a beat. Had Briant got me here to take his revenge? I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘You’d be facing the noose if I hadn’t. The sheriff wouldn’t let you get away with killing a knight of the realm. His men would have braved Marsh Street for that. And if all I hear is true, your fellow countrymen wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save you. They don’t hold with murder.’
‘For some things they do.’ His voice and face were even grimmer than before. ‘Moreover, they might have come after you for informing against me. You were the only witness.’ He stared me down for a moment or two, then drew a deep breath and seemed to relax. ‘However, you did prevent me and unless you change your mind and go to the authorities, we’ll hear no more of the matter. But I’ll wager the old bastard has instructed you not to.’