A quarter of an hour later, I was comfortably ensconced in front of a blazing fire, making short work of one of the landlady’s beef and oyster pies and drinking her health in a beaker of exceptionally fine ale.
‘You keep this place on your own?’ I queried.
She was a big, full-bosomed creature with the very dark hair and eyes that indicates Celtic blood. And, indeed, we were not far from the marches of Wales.
She shrugged. ‘Since my man died twelve years ago come next Eastertide. It’s not unusual. Many women keep ale-houses and inns.’
I tapped my plate with my knife. ‘This is splendid fare.’ I glanced around me at the empty benches and stools. ‘You should be doing a better trade than this.’
She laughed. ‘It’ll fill up again after Christmas. But nobody has money to spare at this season of the year. People stay indoors with their families. Besides, it’s early yet. A few will drift in later and sup their Christmas ale.’ She seated herself opposite me and watched me eat. ‘You’re a stranger in these parts. Where are you from?’
‘Bristol.’ I wiped the gravy from my chin with the back of my hand. ‘You say you’ve been here twelve years?’
‘Longer. I said my man died twelve years since.’ She eyed me shrewdly. ‘Seeking information, are you?’
‘I’m looking for a family called Deakin. It’s possible they came here about three years ago to live with Goody Deakin’s sister after they were turned off their holding in Clifton Manor.’
The landlady bit her thumbnail reflectively. After a while she nodded. ‘Yes, I do recollect them: a mother, father and a good-looking son.’
‘Was the son’s name Miles?’
‘Yes. Now you remind me of it, I believe it was. When he first came here he was in a sorry state. Someone had beaten him badly. Almost, I would say, to within an inch of his life. I never got the full story from Agnes Littlewood, nor from the old man, her father. But my belief is that there was a woman in the case. Some irate husband had given that lad a beating that had very nearly killed him.’
‘Not a husband,’ I said. ‘A brother. And the lady in question was more than eighty years old.’
She stared at me in disbelief for several seconds, then, realizing I was in earnest, started to laugh. ‘I don’t think Agnes ever knew that. She would have found it too great a joke not to share.’
‘This Agnes Littlewood, she was Miles Deakin’s aunt?’
‘That’s right. His mother’s sister.’
‘Do the Deakins still live here?’ I tried to keep the eagerness out of my voice.
My hostess shook her head. ‘Well,’ she amended, ‘Agnes and her father, old Alfred Littlewood, do, but the Deakins moved on again after a year or so. I fancy the two women didn’t get on.’ She settled herself more comfortably on her stool, her dark eyes bright in the firelight. ‘Tell me about young Miles and the eighty-year-old woman and you shall have another piece of pie free of charge.’
This was an offer too good to resist. Besides, there was nothing secret about the history of Drusilla Marvell and her swain, so I told the tale with a few imaginary embellishments of my own to make it even more interesting and amusing. But I stopped short of recounting recent events, afraid that they might alarm the landlady into sending a warning message to the Littlewoods.
‘So why are you looking for Miles Deakin?’ she asked when I had finished.
‘Dame Drusilla’s brother died recently,’ I answered truthfully.
My companion laughed. ‘So the lady feels free to find him again, eh? And has commissioned you to do so.’ I didn’t reply, letting my silence tell the untruth for me. ‘Well, as I say,’ she went on, ‘Miles and his family have long gone, but Agnes might know where and be able to point you in their direction. I’ll show you her cottage in the morning. Meanwhile,’ she added as the ale-house door opened and a couple of the villagers came in, ‘we have company at last. And by the look of that powdering of snow on their coats, it’s settling in to be a miserable evening. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll bring you that second slice of pie.’
I awoke next morning to a light fall of snow which had turned streets and rooftops white, and for several moments was afraid that I might not be able to get home again the following day in time for Twelfth Night Eve. A quick foray out of doors, however, showed that the fall was not deep — a sprinkling merely — and I was able to enjoy my breakfast of fried herring and freshly cooked oatcakes with an easy mind. The bed I had occupied overnight had been clean and comfortable and I had slept well. I felt refreshed in mind and body.
My hostess indicated a cottage at the end of the village street as that belonging to Agnes Littlewood and her father, Alfred, and when I considered sufficient time had elapsed for them to have eaten their breakfast, I set out. The cottage was typical of others I could see, being one-storeyed, made of daub and wattle and thatched with moss and twigs. A rough patch of ground to one side suggested that in the summer months an attempt was made to grow a few herbs and vegetables, and it was possible that one of the pigs in the common sty at the end of the street was theirs. I could also hear the bleating of a goat somewhere about.
My knock on the door was answered by a very thin woman in coarse, homespun clothes with a narrow face and two faded blue eyes that, once she realized I was not one of her neighbours, regarded me with suspicion.
‘Yes?’ Her voice was sharp and I could see her looking for any clue that might suggest my calling.
‘Mistress Littlewood?’ I smiled ingratiatingly. ‘The aunt of Miles Deakin?’
This was the last thing she had expected and she paused in the act of closing the door in my face.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘I–I’m trying to discover the present whereabouts of Miles — er — Deakin,’ I faltered, suddenly finding it more difficult than I had anticipated to think up a reason for my enquiry. ‘A — er — a lady in Bristol is anxious to see him again.’
It sounded feeble even to my own ears, so I was astonished when the woman sighed and said, ‘You’d better come in.’
Inside, it was extremely dark and cramped, with the only light coming from a small window at the far end of the room and a rush light burning on the table. A fire on the central hearth belched smoke through a hole in the roof and bedding was rolled up against one wall. I realized why the Deakin family had left and was only surprised that they had stayed as long as they had. Five people crowded into such a confined space must have made life well nigh impossible.
Agnes Littlewood closed the door and took the bellows to blow up the fire. A flame or two appeared before it died down once more to a sullen glow. She didn’t ask me to sit down although the room boasted two three-legged stools as well as a rickety chair with arms pulled up close to the hearth. ‘Well,’ she said abruptly, ‘who is this woman who wants to find my nephew?’
‘A lady,’ I corrected her. ‘A very wealthy lady. She knew Miles when he was in Bristol some three years back and now wants to meet him again. Her … Her patronage could be greatly to his advantage.’ The lies were starting to stick in my throat.
‘You mean the old woman, do you? The one whose brother broke nearly every bone in poor Miles’s body and got my sister and her husband turned off their land?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted, feeling suddenly ashamed that I had shared this story with the landlady of the ale-house the night before, and treated it as a joke. I added, ‘The brother’s dead now.’ What I didn’t say was that I was searching for Miles because I thought he might be that brother’s murderer and the killer of yet another man. The burden of guilt was almost overwhelming and I was beginning to wish heartily that I had never let James persuade me into undertaking this mission.