Here, however, a pleasant surprise awaited me.
Elizabeth answered my knock and as soon as she saw me went scurrying back into the parlour. I heard her whisper loudly, ‘He’s here!’
Adam gave vent to one of his shrill giggles.
I pushed open the parlour door with some apprehension, wondering what the three children were up to; an apprehension which, I’m ashamed to admit, turned to annoyance when I became aware of Margaret Walker’s presence. Luckily, before I had time to make some caustic remark, Adela came forward, smiling all over her face.
‘Roger,’ she beamed, ‘come and see what Cousin Margaret’s brought you. Just look at this!’
‘This’, spread out over one of the chairs, was a splendid dark blue woollen cloak, held together at the throat by a smart brown leather tie.
‘Grandmother made it for you,’ my daughter announced, taking my hand. ‘Isn’t she clever?’
I stared blankly for a moment, then asked stupidly, ‘For me? You made it for me, Mother-in-law?’
‘Oh, for Our Sweet Lady’s sake!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’d think I’d never given you anything in your life before.’ To be honest, I couldn’t think of many presents I’d had from her, but I refrained from saying so. ‘I spun the yarn myself and paid Master Adelard to have it woven and dyed. The cutting and sewing I had done by a tailor who has rooms in Tucker Street. And a very good job he’s made of it, too. Here! Try it on instead of just standing there, staring at it.’
She and Adela divested me of my old cloak and draped the new one around me. It had that faintly sour smell of newly treated wool and its folds were wonderfully warm and soft.
‘B-But why?’ I stuttered ungraciously.
‘Oh, for Jesu’s sake, does there have to be a reason?’ Margaret demanded irritably, adding with a half-laugh, ‘I’m fond of you, Roger. Always was in spite of the fact that you’re like most men, utterly selfish and boorish. Moreover, I’m tired of seeing you in that old grey cloak of yours. The hem is rubbed and the wool is wearing thin in places. It might have been all very well when you were in a duke’s employ, but now that Richard is king …’
‘Margaret,’ I began, but then stopped. What was the use of saying yet again what I had said so many times in the past? I had never been in the duke’s employ, nor was I now that he was king. I had done favours for him from time to time, but had rarely been paid, preferring to keep my independence. (Although it’s true to say that favours for royalty are tantamount to commands.) My former mother-in-law liked to believe differently: it was then a connection that gave her added importance in the eyes of her friends.
I took a deep breath. ‘Margaret,’ I said again, ‘it’s beautiful and I thank you with all my heart. I shall be the grandest man in church today and every Sunday.’
‘Oh, no!’ she answered firmly. ‘That cloak is not just for Sundays and holy days, to be put away in a chest the rest of the time. It’s for everyday use, to smarten you up a little. Adela, you must see to it. Give that old grey thing away so that he won’t be tempted to wear it. I know what men are, Roger especially. He’s never happy unless he looks like a — a — ’
‘Pedlar?’ I suggested ironically. ‘Mother-in-law, I can’t go tramping round the countryside in this. It will be stolen in a trice.’
Margaret sniffed. ‘No, it won’t. Not the way you treat clothes. You’ll have it looking like something Hercules has made his bed on before many days have passed, just you wait and see.’
It was no use to argue with her. I thanked her again with genuine warmth — indeed, I was deeply touched by this unlooked-for gesture — and at the same time made up my mind to keep my old grey cloak for common use, wearing the magnificent new blue one for those occasions when I thought it appropriate.
But for me to make a decision is simply throwing down the gauntlet to Fate.
We all went to St Giles’s in the afternoon — I wearing my new cloak, needless to say — then I escorted Margaret home to Redcliffe, Adela having been unsuccessful in her attempt to persuade her cousin to stay for supper. It was after I had seen Margaret safely into her cottage that I had the notion, as I was so close, to call on young Dick Hodge. It crossed my mind that perhaps Baker Cleghorn might, just possibly, have said something to his assistant concerning his sighting of Miles Deakin. I considered it unlikely, but it was worth the effort of visiting Burl’s cottage near the Rope Walk to find out.
Jenny answered my knock and was pleased to see me, as always. ‘Burl’s not here, Roger,’ she said. ‘He and Jack have stepped out for an hour, but if you care to come inside and wait …’
I thanked her, adding, ‘It’s not Burl I’ve come to see. Is Dick at home?’
She looked surprised, but held the door open at once. ‘Yes, he’s here,’ she said, calling over her shoulder, ‘Dick! It’s Master Chapman. He wants a word with you.’
The inside of the cottage, cramped and dark and overcrowded, reminded me forcibly of the one Adela and I had once shared in Lewin’s Mead, and I realized with a shock that, with four children as well as ourselves, this is how we would be living, had Cicely Ford not willed her house in Small Street to me. I realized also something of the reason for Burl’s jealousy and resentment at my undeserved good fortune over the past few years.
Dick was seated at the table, trying to learn his catechism, one forefinger laboriously tracing the words, his lips silently forming them as he made out each one. Jenny looked on proudly. Neither she nor Burl could read or write, but she had insisted — much against Burl’s wishes as he thought it a waste of time and money — that the two boys be taught their letters.
Dick looked up as I sat down on the stool facing him, obviously glad to have an excuse to leave his reading. ‘What can I do for you, Master Chapman?’
Jenny put a stoup of her homemade ale in front of me and went off to stir the pot over the fire which contained their supper. (It smelled good, whatever it was.)
‘Dick,’ I began, but then hesitated, not quite sure how to proceed. He regarded me stolidly and waited. Life had no urgency for the younger of Burl’s two sons. ‘Dick,’ I said again after a pause, ‘has Baker Cleghorn recently mentioned to you that he’d seen, or might have seen, an old acquaintance who — er — who perhaps had returned to the city after several years’ absence?’
Dick slowly shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
I saw Jenny throw me a curious glance, but it would never occur to Dick to ask me why I wanted to know. He was not interested enough to pry into other people’s affairs. He had never had an enquiring mind.
‘You’re quite certain?’
He smiled his sweet, unworldly smile. ‘Certain, Master Chapman. He’s a good master, but he doesn’t have much to say.’
Jenny laughed. ‘It’s you who doesn’t have much to say to Master Cleghorn, more like,’ she chided him. I saw her eyeing my cloak. ‘That new, Roger?’
I explained about Margaret’s gift and she grimaced.
‘Master Adelard must be giving her plenty of weaving to do. Mind you,’ she added generously, ‘Margaret was always clever with her fingers. She’s one o’the best spinners in Redcliffe.’
I finished my ale and stood up. ‘I must be going, Jenny. It’s getting dark. Thank you for the ale. Mind you lock up after me and don’t answer the door to anyone until Burl and Jack get back.’
‘No, I won’t. No one’s been taken for these dreadful murders yet, I suppose?’ I shook my head, but as I moved towards the door, she left stirring the pot and came to see me out. ‘Roger,’ she said diffidently, ‘what … what are you doing with your old cloak?’