‘I think it unwise to encourage such morbid fancies.’
A man had just passed Saint Michael’s Church and the boundary stone that marked the city’s limit, and was climbing steadily uphill towards us; a man dressed in hose and tunic of brown burel, carrying a cloak made of the same material, together with his pack; a man I had seen three times before that day, the last time in Broad Street well over an hour ago. What, I wondered, had he been doing in the meantime that it had taken him so long to get this far?
I must have exclaimed involuntarily, because Cicely asked, ‘Do you know him, Roger?’
I shook my head. ‘No. But he’s been haunting me ever since this morning. This is the fourth occasion that I’ve seen him today.’
Cicely stared curiously at the man.
The stranger, however, did not return our interest. He strode purposefully past us without a glance, although he did falter for an instant at the sight of the felon dangling from the gibbet. It appeared to startle him and I glimpsed the whites of his eyes as he shied away from the corpse. It crossed my mind that it might hold some special significance for him; but then, I suppose that might be said about all of us when there are so many crimes that carry the penalty of death.
He recovered quickly, walking on towards the high ground above Bristol, known as Durdham Down, and the road to Gloucester.
‘He looks as though he knows where he’s going,’ Cicely commented, watching the stranger dwindle to a speck in the distance. She turned back to me. ‘Thank you for bringing me home, Roger.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. But I wasn’t fooled for a minute into thinking it anything other than a chaste, sisterly peck. Her heart belonged to a dead man and would do so until the day she died. ‘You and Adela won’t forget to come to Vespers on Wednesday evening?’
‘We shan’t forget,’ I promised. Then I saw her safely inside her cottage, with its grisly outlook, took the liberty of kissing her cheek — another chaste peck — and set off home, more than ready for my delayed supper.
The first thing I smelled when I entered the house was the delicious aroma of mutton stew, flavoured with cinnamon and saffron. The first thing — or, rather, person — I saw was Richard Manifold, sitting in my chair, eating from my bowl with my spoon. Adela was a worthy opponent: she could always teach me a salutary lesson. But, also, she knew when she had taken matters far enough.
She came forward, smiling a welcome, and kissed me full on the lips. There was nothing chaste or sisterly about this kiss, and I noticed our guest’s squirm of embarrassment. That put me in a better mood, and I sat down opposite him, while Adela brought me a brimming plate of mutton stew and a slice of barley bread.
‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘What did you discover about those two ruffians, Richard? Why were they watching Baker Overbecks’s shop?’
The sergeant’s manner became distinctly cagey.
‘Nothing of any moment,’ he said, answering my first question. ‘A couple of strangers just passing through.’ He added more positively, ‘They certainly weren’t spying on Master Overbecks.’
‘It looked like it to me,’ I argued stubbornly. ‘What’s more, the pockmarked one was looking for a quarrel. They had no respect at all for any upright local citizen who happened to get in their way.
‘Meaning you, I suppose?’
‘Meaning me.’
‘I can assure you, Roger, they are both innocent of doing anything wrong. It isn’t a civic offence to jostle someone, you know.’
I bristled menacingly.
‘That’ll do, both of you!’ Adela rebuked us as she took her place at the table. ‘Stop squaring up to each other like a pair of fighting cocks. You’ll upset the children. I’ll have to ask you to leave, Richard, if you can’t behave.’
‘Then Roger will have to accept what I say. I know a felon when I see one.’
‘Roger?’ my wife queried sharply.
‘Oh, very well!’
What else could I say? I had no proof that the men were villains. Indeed, I wasn’t sure that they were. I was certain, however, that Richard Manifold was holding something back; that he had gleaned some information about them that he wasn’t going to share with me. But the expression on Adela’s face warned me not to pursue the matter further. I should just have to contain my soul in patience and see what transpired.
Four
I didn’t have long to wait; only until the next morning.
It had been a disturbed night. Adam had wakened in the small hours, demanding to be fed in his inimitable, ear-splitting fashion. His cries had roused Elizabeth and Nicholas, who immediately wanted the chamber pot. As Adela was busy with our son, it fell to my lot to heave myself out of the cosy trough I had made in the goose-feather mattress I shared with her, in order to attend to their needs. After that, it had been a continuous trickle of requests and complaints — drinks of water, they were too hot, too cold, a dog was barking, an owl was hooting — until I roared at them in exasperation, thereby waking Adam once more and incurring the fury of Adela, who had just dropped off to sleep.
By the time I had made my peace with her, the early summer dawn was rimming the shutters, and when I eventually fell into an uneasy doze, it was only to dream that I was vainly trying to warn John Overbecks of danger, but could find no way into the bakery. Every door was bolted, every window barred, and although I tried shouting, my voice was unable to make itself heard. Finally, I started to hammer on the bakery door, the blows sounding loud in the silence. Then someone began shaking me by the arm. .
‘Wake up, Roger!’ Adela was saying. ‘Wake up! Someone’s knocking.’
She was standing over me, her gown half-on, half-off, her dark hair still loose about her shoulders, her voice slurred with the dregs of sleep. The children, too, were beginning to stir, already mumbling the fresh demands of another day. I scrambled up from the mattress, searching for something to cover my nakedness before answering the imperious summons. Adela threw me my cloak, which hung on a nail by the window.
‘Wrap it well round you,’ she hissed. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, that’s Mistress Coxley’s voice, and a glimpse of your manliness might prove too much for her.’
Mistress Coxley was an elderly neighbour who lived with her equally elderly husband a few doors distant. I drew my cloak about me with a flourish and sent my wife a resentful look that only made her laugh.
When, at last, I opened the door, I realized with a shock that the morning was well advanced. The sun was already mounting the sky, and the traffic in and out of the Frome Gate had swollen from a steady trickle to a flood. Adela and I had overslept, and it was well on the way to the ten-o’clock dinner hour: breakfast would have to be done without if we were to catch up on our day.
Mistress Coxley gave a little shriek of surprise at seeing me and not Adela, and also at seeing me so unconventionally attired. Remembering my wife’s admonition, I held the cloak tightly together and gave the old lady my best, and what I thought was my most beguiling, smile.
‘Mistress Coxley! What can we do for you? I’m afraid we’ve woken rather late this morning, as you can see. A disturbed night with the children.’
I could tell that my irresistible charm was making no impression on her. Her faded blue eyes remained round and startled. Her lined face, as grey and dusty as the hair that straggled from beneath her linen cap, retained its expression of shock.
Fortunately, at that moment, Adela joined me, still braiding her thick, dark hair into the single plait that would be coiled up beneath her snow-white coif, but otherwise looking spick and span as became a wife and mother who ran a respectable household — in spite of the disreputable layabout who answered the door wearing only a little more than a good-natured expression.