‘Yes, yes!’ I said, wondering when he would get to the point.
‘Well, one day last winter, I was walking past the place on my way home, when a fellow staggered down the steps and bumped straight into me, nearly knocking me over. He apologized in a very slurred sort of way, so I naturally assumed he was drunk. Then, to my disgust, he took hold of my arm and staggered along beside me. Said he wasn’t feeling too well which, in view of my assumption, didn’t surprise me in the least. But I supported him as far as the shop, where, of course, I disengaged myself and said that I must go inside. This was where I lived.’
‘And?’ I queried impatiently as Julian paused.
‘And then,’ he answered slowly, impressively, ‘he gave a strange little sigh and dropped down dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes. But not from any natural cause. He’d been stabbed in the back, just like this Gregory Machin you’ve been telling me about.’
I stared at him uncomprehendingly for a second or two. ‘You’re saying. .?’
‘I’m saying that this man had been fatally stabbed by another of the Old Barge’s inmates — a man was later hanged for his murder — but between the blow that killed him and the moment he dropped dead, he had walked the length of Bucklersbury, unaware that there was anything wrong with him. True, he wasn’t quite himself; his speech, as I said, was slurred, he was weak and disorientated, but he didn’t realize that he was dying.’
‘Is such a thing possible?’ I asked.
Julian nodded eagerly. ‘Apparently it’s not as uncommon a phenomenon as you might suppose. I consulted a physician friend of mine who lives in Old Jewry, and he assured me that it can occur from time to time. It had happened to a man he knew of who complained that someone had thumped him. A minute or two later, the man fell dead of a stab wound in the chest. It depends, I should imagine, on the weapon. If the blade is long and thin, there is no immediate bloodletting. What bleeding there is, is internal and takes longer to bring about death.’ He leaned forward excitedly, gripping both my wrists. ‘Don’t you see what I’m saying? Your man could have been knifed without his realizing it. He may then have been able to walk into his room and bolt the door before he collapsed and died.’
I took a deep breath. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘I saw it happen with my own eyes.’
‘Then. . then that explains it.’ I went on slowly, picking a careful path through my teeming thoughts. ‘Tutor Machin’s room wasn’t far from the head of the stairs he and young Gideon Fitzalan were last seen climbing. The staircase curves, so the two of them were out of sight of the person following behind them for perhaps a minute or so. Long enough, probably, for someone waiting at the top to stab Gregory in the back as he passed and seize the boy. Whoever it was must have been amazed to see Gregory blunder on into his room instead of immediately falling dead at his feet. And even more amazed if he heard the bolt being shot home. He may even have been terrified that the tutor wasn’t dead, only wounded, and would be able to identify him later.’
Julian frowned. ‘You assume the murderer was a man?’
‘Don’t you? Knives and daggers are not normally a woman’s weapons. Although I have to admit that I have known them to be so, so maybe it’s not the most convincing of arguments.’ I got to my feet, freeing myself from the apothecary’s clutching hands and stretched out one of my own. ‘Julian, I owe you a debt I can never repay. Even if I can’t prove that this is exactly what happened, we both know you’re right. If you eliminate the forces of evil, this has to be the only explanation.’
‘I hope so,’ Julian agreed, warmly returning my clasp. ‘I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it at once.’ He smiled. ‘I’m delighted to have been of some use. Let me wish you all good fortune in solving this mystery, Roger. If any one can do so, you’re the man. Look at how you resolved the one surrounding the Godsloves.’
I made a deprecating gesture (which I don’t suppose fooled him for an instant) and politely refused his offer of further refreshment. I wanted to be on my own. In the light of this new knowledge, I needed to reassess everything I knew about this case so far.
THIRTEEN
I walked back to Baynard’s Castle like a man in a trance, completely unaware of the jostling crowds around me. I remember bumping into one or two people and being cursed for not looking where I was going, but for the most part, I might have been all alone in that bustling throng.
I had no doubt that Julian Makepeace’s solution to the mystery of the locked room was correct, and meant that almost anyone could have been lying in wait at the top of the stairs, knife in hand, for Gregory Machin and his charge But the solving of one riddle led only to the next. Why would anyone want to kill the tutor? Why was it necessary that he should die?
The obvious answer was that the boy had to be snatched and spirited away with the minimum of fuss and outcry. In a place like Baynard’s Castle there was always somebody somewhere within earshot, and it would surely have been inevitable that that somebody — or, indeed, several somebodies — would have come running to see what the noise was about. At the same time, it bothered me that there must have been subtler methods of getting possession of young Gideon. A story perhaps that one of his uncles wished to speak to him, or one of his brothers, or Dame Copley. . On second thoughts, not the nurse: he had but just come from her room if Amphillis Hill was to be believed, and I could see no reason at present to doubt her word.
But if the murderer had been a stranger to Gregory, he might well have demurred or insisted on accompanying his charge. At best, there could have been an argument, at worst, a struggle. No, taken all in all, it had probably been wiser to dispose of the tutor altogether, because when it was discovered that Gideon had disappeared there was no one to bear witness to, or give a description of, the person who had taken him.
Which brought me, of course, to the thorny questions of why the boy had been taken in the first place and where he was being held captive. Or was he, like his unfortunate tutor, also dead? But somehow I doubted he had been killed. Someone had gone to great trouble to snatch him from his guardians, and I could not bring myself to believe that it had simply been to murder him in his turn. It didn’t make sense, so my guess was that he was being held a prisoner somewhere. Once again, however, I was faced with the problems of where and why?
I suddenly found myself, without knowing quite how I got there, back at the Thames Street entrance to the castle. The sentries manning the gate passed me through easily enough, having got used to my presence in the past few days and recognizing me from my exceptional height. (I stood six foot in my stockinged feet, nearly as tall as the late King Edward, a fact which — unfortunately on occasions — made me extremely visible among my fellow men whose average height was at least six or seven inches shorter.)
Once inside, it was my intention to seek out a member of the Fitzalan family, but my purpose was delayed by the sounding of the trumpet for supper. I was not to be balked of my victuals, having eaten nothing since ten o’clock dinner, so I made my way to the servants’ hall with the rest of the hungry crowd. I joined in the general groan of disgust at the sight of the inevitable pottage, warmed up from the previous meal, and added my voice to the loud condemnation of Duchess Cicely’s parsimony where the lower orders were concerned. Not that that stopped any of us falling to our bowls like ravening wolves in the hope of being the first to finish and so being able to claim a second bowlful. And I’m proud to record that I won the race on my table, having learned a trick or two worth the knowing while a novice at Glastonbury Abbey.
‘Feeding your face again, Roger?’ enquired a mocking voice behind me.
I swivelled round on the bench. ‘Piers! Do you know if any of the Fitzalans are still in the castle?’