For a moment, he seemed utterly taken aback. Then he shrugged. ‘I’d forgotten that,’ he said. ‘So it was. Of course! I arranged for you to see her in the guest apartments, didn’t I? I must be losing my wits. But it did happen as I’ve told you. All I can think of is that she must have returned there for something. The pot of birch twigs, perhaps.’
‘Why in heaven’s name would she want them? The leaves were all brown and wilting.’
Piers gave me a sharp look. ‘Why are you so suspicious? I swear to you that what I’m saying is the truth. Ask Mother Copley if you think I’m lying. I promise you she’ll bear me out.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’re Dame Copley’s nephew?’
He blinked. ‘I–I never thought about it. I–I didn’t realize you didn’t know. It’s not important, anyway. We’re not that close.’ The mockery had vanished and he appeared genuinely perturbed. ‘Roger!’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t really believe that I would try to murder you! Why? Why should I wish to? You’re my friend.’
I sighed and got to my feet. ‘It was just the bruise,’ I said apologetically.
‘I’ve explained that.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But you must see that it looks suspicious. Here,’ I added, ‘take my seat. If you’re going to eat, I recommend the rabbit stew.’
He slid on to my vacated stool with a nod of thanks. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ He sounded anxious. I nodded and he continued, ‘You mustn’t walk about by yourself at night. There’s a killer somewhere amongst us, and if he’s now after you, you’re in serious danger. Make sure someone always goes with you.’
I laughed. ‘Anyone determined to kill me could do it just as well by day. Baynard’s Castle is a veritable rabbit warren of passageways and staircases, as you well know. But I shall be careful.’
He nodded. ‘Do be.’
‘By the way,’ I said, as I handed over some coins to an anxious potboy who thought I was about to abscond without paying my shot, ‘Dame Copley was in here not very long ago, together with Amphillis Hill and two other women, one of whom I’m sure must be her sister because of a certain family resemblance between them. Her name’s Etheldreda Simpkins.’
Piers looked startled, staring at me as though he didn’t quite know what to say. ‘You. . you know Aunt Etheldreda?’ he managed at last.
Of course! If he were Rosina’s nephew, then he would also be her sister’s.
‘We’ve met,’ I said, and explained, in part, the circumstances of that encounter. What I didn’t say was that when I stumbled across St Etheldreda’s Church, I had been following Amphillis Hill. I let him think it had been by chance, but offered no explanation of why I had been in the Dowgate Ward. Fortunately, he displayed no curiosity on that head.
‘And. . and Aunt Etheldreda actually showed you the crypt?’ he asked.
‘She fetched me a lantern from her house so that I could see my way down the steps,’ I told him cheerfully. ‘What she didn’t tell me, but which I discovered for myself quite by accident, is that there’s another chamber below that one whose foundations look to me to be very ancient. They may well be those of the Roman Temple of Mithras that stood, so I understand, close to that site, and might indeed have actually stood on it.’
‘Well!’ Piers looked, for once, lost for words. ‘Did. . did you tell Aunt Ethel about this second chamber you found?’
‘No. I thought it best not to. She seemed such a game old lady that I thought it wisest not to. She would probably have decided to explore it for herself and might have slipped and broken a limb, if nothing worse.’
‘Quite right,’ Piers said. ‘There’s no doubt she would have.’ He still seemed a little dazed by my revelation. ‘I must go and investigate it for myself one of these days.’
A potboy finally came to take his order and, with a parting admonition to have the rabbit stew, I seized the opportunity to take my leave.
I made my way westwards along East Cheap into Candlewick Street and suddenly realized that I was only yards from the place where Etheldreda Simpkins had her dwelling; the little bow-shaped alleyway that linked Candlewick Street to Dowgate Hill and bypassed the junction of both with Wallbrook. On impulse, I decided to pay another visit to the church and its crypt, for no better reason than that I could think of nothing else to do and didn’t want to own to myself that, in the matter of Gideon Fitzalan’s disappearance, my thinking had reached a standstill. I had no idea why he had vanished, where he was being held or who was holding him. It was time for prayer and a word with God in private.
‘You’re not very gallant,’ said a reproachful voice, and a hand caught hold of my arm. I turned to see Naomi, obviously on her way home to Bucklersbury with a covered basket in one hand. ‘I saw you come out of the Boar’s Head,’ she went on, ‘and I called to you, but you took no notice.’
‘I didn’t hear you,’ I protested.
She ignored this. ‘I’ve been buying meat for the master’s supper tonight and dinner tomorrow. All the best butchers are in East Cheap, just as all the best drapers are here, in Candlewick Street.’ She smiled happily, withdrawing her hand from my arm and raising it to finger the birch twig pinned to her bodice. ‘The master’s treating me to some new material for my Midsummer Eve Queen’s dress. I’m off now to choose it.’ And planting a light kiss on my right cheek, she darted away across the road to a stall whose proud owner was shouting something about newly arrived ‘silks from the Orient’.
Of course, I thought, that was it! That was what I had been trying to remember. All four women in the Boar’s Head had been wearing little sprays of birch twigs pinned to their gowns. Did the fact have any particular significance, or was it something many women did at this time of year? I recalled the two boys I had met on the downs at home, not far from the great gorge, and how they had been denuding a birch tree of its twigs and tender young branches. The Crown and the Bough. The birch leaf wreaths that encircled the Midsummer Eve Queens’ heads. I sighed. It seemed like common practice after all.
I had paused for my moment’s contemplation, leaning against the nearby wall of a house, letting the tide of humanity flow by me. Now, as I heaved myself upright once more, I glanced idly to my right — and saw a flicker of movement as if someone had suddenly ducked down out of sight. Was I being followed? But by whom and why? I stood still, staring, oblivious to the opprobrium of people trying to push past me, but knowing full well that I was being foolish. In those sort of crowds, how could one distinguish one kind of movement from another? After last night’s attack, I was becoming unnecessarily jumpy.
A few more steps brought me to the mouth of the alleyway and I turned into its cobbled silence with a feeling of relief. The racket and bustle of Candlewick Street was making my head ache, especially as it had not really recovered from my drinking session with Jack the evening before.
The door of the church was still unlocked and I pushed my way inside, then waited a few seconds to allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I easily found the cupboard where candles, their holders and the tinderbox were stored and, having provided myself with light, proceeded to the back of the altar. Within minutes, I was descending the stairs into the crypt, its unpleasant smell rising to meet me. I spent a few minutes looking around, but nothing seemed to have altered since my last visit three days earlier until I noticed that the planks, previously propped against the second door, had been removed. For a moment, I hesitated, then telling myself not to be a fool, I opened the door and went down the second flight of steps into the fetid atmosphere of the lower chamber.
There was something different about it, but before I had time to work out what that difference was, something caught me a swingeing blow on the back of the head.
I descended into blackness.