Heading back towards Cheapside in a foul temper, this affair was beginning to worm beneath my skin. If Joyce didn’t do it — and my heart said he didn’t — then who did? Looked like I’d have to go to Epsom after all. Then Cocksmouth. Dowling could stay behind and play with his chops.
Chapter Five
The short pod of this plant contains the seed which is similar to the shape of a heart that is drawn in love letters!
No one had invited me to Anne Giles’s funeral, of course, but since she was my cousin I supposed that none would overly object to my appearance, and if she wasn’t my cousin, an assertion which still didn’t feel snug with me, then I could pretend to be simple in the head. I had met plenty of folks whose behaviours I could mimic to that effect these last couple of days.
It was a long and unpleasant journey and cost two pounds for the privilege. The coach lurched and rocked over frozen ruts and I felt very ill — in need of some Epsom waters! Some men would drive all the way from London to Epsom Common, drink a pot or two from the well and then run off into the bushes to pass a stool. I reckon you can achieve the same effect by drinking two mugs of ale from any tavern on the Southbank. Much quicker, twice as reliable and save you the hell of the journey.
When at last we got to Epsom we stopped at the King’s Head, a large inn sat in the middle of the high street. Little though I craved being welcomed to the Ormonde bosom, still I felt obliged to have a wash and sprinkle on some more of that lavender oil before showing my face. It was also an opportunity to ask a few questions of the locals about my newly unearthed relatives.
A large man with a big belly stepped across my path to the inn. He was bald, though a few last remnants of black hair grew wild about his ears. The apron upon which he wrung his hands was dirty and stained, reeking of old beer, wine and sweat. Standing squarely in front of me, he told me that the inn was full, for which I congratulated his good fortune. He wrinkled his nose at me in puzzlement, so I explained to him my purpose.
Looking me up and down he informed me that it was mostly gentry going — ‘you knows’.
Straightening my wig I looked down at my clothes. Clean enough, I considered, crumpled maybe. I was wearing dull, black mourning cloth, though my shoes were russet. I didn’t own any black shoes then, and certainly couldn’t afford to buy any just for this one funeral. A decent pair of shoes cost thirty shillings. I asked him (again) with great politeness for access to a pump. Also for the loan of a fresh horse to get me to and from the Ormonde house.
‘Aye, though I will have the money first. Touch pot, touch penny. Come in.’ Beneath his apron he wore only a short-sleeved shirt, despite the perishing cold.
At one end of the large front room was a big roaring fire. Wooden pillars propped up a low ceiling. The floor was made of flagstones, worn and chipped. A long table filled the centre of the room, one end up against the fire where two men sat in silence. A tidy middle-aged woman stood dutiful and smiling next to a barrel of ale. I followed him to the kitchen where he waved a lazy hand at a half-full pail of cloudy water. Things hung suspended in it and its surface glistened with an oily sheen. He waited expectantly.
‘Do you know Mr Ormonde?’ I asked, eyeing the water.
‘Aye, I know him. Lives on the road to Ashstead. Every man know him.’
I took off my hat and coat. ‘What is he like?’
Looking at me suspiciously, he wrinkled his nose again. ‘You going to his house for the funeral and you don’t know him?’
The water was freezing cold. ‘He is my cousin — my cousin’s father, better said — but I’ve not met him.’
‘Not met him?’
‘No. What’s he like?’
‘He’s tall, thin,’ he stared at my coat, ‘old.’
I turned, wiping my hands on my thighs. ‘Do you see him often?’
‘No. He don’t come in here, squire. This is an inn.’
‘Have you seen him walking about the town?’
‘He don’t walk about the town, does he? Want ’owt to eat or drink?’
I looked again at the pail of water. ‘Just a horse.’
The innkeeper looked at me as if I was mad. ‘We don’t serve horse.’
He was not joking. What sort of cretins and morons lived out here in the country? Simpletons and whoballs, obviously. I learnt nothing of interest and left, bemused.
Ormonde’s residence was out of town on top of a small hill in its own grounds, walled off from the general population. Today the tall, black, wrought iron gates stood wide open, inviting entry to the wide sweeping driveway, hidden from the fields by a row of poplars on either side. The house was painted white, three storeys high. My borrowed horse trotted up the driveway past seven coaches that stood there waiting. At the door a servant came running up to take the horse from me and to find out who I was and what I wanted. When I told him I was a cousin he hurried off into the house to consult. While I waited I watched the other guests arrive. They were all finely dressed. The men wore long black mourning gowns, black silk sashes across their tunics, black buckles on their shoes and black hats with thin black silk weepers falling down the back. I was the only one there with coloured shoes and the only one wearing a periwig. Though it was black.
After a time a very tall, thin old man emerged, walking stiffly down the low stone steps towards me using a thick cane to support himself on his right side. His face was long and worn, his eyes grey and watery. He regarded me sternly, mouth twitching with impatient irritation. From his lips came a low grumbling noise, though whether it was for my benefit or whether it was a noise he made all the time, I could not yet determine.
Towering over me with both hands on the top of his cane, legs akimbo with a terribly severe expression on his face, he looked like he was trying to pass an Epsom stool. ‘You say you are a cousin?’ he said in a low, thick slur. ‘I think not.’
I smiled brightly. ‘You may be right, sir. It was my father said that we were related, and the Lord Shrewsbury. I have no evidence of mine own to support it.’
At the mention of Shrewsbury’s name his eyes widened and he began to breathe noisily through his nose. The mumbling stopped. His eyes fell and he began a long slow shuffle as he manoeuvred himself to face back towards the house. He hobbled back up the steps. I followed, not knowing whether I was to be admitted or not. A servant came up to me and stared at my brown shoes. After some consideration he offered me gloves and a hatband. I took them, though I didn’t have a hat.
Inside it was quickly evident that the men were downstairs and the women were upstairs. The servant led me to the drawing room, from which all the furniture had been taken, except a line of red leather upholstered chairs standing around the edge. A big window, standing the full height of the room, allowed the winter light to bring a glow to the polished floor. A coffin stood in the middle of the room on a dark oak table. I went over to pay my respects, wondering if the casket was open, as was the custom — just in case the deceased should change its mind. I guessed not and indeed the box was nailed down. Nice box, though, unblemished elm, sanded, smoothed and lovingly polished. A dozen men sat around the border of the room, all wearing black broadcloth, all wearing the same design new gold ring with black enamelling, and all staring at me. I was the only one bereft of such a ring. Putting my gloves on quickly I walked over to the panelled fireplace. I pretended to admire the tapestries that hung on either side of it and accepted a cup of wine, although I didn’t really want it. None spoke. Prynne would have had a ball.
At last a bell rang. The men stood up as one and headed for the hallway and the women descended from upstairs in small groups of two or three. They all flocked like black sheep too, all dressed in the same black woollen gowns. I reckon a lot of people must die in Epsom, for everyone seems to know exactly what to do and wear. London is not so formal. As I walked out the door, a servant handed me a sprig of rosemary to throw into the grave.