I answered the older man’s questions, then turned toward a corner of the room where I saw Thomas at a table, spoon in hand and a bowl of pottage before him. “I would speak to you again of Margaret Smith,” I said.
The youth shrugged. My request seemed not to trouble him, but he took no more of his meal.
“Perhaps you will accompany me?” I asked, and motioned toward the door. “’Tis no day to be out,” he replied. “You may speak here.” He looked at his parents as he spoke. His meaning was clear: “I have nothing to hide.” But I knew now he did.
“You know of Matilda atte Water, of Burford?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“She prowls about at night, as you may know,” I told them. “Mad as a March hare,” the mother interjected.
“She goes to the churchyard, to speak to her husband. Early summer she went one evening, late, after curfew bell, and found two lovers quarreling behind the churchyard wall.”
I waited, but this information brought no comment from Thomas Shilton. So I pressed on.
“Matilda says ’twas you and Margaret.”
“She is weak in the head,” Thomas said evenly, and went back to his cooling bowl of pottage.
Between mouthfuls he spoke again. “Margaret and I quarreled on t’riverbank, as you well know. I never disputed with her in t’churchyard…or any other place but t’river.”
“Matilda knows you well?” I asked.
“Aye,” his mother entered the conversation again. “She were midwife to many hereabouts, ’till she went soft in t’head. No one’ll have her now, nor for ten years past an’ more.”
“She knows you well, so you say, and says so herself.”
“How could she see who was in t’churchyard at night?” Thomas challenged.
“’Twas near full moon. What did you promise Margaret?”
“Promise?” The youth was surprised, or acted so.
“Matilda overheard Margaret protesting your broken promise — to care for her if she was got with child.”
“With child?” I saw Thomas’ mouth drop, and he laid down the spoon. “I promised Margaret nothing. We — that is, I — assumed I need make no promise.”
“Oh?” (This was fast becoming my favorite word.)
“I supposed she knew, so I made no promise.”
“Knew what?”
“That when she decided, we should wed.”
“Had you asked her?” The light was dim, for the commons will not burn a lamp or candle when daylight, no matter how thin, gives light, but I thought I saw him redden at the question.
“Aye…well…not like askin’, actually.”
“Then how, actually?”
“Oh, we’d talk about how many children we’d have. What I could do with another yardland; perhaps rise to gentry someday.”
I understood why such conversations might lead a man to think the question of marriage had been answered. “You said that when you quarreled at the river she spoke of a gentleman keeping his promise.” I added.
“Aye, she did. When was I supposed to have had this dispute in t’churchyard?”
“About Whitsuntide. Matilda does not remember exactly.”
Thomas smiled. “She remembers what did not happen, and cannot remember what did.”
“You insist you were not there?”
“Yes,” he answered with more vehemence than I had yet seen from him. “It may have been Margaret in dispute with a man, but the man was not me.”
“He was broad-shouldered and fair, like you. Are there others Margaret knew well who fit such a description?”
“Walter, the hayward’s lad,” said the father.
Thomas chuckled softly. I turned to him with raised eyebrows. “All the lads knew Margaret, but you’re askin’, did Margaret know him?” Thomas commented.
“Well, did she?” I asked.
“Knew of him. Would never meet ’im past curfew in t’churchyard.”
“Oh?”
“Had no prospects,” the father spoke again. “Handsome an’ strong as Thomas, but she’d not be interested in a hayward’s son.”
“I have been trying,” I told the three, “to log this churchyard encounter in to the last events of Margaret’s life. Matilda’s was, I think, the last sight any acquaintance had of her yet alive, but perhaps for her father.”
“If such a fool as Matilda heard or saw anyone in t’churchyard at all. Talks to her husband, indeed,” the mother exclaimed in a superior tone.
I decided to lay my knowledge out for all to see. “You claim not, but a witness says you quarreled with Margaret Smith but a few days before you took a cartload of oats to Bampton Castle. You returned next day. Margaret was not seen alive again.”
“You speak foolishness,” Thomas said sharply.
“Put yourself in my place.” I wished someone could be in my place, for this work was repugnant to me.
“Put yourself in mine,” he replied. “I was to marry a beautiful maid; over-spirited, perhaps. I’d made no promises her father would take amiss. An’ should I wish to kill her, why would I put her in Lord Gilbert Talbot’s cesspit? There are barren places along the road I could have hid her. What of that?”
What of that, indeed? I did not speak for a time. I remembered well our first meeting, when to spare him sorrow upon sorrow I had refrained from telling Thomas where the girl was found.
“How did you know Margaret was found in the cesspit?” I finally asked.
I saw him swallow, but not a mouthful of pottage. That lay cold in his bowl. He replied readily enough, “Roger atte Well told me.”
“Who is he?”
“A villager here. Was a villager here. Took ill a fortnight ago; could not rise from his bed after three days, and died six days past.”
“How did he know of this?”
“His sister married a cooper in Witney. T’cooper’s brother is cooper in Bampton,” Thomas replied.
“So gossip spread this far? Has Roger a widow?”
“Aye.”
“Where might I find her?”
“She lives in t’house beside t’well,” Thomas replied evenly. “If you would speak to her, I will take you there…now, if you wish.”
I did wish it. Together we pushed through the snow to the widow’s cottage. She answered the knock at her door suspiciously, startled that anyone would call on her on such a day. But at second glance she recognized Thomas and admitted us.
I told the woman that I had learned from Thomas of her husband’s death and expressed my sorrow for her loss.
“Got soaked comin’ home from Witney,” she explained. “Made some staves for ’is brother-in-law; lives in Witney. I told him he should await a better day to take ’em, but he would not delay. Wanted t’money, y’see. Caught a fever two days later, an’ now here I am, an’ he’s gone. Little use a few pence is to me now.”
“Did your husband, on his return, speak to you of events in Bampton? About a girl’s death there?” I asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to divine a motive for my question. She was suspicious, although I tried to make my tone as gentle as possible.
“Nay. Don’t recollect he said anythin’ ’bout anybody dyin’ in Bampton. I know who you mean, though. Wan’t any of our business, was it?”
I turned to peer through the gloomy cottage at Thomas, but directed my words to the woman. “He said nothing about the manner of Margaret’s death, or where she was found?”
“Nay. I told you, he said naught about it.”
“How much did he receive for his staves? Did he say?”
“Oh, aye. Fourpence for t’bundle.”
“Did he learn of other Bampton town gossip on his journey?”
“Aye,” she chuckled lowly.
“What did he learn?” I leaned forward as if I was a fascinated co-conspirator in exchanging tales.
“You live there,” she replied. “You should know all.”
“Perhaps I have missed something? I have no wife to keep me informed.”
The woman chuckled again but was otherwise silent, considering, I suppose, whether or not to enlighten this foolish man regarding things he should already know.
“He spoke of Lady Joan,” she said finally.
“Oh?’ The one-word question worked again, this time assisted by a raised eyebrow. I had seen Lord Gilbert perform this asymmetrical feat and was laboring to perfect it myself. The woman answered readily.