I nearly walked straight out again. But the sight of a sober-looking man in a plain brown tunic and hose, quietly supping and grimacing over his drink in a retired corner of the ale-room, encouraged me to squeeze on to the empty stool beside him.
‘This place has changed,’ I remarked as I settled myself with Hercules at my feet. (He was used to inns and taverns. He felt at home in them.)
My neighbour grunted. ‘You never said a truer word, master. Heartbreaking, that’s what it is. Did you know it in Landlord Makepeace’s day?’
‘I did,’ I responded feelingly. ‘I’ve stayed here a couple o’ times. Even brought my wife here once.’ I stared around me disparagingly. ‘Couldn’t do it today.’
‘You surely couldn’t,’ he agreed vehemently. He spat. ‘Pigsty, that’s what it is now. I shouldn’t bother calling for the pot boy. The ale ain’t worth drinking.’
‘I’m thirsty,’ I said apologetically as I gave my order to the skinny waif in a dirty apron who had condescended to ask me what I wanted. ‘I heard that Landlord Makepeace was killed while trying to break up a fight between two bravos. Is that right?’
My companion nodded gloomily. ‘All too true, unfortunately. A bad business. The place has gone downhill, as you can see, since this bunch of cut-throats bought it. It’s no better than any of the taverns along the waterfront.’
‘I suppose,’ I suggested tentatively, ‘that it was an accident?’ The man looked enquiringly at me. ‘I mean there was never any talk that Reynold’s death was — well — murder? That the young men involved had been, shall we say, paid to arrange it?’
‘Never!’ was the uncompromising answer. ‘Not a whisper. What makes you think otherwise?’
‘Just an idea.’ I smiled lamely.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ He regarded me curiously. ‘West Country, would be my guess.’ My ale arrived, the pot slapped down on the table so that some of its contents spilled across the board. He went on, ‘Yes, definitely West Country. I worked in Bristol for a year or so when I was younger, and I’ve never forgotten that peculiar accent.’
‘I was born and raised in Wells,’ I replied huffily; but then relented. ‘However, you’re right. I’ve lived in Bristol for many years now. As I believe Reynold and his brother also did once, although he never thought to mention the fact to me.’
The stranger swallowed the last of his beer. ‘That’s because he never did live there. He and Julian were local lads, born and bred. Brought up by their grandmother who had a house in Candlewick Street. You’re getting them confused with their mother, Widow Makepeace. Now if memory serves me aright, she did marry a man from Bristol — or thereabouts — and went to live there. The younger boy must’ve been about eleven, Reynold a year or two older. That was when they went to stay with their grandmother, I suppose. I think I once heard somebody say that Widow Makepeace had two more children by her second husband.’
Martin and Celia Godslove! I bit back the exclamation and tried to appear no more than mildly interested. ‘Are you saying that Reynold and Julian Makepeace never left London?’
‘That’s right. I don’t think they ever did.’ He suddenly tired of the subject. ‘So, what do you think’s going to happen?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Happen?’ I stared at him in bewilderment, caught up in my own concerns.
‘Now we have a child as king.’ He spoke impatiently, as though the subject were of far more importance than the history of the Makepeace brothers. Which of course it was. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Who’s going to control him and the country do you reckon? The Woodvilles or Gloucester?’
I forced myself to consider the subject. ‘If I had to wager good money on it,’ I said at last, ‘it would be on the duke.’
My companion pursed his lips. ‘I’m not so sure. The queen’s precious family are a devious crowd. They’ve already secured the Tower and the royal treasure. They’re probably plotting how to get rid of Gloucester at this very moment. Ah well!’ He got to his feet. ‘This won’t buy the baby a new pair of breeches. I must be off back to the shop, or my beldame will give me a right scolding.’
I plucked at his sleeve. ‘What makes you think that the Woodvilles are planning to murder the duke?’
He shushed me frantically. ‘Keep your voice down for the love of God. And who mentioned the word “murder”?’ But he added darkly, ‘It just wouldn’t surprise me, that’s all. The whole clan are scurrying about like flies on a dunghill and arming themselves to the teeth. “Woe unto the kingdom whose king is a child,”,’ he quoted, grimacing. ‘Ecclesiastes.’
The next moment, he was gone, leaving me to my uneasy reflections. Was Duke Richard really in danger from the queen’s family? But then my thoughts reverted to what I had learned about Reynold and Julian Makepeace. They had never lived in the house at Keynsham. They had never left London. Mind you, I had only the stranger’s word for it, and I would have to confirm the fact when I eventually spoke to the apothecary. But it seemed to be corroborated by the maid’s remark that the two had relied on one another for companionship when they were young.
For some reason that I couldn’t quite fathom, this piece of information disturbed me, so much so that I went as far as ordering myself another pot of the Voyager’s disgusting ale and sat huddled over it, trying to work out why. In the end, however, I gave up, knowing from long experience that cudgelling my brains was never of any use. The answer would come to me in its own good time. I pushed aside my still almost full beaker and stood up.
‘Come on! Let’s get out of here,’ I said to Hercules.
We emerged into Bucklersbury just in time to be spattered with filth from the central drain as another party of armed and mounted men clattered past, on this occasion wearing the livery of Lord Hastings. (My instant recognition was from having seen it so often during my enforced journey to Scotland the previous year.) So many contingents of armed men roaming the streets were enough to make the most sanguine person uneasy and wonder what in the name of all the saints was going on. I had been in London for less than twenty-four hours, and already the febrile atmosphere of the capital was beginning to make me jumpy and yearn more than ever for home. Once again, I was overwhelmed by the temptation to return to the Arbour, gather up my family and seek out Jack at the Boar’s Head in Eastcheap. We could be on our way west tomorrow morning.
At that moment, the only thing preventing me from pursuing this plan of action was the knowledge that such a move would prove most unpopular with my family. Adela would be outraged that I had reneged on my offer of help to the Godsloves, while there would be howls of anguish from Elizabeth and Nicholas at having been robbed of all the exciting games they had planned in that intriguing garden. The only person who might be on my side was Adam, but he was, unfortunately, still too small for his opinion to be regarded. (That, of course, would change, but not just yet.)
Balked of my talk with Julian Makepeace, and not yet in possession of any names that Oswald might come up with as belonging to potential ill-wishers of his family, I cast around in my mind for someone else who had connections with the Godsloves, and remembered the parish priest, Father Berowne. Or Sir Berowne, so many of these underpaid and poorly regarded members of society preferring to be called by a title which added a little spurious dignity to a job that was, more often than not, only one notch above indigence.