‘A most extraordinary story,’ he said finally, frowning. ‘I agree that the deaths of Martin and Charity Godslove were terrible tragedies, and now it seems that Mistress Sybilla has also been hurt. Dear me! Yes, I can see why they might begin to think that the family is cursed. That God has turned His face from them. But that someone is deliberately setting out to do them harm! No, no! I can’t and won’t believe it. They are a most respected family, well liked in the neighbourhood, giving their mite to charity. Who would wish to eliminate them all? And for what reason? Even if one of them had an enemy, why would that person wish to kill the siblings as well? It doesn’t make sense. And who is this Reynold Makepeace you mention? A landlord, you say, of an inn in Bucklersbury, killed two years ago in a tavern brawl? But what has he to do with the Godsloves? Forgive me! I expect I’m being very slow.’
‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a most complicated family. Landlord Makepeace and his brother were — are, in the case of Julian — stepbrothers to the elder sisters and Lawyer Godslove, half-brothers to the younger pair, Celia and her now dead brother, Martin. Widow Makepeace was Morgan Godslove’s second wife.’
The priest gave his head a shake as though to clear it. ‘Dear me! Dear me!’ he exclaimed again. It seemed to be a favourite phrase. ‘I had no idea. I’d heard of the affair at the Voyager. Word gets around, but it was all such a long time ago-’
‘Two years,’ I put in, and he nodded.
‘A long while ago, as I said. These things happen, unfortunately. Young men get drunk and do stupid things. Wicked things. The times are growing more lawless — and likely to get worse now that King Edward’s restraining hand has gone. The saints alone know what’s to become of us all! The Woodvilles. .! But that’s neither here nor there. So, the Godsloves reckon that this Landlord Makepeace was the first to die?’ His face creased with the effort of remembrance. ‘Two years. . That must have been the same year that Mistress Clemency was taken ill.’
‘It was not long after, I believe. At the time, no one made any connection between the two events, only later when the sister, Charity, died from eating mushrooms. And again, some months afterwards when the half-brother, Martin Godslove, was set upon by footpads and killed.’
‘Oh, I remember that.’ Father Berowne once more rubbed his forehead. ‘A terrible thing to have happened. But there again, such murders occur almost nightly. It’s what I was saying just now, law and order are breaking down. It’s not at all like it was when I was a boy.’
It never is in my experience. If I had a silver penny for every time someone has lamented to me that things aren’t what they used to be, I reckon I’d be a rich man. A very rich man.
I regarded the priest curiously. ‘Where do you come from?’ I asked. ‘I’d swear there’s some Irish in your voice. I can hear it every once in a while.’
My companion smiled, a sweet, twinkling smile that reached his eyes even quicker than his lips.
‘Your hearing must be very acute,’ he said. ‘I can detect traces of it, myself, now and then, although I’ve never been there in my life. But my father came from the southern tip of Ireland, around Waterford. Do you know it?’
I shook my head. ‘Like you, I’ve never been there, but it’s the part of that country Bristol trades with the most, Waterford being the nearest Irish port of any size. The slavers, I fancy, use the smaller coves and inlets, not wishing to attract attention to their illegal cargoes.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He regarded me straitly, the smile no longer in evidence. ‘I’ve heard that the people of Bristol still fuel that dreadful trade with their unwanted relatives and enemies, even though it was banned by the Church many centuries ago.’
His voice was suddenly so stern that I felt bound to reiterate the fact that I was born in Wells and was a Bristolian only by adoption. It surprised me how much I wanted the approbation of this simple, godly man. Even Hercules, who had been lying quietly at my feet, raised his head from his paws and — or so it seemed — stared at me reproachfully.
I must have sounded even more defensive than I felt, for my companion made haste to disclaim, ‘No, no! Dear me! I was not implying that you, my son — no, indeed — that you are — were — have been — in any way involved. Forgive me! I. .’
It was my turn to reassure him that he had in no sort given offence; and as I had no wish for him to discover that I had, in the past, come to know at least one of the slavers quite well, I steered our conversation back into less troubled waters.
‘That trace of Irishness in your tone comes, then, from hearing your father speak when you were a child?’
He nodded, eager and willing to follow my lead. ‘Yes, that must be it, although few people detect it as quickly as you, if at all.’
‘It comes from listening to the many Irish sailors around the Bristol docks,’ I said and got to my feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Berowne. I won’t trouble you any further.’
‘No, no! Dear me!’ He also jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t go without some refreshment. What am I thinking of? Sit down again, please.’ He went to the corner cupboard and produced a flask and two beakers. ‘Some of last year’s elderflower wine. I make it myself and this was a particularly fine brew. And while we drink, tell me again if you please about your good self. You say you are a solver of mysteries and have had some successes in the past. I should like to hear about them if it wouldn’t bore you too much.’
It would take a far more modest person than myself to resist such a flattering offer, so for the next hour, against a background of Hercules’s wheezing snores, I recounted some of my more successful exploits while the priest and I gradually emptied the flask of its contents. Once I had to go outside and relieve my bursting bladder and twice the priest was forced to do the same; and finally we went together, arm in arm like two old comrades, to play the schoolboy game of who could piss higher against the wall. After which, there seemed nothing else to do but wish my new found friend goodbye, whistle up my dog and wend my unsteady way back to the Arbour.
What Adela’s reaction to my drunken state would have been, had I been able to remain upright, I never learned, as almost immediately I was violently sick and collapsed into unconsciousness and delirium. After that, I was vaguely aware, on various occasions, of people coming and going, of anxious voices, of things being forced down my throat, of my wife’s frightened face hovering above me, of the doctor’s ponderous tones. But for the most part I inhabited an insane world of my own peopled by distorted images and horrors that made me sweat with terror; a place where the boiling seas were blood red and the earth gave up its ghosts and my heart thumped nearly out of my body; where my long dead mother waved a bony finger and warned me I was damned unless I renounced my profligate way of life and became a true believer. It seemed to go on for ever. .
And then, quite suddenly, one morning, I awoke to the early sun rimming the shuttered window, to a feeling of light-headed calm and peace and the sight of Adela’s drawn face beside me on the pillow. I knew at once that I had been ill. I also knew that now I was better.
It took me a minute or two longer to work out where I was and how I got to be there, but in a much shorter time than I would have thought possible, clarity and memory had returned and I could recollect everything that had led up to the moment of my return to the Arbour. The probable cause of my illness remained a mystery until I remembered the sour-tasting ale at the Voyager. And I had been foolish enough to order a second cup, some of which, at least, I had drunk. The smell of it, the rancid taste of it were once again in my throat and nostrils, and I felt my stomach heave in protest. .
‘Roger?’ It was Adela’s voice. She was awake, propped on one elbow and staring at me in disbelief and joy. ‘You’re better.’
I smiled weakly at her. ‘How long have I been like this?’ I asked. ‘What day is it?’