I promised, gallantly kissing her proffered hand, but I gave a long sigh of relief once I stood outside in Paternoster Row and heard her door close behind me. I did not like Ginèvre Napier, but neither could I regret the meeting. I had learned some valuable information concerning one of my suspects that I probably could not have obtained any other way.
I realized that I was feeling rather dizzy: my illness had taken its toll and I was not yet as fit as I thought myself. Nevertheless, I refused to give in to such weakness. I resolutely straightened my shoulders, fetched Old Diggory, now watered and fed at my expense, made my way back along Cheapside as far as the Great Conduit and turned into Bucklersbury. Mid-morning trading was at its height, carts rattling over the cobbles, street traders bawling their wares, blue-coated apprentices trying — sometimes physically — to entice passers-by into their masters’ shops, women, baskets on their arms, pausing to chat with friends and acquaintances. It was London at its busiest, and yet, this particular noonday, there was something subdued about everyone’s demeanour. Conversation was earnest and there were no sudden bursts of laughter, no light-hearted banter, no cheery waving and shouting from one side of the street to the other. The news from Northampton was plainly the main topic of discussion and people’s looks were grave, even bewildered, as they tried to make sense of it.
I knocked on the door of Julian Makepeace’s shop, having once more tied up the horse, and it was answered by the same buxom young creature as before. This time, however, she appeared wider awake and there was a sparkle in her eyes that had not been there previously. I guessed I was in luck: the apothecary had returned.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she smiled. ‘I wondered if you’d come back. I’ve told the master about you. Wait there and I’ll go and tell him you’re here.’
After a few moments’ delay, the rustle of an apothecary’s gown heralded Julian Makepeace’s arrival and the man himself stood before me. I should have known him anywhere for Reynold’s brother. Indeed, although I judged him a year or so younger, he was the identical stocky build, had the same bright hazel eyes and thinning brown hair and exuded a similar warmth and friendliness that reached out to embrace all the world.
‘Master Chapman?’ He held out his hand. ‘Naomi told me you had called and that your visit had something to do with my brother’s death.’ He frowned, his face clouding over. ‘Or did she misunderstand?’ He smiled tenderly. ‘A sweet soul, but not the brightest of girls.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘She understood me well enough. May I come in and explain?’
‘Yes, of course you may.’ He held the door open for me to pass inside. ‘Pardon me saying so, but you don’t look too well.’ He ushered me through the shop and into a private parlour behind, indicating a chair. ‘Sit there, sir, while I prepare you a reviving draught.’ And he hurried away on his mission of mercy, returning after a short space of time with a glass of some green liquid in his hand. ‘Drink this,’ he ordered. ‘It should refresh you.’
It tasted strongly of mint, a flavour I am not partial to, but it did the trick. Within a few moments I was able to sit up straight and hand back the glass with a smile.
‘A remarkable concoction,’ I said. ‘What was in it? Apart, of course, from mint?’
Julian Makepeace laughed. ‘Come, Master Chapman! You don’t expect a man to give away all his trade secrets, do you? Now, what did you want to see me about? Something to do with my brother’s death, I gather. But that was two years ago and there was no secret about it. A taproom brawl at the Voyager, and my poor Reynold was unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of it.’
‘Could you — would you — be kind enough to tell me exactly what happened? If you’ll bear with me, I’ll explain my reason for asking later.’
The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Why not? There was nothing extraordinary in it. It’s what I said, a most unlucky accident.’ He got up and went to the door, calling to his housekeeper to bring a jug of ale and two beakers before coming back and resuming his seat again. ‘During the past few years, this whole area around Bucklersbury has, most unhappily, become far seedier than it used to be. The tenements in the building known as the Old Barge, at the Walbrook end of the street, have fallen into the hands of a rougher kind of tenant as former inhabitants have died off and the rooms been re-let. Moreover, word of the Voyager’s reputation for good food and ale spread, and in a way Reynold’s success as a landlord contributed to his downfall. Foreign sailors, dockers, began walking up from the wharves to sample what he had to offer and bringing their uncouth habits with them. There was, of course, nothing my brother could do about it. A hostelry is there for everyone’s enjoyment and trade was certainly brisk. Apart from anything else, Reynold couldn’t afford to turn away the custom.’
At this point, the young girl called Naomi entered with our ale and beakers on a tray. She gave me a provocative wink which she made no attempt to conceal, but Julian Makepeace only smiled indulgently and patted her rump with a loving hand, telling her she was a minx and sending her on her way. As he poured the ale, I asked, ‘What happened to Landlord Makepeace’s wife? I seem to remember that when I first met him, five years back, he was married.’
Julian handed me a beaker. ‘You’re quite right, but my sister-in-law died of the plague one summer. . oh. . I couldn’t say exactly when. I’m only thankful she didn’t live to know of my brother’s miserable end. Now, where was I?’
I sipped my excellent ale. ‘You were saying that the customers of the Voyager were not what they had once been.’
‘Yes. There’s not much more to tell. There had been a fight or two in the taproom on various occasions between some of the foreigners and the locals, but only fisticuffs, a few knocks and blows. And if you knew Reynold at all well, you’d know that he wouldn’t stand for a disorderly house. He and his tapster soon broke up such brawls with a few well-placed blows of their own. But the evening he died, it was different. A couple of Genoese sailors, newcomers to the Voyager, drew knives on one another. The quarrel grew nasty, terrifying such women as were present, and Reynold decided he must stop the fight before anyone was seriously hurt. Foolishly, he sent the tapster to summon the Watch while he tried single-handedly to prevent murder being done.’ Julian broke off, his lips quivering. He was forced to wait a moment or two while he got his emotion under control, then finished. ‘Unfortunately, murder was done, but it was his own.’
Silence ensued. Somewhere in the house, I could hear Naomi singing, a bright, popular street ditty of the moment, while she went about her work. I reached out and laid a hand on Julian’s wrist. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. The trite little phrase had never sounded so inadequate. I added, ‘I liked your brother as much as any man I’ve ever met.’
My companion nodded. ‘Everyone liked him,’ he responded huskily. He remained lost in thought for a moment, then asked, ‘So what else is it you want to know?’
I hesitated to cause him further distress, but my question needed an answer. ‘Was there a suggestion at the time — any suggestion, however slight — that Landlord Makepeace’s death might not have been an accident?’
Julian looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
I cleared my throat. ‘Was there any hint. .? Did any of the onlookers get the impression that the two sailors might. . well, might have been paid to kill your brother? That their quarrel was faked in any way?’
The apothecary was frankly bemused. ‘Faked?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘No, of course it wasn’t faked! Why do you ask such a stupid question? What is all this about?’
‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘I’ve upset you. Let me explain.’
‘I should be glad if you would. If you can,’ he answered coldly. But by the time I had finished my explanation, Julian’s attitude had grown less frosty. ‘What an extraordinary tale,’ he said slowly. ‘Naturally, I know the Godsloves. Four of them are my stepbrothers and — sisters, and two my half-siblings, but neither Reynold nor myself ever had anything much to do with them. I did inform them when Reynold died, but they meant very little to us, you see. We never lived with them. We were never part of their family. After our mother met and married Morgan Godslove — she met him while he was here in London on business — and went away to Bristol, Reynold and I went to live with our grandmother in Candlewick Street. We were informed, of course, when our half-brother and — sister were born and also of our mother’s death six years after her marriage, but none of it meant very much to us. We had lost touch with her by then. Members of the family, particularly Martin and Celia, did come to visit us when they moved to London — that would be. . oh. . about twenty-three, twenty-four years ago — but, as I say, we were never close. I knew that my half-brother had died, but not in such a fashion. Maybe I was told, but I was still mourning Reynold — I suppose I still am — and it didn’t sink in. Last autumn, you say?’ He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘How odd,’ he said, ‘that both my brother and half-brother should have died violently within such a short time of one another.’