‘We know all this,’ said Barbour wearily. ‘My customers and I do not need you to tell us the story a second time. And we do not need you to make nasty accusations about our fellow citizens, either.’
Glovere smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. ‘Then you should expect these thefts to continue. Whoever is breaking into our homes and making off with our gold is a local man. He knows which houses are likely to contain the most money, the best way to enter them, and even how to pacify the dogs. The locksmith’s hound is a mean-spirited brute, and yet it did not so much as growl when its home was entered in the depths of the night. That, my friends, is because the dog knew the burglar.’ He sat back, confident that he had made his point.
The landlord regarded Glovere with dislike. It was growing late, so most of his patrons had already gone to their beds, but a dozen or so remained, enjoying the cool, sweet ale that made the Lamb a popular place to be on a sultry summer night. The sun had set in a blaze of orange and gold, and the shadows of dusk were gathering, dark and velvety. The air smelled of mown hay, and of the ripe crops that waited in the fields to be harvested. It was a beautiful evening, and Barbour thought Glovere was wrong to pollute it by creating an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. He turned to Leycestre again, and enquired politely after the health of his nephews in the hope that Glovere would grow bored and leave.
‘Why would an Ely citizen suddenly resort to burgling the houses in his own town?’ asked Leycestre, ignoring the landlord’s attempt to change the subject and addressing the gleefully malicious Glovere. ‘Your accusations make no sense. I keep telling you that it is gypsies who are responsible for these thefts. The burglaries started the day after those folk arrived, and that speaks for itself.’ He folded his arms and looked around him belligerently, sure that no one could fail to agree.
Barbour sighed heartily, wishing that Leycestre would keep his unfounded opinions to himself, too. The gypsies liked their ale just as much as the next man, and the landlord did not want to lose valuable customers just because Leycestre had taken against them.
Glovere sneered. ‘The gypsies would not burgle us. They come here every year to help with the harvest, and they have never stolen anything before. You just do not want to face up to the truth: the culprit is a townsman who will be known to us all. You mark my words.’ He tapped his goblet on the table. ‘Another ale, Barbour.’
‘No,’ said Barbour, angry with both his customers. ‘You have had enough of my ale.’
Glovere gazed at him, the scornful expression fading from his face. He was not an attractive man – his complexion was florid and flaky, and the uneven whiskers that sprouted from his cheeks and chin made him appear unwashed and unsavoury, despite his neat and expensive clothes. ‘I am not drunk. Give me another ale.’
‘I did not say you were drunk,’ said Barbour coolly. ‘I said you have had enough of my ale. You have a vicious tongue and I do not want you wagging it any longer in my tavern.’
Glovere glowered at the Lamb’s other patrons, his eyes bright with malice. He held the lofty position of steward, after all, while they were mere labourers, and it galled him to think that they should be served Barbour’s ale while he was refused. ‘I am not the only one who tells what he knows. Leycestre revealed that it was Agnes Fitzpayne who raided the Prior’s peach tree last year, while Adam Clymme told us that Will Mackerell ate his neighbour’s cat.’
‘That is not the same,’ said Barbour firmly. ‘Your gossip is dangerous. You have already caused one young woman to drown herself because her life was blighted by your lies.’
There was a growl of agreement from the other drinkers, and Glovere at least had the grace to appear sheepish. ‘It was not my fault that she killed herself before it could be proven that she was not with child,’ he objected sullenly. ‘I only told people what I thought. And it was not my fault that her betrothed went off and married someone else, either. Was it, Chaloner?’
He stared archly at a burly man who sat alone in one corner of the inn. Others looked at Chaloner, too, and none of the expressions were friendly. Chaloner was a rough, belligerent fellow who cared little for what people thought. But he knew the good citizens of Ely had neither forgotten nor forgiven the fact that he had too readily abandoned poor Alice to marry another woman when Glovere made his accusations – accusations that turned out to be wholly false. People had liked Alice; they did not like Chaloner and he often found himself at the receiving end of hostile glances or comments. Usually, he ignored it all, and certainly did not permit his neighbours’ priggish disapprobation to influence the way he lived his life. But it was late and Chaloner was too tired for a confrontation that night. He drained his cup, slammed it on the table and slouched from the tavern without a word.
‘Why Alice killed herself over him is beyond me,’ said Glovere sanctimoniously, after Chaloner had gone. He was well aware that a conversation about the detested Chaloner might induce Barbour to forget his irritation with Glovere himself. ‘I did her a favour by saving her from marriage with him.’
‘A favour that killed the poor lass,’ muttered Leycestre under his breath.
‘It would not surprise me to learn that Chaloner is the thief,’ Glovere went on. ‘We all know he has a penchant for the property of others. Perhaps he has become greedy.’
‘And the reason we all know about his weakness for other people’s goods is because he keeps getting caught,’ Barbour pointed out. ‘Chaloner does not have the skill or the daring to burgle the homes of the wealthiest men in Ely.’
‘The gypsies do, though,’ said Leycestre immediately.
‘I do not know why we tolerate men like Chaloner in our town,’ said Glovere, cutting across what would have been a tart reprimand from Barbour. ‘None of us like him, and Alice is better dead than wed to him. More ale, landlord!’
Barbour’s expression was unfriendly. ‘You can have more when you can keep a decent tongue in your head. And it is late anyway.’ He glanced around at his other patrons. ‘You all need to be up early tomorrow to gather the harvest, and so should be heading off to your own homes now.’ He began to collect empty jugs and to blow out the candles that cast an amber light on the whitewashed walls.
Glovere glared at the landlord, then stood reluctantly and made his way outside. There was a sigh of relief from several customers when the door closed behind him.
‘He is an evil fellow,’ said Leycestre fervently. ‘And Chaloner is not much better.’
‘There are a number of folk in this city we would be better without,’ agreed Barbour. He gestured to a lanky, greasy-haired man who lurched to his feet and clutched at a door frame to prevent himself from falling. ‘Haywarde is drunk again, which means his wife will feel his fists tonight. If there was any justice in the world, someone would take a knife to all three of them.’
Leycestre frowned, watching the other patrons give Haywarde a wide berth as they left. Haywarde was scowling angrily, and no one wanted to be on the receiving end of his quick temper. ‘What do you think of Glovere’s claims, Barbour? Do you believe that a townsman – like Chaloner – is responsible for these burglaries?’
The landlord shrugged as he set a tray of goblets on a table and began to dunk them in a bucket of cold water; he was relieved when Haywarde finally released the door frame and staggered away into the night. ‘Possibly. These are desperate times.’
‘But it is the gypsies, I tell you,’ insisted Leycestre. ‘The thefts started the day after they arrived in Ely. It is obvious that they are to blame.’
‘It is late,’ said Barbour flatly. He was tired, and had not silenced Glovere’s malicious diatribe in order to hear one from Leycestre. ‘And if you see Glovere on your way home, you can tell him that I meant what I said. You know I like a bit of gossip myself – what taverner does not like news to entertain his guests with? – but Glovere’s chatter is spiteful and dangerous, and I want none of it in my inn.’