‘Not Constable Webb?’ hoped Tyballis.
‘Too slow he is. T’was the Watch but reckon I gave them the slip. For all that, don’t advise answering no doors if some lumpkin comes a knocking tonight.’
‘Oh dear.’ Tyballis eyed the interesting heap on the floor. ‘Would it be safe, do you think, to have a look?’
So it was that Tyballis acquired another gown, pink duffel that almost fitted, a pair of little black shoes with buckles (one broken), a knot of old felted stockings, an unbleached shift, two good sheets and a wheat chaff pillow without a cover. ‘Well now,’ Casper said, ‘done rather nice, I reckon. Tomorrow I’ve a mind to try for them ducks down on the river.’
He sometimes also came home with news. Most was sporadic and untrustworthy, but some was unavoidable, for despite the date of the Coronation being fixed for the fourth day of May, neither the new king nor the Lord Protector had yet ridden into London. Chilly nights lightened into sun-balmy days, but unrest continued.
It was nearly the end of April when Tyballis, tucked on the chair by the last dying embers of the cooking fire, said, ‘Well, Mister Wallop. Things are not too bad, after all. I expected endless disasters, you know, but instead we eat well, keep warm and dry, and feel positively cosy. Do help yourself to more ale. There is plenty still in the little keg you brought back. Indeed, life feels positively domestic. We are like an old married couple, my friend.’
Casper looked up in some alarm. ‘Don’t reckon Mister Cobham would be right pleased to hear that,’ he said warily. ‘Come to think of it, ain’t rightly pleased meself. You wants a husband, missus, you go ask that there silly young constable.’
‘I don’t want a real husband.’ Tyballis laughed. ‘Don’t look so caged, Mister Wallop. I’m merely grateful for how well you’ve provided, and I don’t even miss Felicia or Ellen anymore. I feel very much at peace. In this house – before – I woke every morning sick with fear for what the day might bring. All that is utterly gone. And when I lived here, I certainly never ate so well, nor slept so soundly. That is certainly thanks to you.’
And then something very different happened.
Again Casper came puffing home with news to tell. ‘Got summit for you. But you won’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Didn’t believe it myself at first. But that there pot o’ stew smells good, and just as well we got leftovers, being as I weren’t able to get much else this morning. Too busy I was, with other things.’
Tyballis regarded him with faint misgiving. ‘You confuse me, Mister Wallop.’
‘News, missus. Not common news neither. Still ain’t seen no king turning up, nor mighty Protector come riding by. Them Woodvilles is still overrunning the city and shouting how they got the whole country in their clutches. No! This be our news.’
Tyballis, rather hot and pink as she stirred the steaming cauldron, glanced down impatiently at her companion. ‘So what news, Mister Wallop?’
‘Ah, well.’ Casper stretched his legs. ‘Happen you won’t be as took back as I were – but it’s a proper surprise, for all that. Luke it was,’ he said. ‘Bloody Luke Parris from the attic. I seen him scurry up Bishopsgate, and called to him. Well, we ain’t seen hide nor hair of him since getting ourselves locked up, so I were pleased to see him still alive. But ’stead of turning with a wave, the bugger went running into the shadows, like t’was him caught thieving – not me! Well, course I followed. Well, where d’you think he went?’
‘Gracious,’ stared Tyballis. ‘I have no idea. Tell me.’
‘Outta London. Up to the Bethlehem Spittal where they keeps the moon loons. And there he trots, into a house just to the side o’ the main building, and shut the door loud behind him.’
Tyballis paused and frowned, ‘He must have escaped the house before we did. As for the hospice – I have no idea if Luke has a lot of friends.’
Casper shook his head. ‘You ain’t been listening right, missus. I’s talking about Bethlehem Spittal – that’s Bedlam as we calls it – where they locks the crazies. A separate squat, this were, but in the grounds attached, with another fence and a door covered in them prickly flowers – pink things with lots of smelly petals and nasty sharp thorns set to rip your fingers off. Just a cottage, but clean with real windows and its own chimney. And where’s that swiving bugger Luke staying anyhows? How did he get away? And who’s the crazy man? Him? Or another?’
Tyballis left the big wooden spoon in the pot and sat down heavily. ‘I saw him going up that way once myself, and tried to follow him. But if he’s simply visiting someone, then it’s none of our business. I was frightened he was selling or buying poisons, but Drew said he wasn’t. So, if Luke’s visiting the sick, well, that’s nice of him. It could be anyone.’
‘His father, maybe.’
Tyballis looked at her toes. ‘I don’t think so. Drew told me once – Luke’s father is dead. But maybe another brother. An uncle. I just don’t know.’
‘He were mighty secretive,’ objected Casper. ‘Seeing me after all this time – and the house deserted, lest them louts is all still there. But Luke Parris should’ve been interested to find out at the very least. You’d have thought he’d come running over to see where we all was. Yet he went scurrying off like the law was after him.’
‘You didn’t,’ Tyballis asked tentatively, ‘watch who opened the door?’
‘Them walls is fast locked to keep the loonies in,’ Casper told her, shaking his head. ‘I were peering over the walls, but didn’t see no one. Luke, he had his own key and let hisself in, he did.’
‘That’s a puzzle,’ mused Tyballis. ‘I hope Luke is all right. Clearly he has not been locked up in Bedlam himself.’
‘Would be, if I had ought to do with it,’ muttered Casper. ‘Silly bugger.’
It was the very last day of April. London was peaceful again, and Tyballis decided she should finally leave her house, or go mad with staring at her sad little walls. She looked almost respectable now in the clothes Casper had stolen, as long as some poor housewife did not recognise her own gown and come shrieking after her. Tyballis combed her hair, pinned it neatly beneath Mistress Webb’s bonnet, reknotted and tightened the garters holding up her stockings and took off her apron. She doused the cooking fire, took a deep breath and left the house. Feeling conspicuous in stolen and misfitting clothes, she did not look around but walked briskly up to Pig Street, cut across towards the London Wall, leaving the city through the Bishopsgate.
Her thoughts, when aimlessness led to the undisciplined ponderings of past and present misery, once again fled to Andrew, his possible whereabouts and his possible return. She knew any attempt to find him might endanger herself and ruin whatever subterfuge he was now building. But the place where he lived in her head remained protected as if fur-lined, remaining warm and safe from attack. Bishopsgate Without was a long road leading north, pleasant beyond the city’s stench. The sun was lying warm across her shoulders and bathing the back of her neck. Tyballis heard a blackbird sing, a song she had not heard since leaving Andrew’s Portsoken gardens, and paused, thinking of him. Then she realised what she was doing. Spying on Andrew Cobham, who, being a spy himself, was particularly conscious of security and since engaged in secrecy, would certainly hate to be watched or have his life investigated. Yet somehow it brought him closer. ‘It is not,’ Tyballis assured the blackbird, ‘that I have to know his private business. I should like to know but I would oh so much prefer if he chose to tell me himself.’ She sighed, still speaking aloud. ‘But it seems such a long time since I saw him, and so many horrible things have happened in that time. Somehow, if I discover something or someone close to him, it will bring me closer to him myself. I will feel part of his life again, and will dream sweeter tonight. I just pray he won’t find out, and think me rude. Because really, my motives are perfectly innocent.’