The priest was standing by the table, in the centre of the rush-strewn floor, washing the silver chalice that had held the wine for the morning’s service. Seated opposite him, keeping his balance on a rickety stool, was Ned Rawbone.
‘Come in, chapman! Come in!’ Father Anselm beckoned with a dripping hand, describing, as he did so, an arc of rainbow-hued droplets that hung momentarily in the air, and then were gone. ‘Do you know Edward Rawbone? From Dragonswick Farm?’
I leaned on my cudgel and nodded towards my fellow visitor.
‘I saw Master Rawbone in church yesterday morning, and again, later in the day, at the farmhouse, when I was there at the request of Dame Jacquetta. But so far, we haven’t spoken.’
Ned looked startled. I guess he would have said he didn’t know me: neither meeting had made any impression on him.
The priest continued, ‘Ned is the Warden of our Lamp Fund, particularly the Alms Light. He ensures that we have sufficient money for lamp oil from the sale of fleeces from two of the Dragonswick sheep, especially earmarked for the purpose … Now, there’s another stool around here, somewhere. Sit down and make yourself comfortable while I finish drying this bowl. Then I’ll find us something to eat. It must be nearly ten o’clock and dinnertime.’
I found the stool, tucked away beside a pile of brushwood, and did as I was bidden, ignoring Hercules’s reproachful stare. He had expected to be fed at once. I dropped my cudgel on the floor, rested my elbows on the table and smiled at Ned Rawbone.
There was no answering smile, only a suspicious glance from those extremely blue eyes, so like his father’s. He had removed his hood, and now put up a hand to subdue his unruly thatch of hair. I noticed several streaks of grey amongst the brown. A handsome man, as I remarked earlier, in a weather-beaten way. (But what else should I have expected from a man who spent most of his life out of doors? I must be weather-beaten myself, when I stopped to think about it.)
‘Are you the pedlar who’s been asking questions about Eris Lilywhite?’ he demanded bluntly, just as I had decided that I must break the silence, and had opened my mouth to speak.
‘Er, yes,’ I admitted.
‘Why?’
‘W-why?’ My tongue stumbled a little, as I was caught off guard.
‘Yes. Why? What’s she to you?’
I took a deep breath and steadied my voice. I would not be browbeaten.
‘Dame Theresa Lilywhite has requested me to find out, if I can, what has become of her granddaughter.’
Ned Rawbone muttered something under his breath that I was unable to catch, then asked, ‘And has anyone talked to you on the subject?’ He cocked a suspicious eye at the priest.
Sir Anselm suddenly looked very hot, but it could simply have been the exertion of giving the chalice a final, vigorous rub.
‘Your aunt, Dame Jacquetta, was most voluble on the subject,’ I answered, with a certain amount of malicious satisfaction.
‘Oh, she would be!’ Ned exclaimed, flushing angrily. ‘I might have guessed it! She’d never be able to resist you.’
I ignored the jibe. ‘Why don’t you give me your account of what happened on the night of the storm?’ I suggested.
For reply, he put a question of his own. ‘What does Maud Lilywhite have to say on the subject of your interference?’
It would have been easy to resent the word ‘interference’, but it seemed as pointless as lying.
‘I don’t think she wants me to discover the truth,’ I confessed. ‘As long as she remains in ignorance of Eris’s fate, she can imagine that her daughter is still alive.’
Ned Rawbone nodded. ‘Exactly! Then why don’t you respect her wishes? Maud’s the person most closely concerned, after all.’
‘I hate a mystery,’ I told him frankly. ‘And I hate even more the notion that there’s a murderer walking around free somewhere. A man who’s robbed a young girl of her life.’
‘Why a man?’ he wanted to know. He had absent-mindedly taken the silver chalice between his hands and was twisting it round and around. The priest had gone outside to empty the basin of water and to hang his washing-cloth on a bush to dry. ‘Why not a woman?’
I glanced sharply at Ned, but his gaze was concentrated on the bowl, following the rotating pattern of leaves and figures. I watched it with him for a moment or two.
‘You think a woman might have killed Eris Lilywhite?’ I prompted at last.
He shrugged. ‘If Eris was murdered – and I emphasize that “if” – then why not? Rosamund Bush and her mother, Dame Winifred, are both known to have uncertain tempers.’
I put out a hand and gripped the rim of the chalice to prevent it revolving further: the movement was making me dizzy. Sir Anselm reappeared and, having put away his basin and polishing rags, carried off the cup to the church, presumably to lock it in the aumbry.
‘Do you think it possible, or even likely,’ I asked Ned Rawbone scathingly, ‘that either Mistress Bush or her daughter would have been out of doors, running around the countryside on such a night? I understand there was a terrible storm.’
Ned got to his feet. ‘How do I know? How can anyone know what happened, apart from Eris and her killer? If there was a killer.’
‘You can’t believe that she simply ran away!’
He turned on me, almost savagely.
‘Why not? Anyone who was responsible for so much wickedness and deceit might well have been shamed into removing herself elsewhere.’
I asked levelly, ‘Do you really believe that Eris Lilywhite ran away?’
‘What I believe in is keeping my thoughts and opinions to myself,’ he responded angrily, pushing past me and almost knocking me off my stool. The priest had again returned to the kitchen and was regarding us both anxiously, aware of raised voices and the heightened tension between us. The farmer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll call in sometime this evening, Father, and let you have the money for the lamp oil. You say Henry Carter is travelling to Gloucester tomorrow? He can purchase however much you need and bring it back with him.’
‘You mustn’t mind his brusqueness,’ the priest consoled me when Ned had gone, banging the outer door behind him. (Not that I was in need of consolation. I was reconciled to rubbing people up the wrong way.) ‘It’s possible that he’s secretly afraid that Tom’s guilty and doesn’t want you – or anybody else, for that matter – turning up evidence that might seem to confirm it.’
He bustled about, setting a pot of fish stew over his meagre fire to heat, cutting up the heel of a coarse barley loaf and bringing out of a cupboard a piece of mouldy goat’s milk cheese. Obviously, unlike many of his kind, he had never mastered the art of good living. (On reflection, I felt thankful that he had not invited me to stay to supper the previous evening.)
I said little until the meal, such as it was, had been set before us on the table. The priest put a third bowl of stew on the floor for Hercules, who seemed to have no difficulty with the fact that the broth was not only lukewarm and extremely greasy, but also full of lumps of dried cod that were as tough as leather. (A very dry cod indeed was my guess, and only partially soaked before it was cooked.) In fact, having wolfed down one lot, Hercules sat up and begged for more.
‘I like a dog with a healthy appetite,’ Sir Anselm observed, ladling a second helping into Hercules’s bowl from the pot, which had now been removed from the fire. (The stew looked even more unappetizing than it had before.) I stirred my own portion and tried to appear as though I were enjoying it.
‘So,’ I said at last, ‘what do you think is the answer to Eris Lilywhite’s disappearance, Father?’
‘My son, your guess is as good as mine, or as anyone else’s in this village.’ He rose from his stool and went to draw two cups of surprisingly tasty ale from a barrel in the corner, then returned to the table and resumed eating, all without once meeting my gaze.
‘You must have some theory,’ I persisted, but he only shook his head, still without looking at me. Finally, however, reluctantly, he did raise his eyes to mine.