The scene shifted yet again. I was back in the alehouse, moving with the other players around the Nine Men’s Morris board. Someone – I couldn’t see who – was saying, ‘Line up the three morrells and then you’ll know who killed Eris Lilywhite. Line up the three morrells …’
I woke, sweat pouring down my naked body, just as something heavy landed on my chest. For one brief moment I thought I was in my own bed, enduring one of the daily, early morning assaults of Nicholas and Elizabeth that were fast turning me into the most flat-chested man in Bristol. Then realization dawned that the weight belonged to Hercules, and that I was lying supine on a narrow pallet in Maud Lilywhite’s cottage, as I had done for the past three nights. I had just decided that it must be almost daybreak, when I heard a cock crow, but there were as yet no sounds of stirring from behind the linen curtain. Theresa was snoring gently.
I freed an arm from beneath the blankets and stroked Hercules’s head. He returned my greeting by enthusiastically licking my face and thumping his stubby tail, then settled down until such time as I should rouse myself. I continued to lie still, mulling over my dream and thinking about my promise to Adela that I would be home by the feast of Saint Patrick.
Tomorrow was the last day of February, and if I was to redeem my promise, I should be setting out almost at once. At this time of year, there was no reliance to be placed on the offer of some kind-hearted carter to give me a ride; at least, not for any great distance. It would be a few weeks yet before the improving weather lured people into making lengthier journeys. And if my legs were to carry me home, I should leave Lower Brockhurst today. This morning.
That, of course, would mean abandoning my search for the truth about Eris Lilywhite, and I hated being defeated: unsolved mysteries were anathema to me. But even more than that, I hated breaking my word to Adela. If she had been the sort of wife whose reproaches took the form of beating me over the head with a skillet, or refusing me my conjugal rights in bed, I could have dealt with the situation. I should have asserted my manly authority as head of the household, ranted and postured a bit and generally pranced around like a cock on his dunghill. But I knew very well that, whenever I turned up, Adela would greet me with her customary warmth, listen without comment to my excuses – and enjoy watching me squirm with guilt.
Just thinking about her, picturing that little half-smile that played around the corners of her mouth, remembering the occasional sardonic gleam in her beautiful brown eyes, recalling the feel of her soft body curled up against mine, was having the most embarrassingly physical effect upon me; embarrassing, that is, if either of the Mistress Lilywhites made any sudden appearance, wanting me to get up so that she could stow away my bed. Resolutely, I switched my thoughts back to Eris’s disappearance and the dream from which I had awoken ten minutes earlier.
What had it been about? Something to do with a silver cup with satyrs dancing among vine leaves and olive branches … It made no sense at present, but perhaps it would later. I sighed and tried going back to sleep. I had, however, barely lost consciousness before I caught the low murmur of Theresa’s voice, followed by Maud’s. Immediately I was wide awake and, heaving Hercules off my chest, swung myself out of bed and reached for my hose and shirt, pulling both garments on with expert rapidity. By the time Theresa and Maud appeared from behind the curtain, I had tied my points and was fingering my unshaven chin.
An hour later, having washed and shaved, cleaned my teeth with willow bark and combed my hair, finished dressing and taken Hercules for a trot around the yard – keeping him well away from the geese, to whom he continued to take great exception – I sat down to breakfast. This morning, alas, it was oatmeal and dried herrings yet again (not a favourite meal with me, I’m afraid – I like something more substantial).
‘Now!’ Theresa said abruptly, putting down her spoon. ‘Tell us again what you told us yesterday evening. You were too tired then to talk much sense. First, what did you learn from Sir Anselm?’
‘Not a great deal,’ I hedged, not wanting to confess that I suspected the priest of knowing more than he had admitted to. ‘As I said, I learned more from the Rawbone twins and their little kitchen maid, Ruth.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Theresa resumed eating. ‘So how did you come to be at Dragonswick Farm? Something to do with Rosamund Bush meeting Tom Rawbone, wasn’t it? You’d better start again and explain what followed.’
Patiently, I went over the events of the previous day, aware that my fatigue had been so great last evening that I might possibly have been less than coherent. But I suspected the truth to be that Theresa enjoyed any story that redounded to the discredit of the Rawbone family and wanted to hear it for a second time.
‘The twins seem to have been good friends with your daughter when they were young,’ I remarked, finishing my account and turning to Maud.
‘They liked one another well enough when they were children,’ she conceded. ‘But they grew apart in later years.’
‘That was because you discouraged the friendship,’ Theresa cut in disapprovingly. ‘Some stupid notion of Eris not being good enough for the Rawbones. Laughable, considering what followed.’
‘You know nothing about it, Mother-in-law,’ Maud rebuked her sharply. ‘You weren’t here when Eris was small.’
‘I’ve lived with you since Gilbert died,’ Theresa retorted. ‘That’s almost seven years. Eris was ten, still young enough to be sneaking off with Chris and Josh Rawbone whenever she thought she could get away with it. That is, without you reprimanding her and confining her to the cottage.’
‘She was getting too hoydenish,’ Maud replied with heightened colour. ‘It was time she learned a woman’s skills and did her share around the house, especially with Gilbert gone.’
Theresa looked sceptical, but let the matter drop. She rapped my hand with the back of her spoon, to ensure my attention.
‘You made some comment about the Rawbones’ kitchen maid. That she’d seen Eris set off in this direction the night my granddaughter vanished. In the direction of home, was what you said.’
Maud snorted. ‘On such a night, no one could have seen which way Eris went once she was outside the Dragonswick pale.’
‘I think that’s probably true,’ I admitted. ‘Indeed, when I pressed her, Ruth owned that she would be unable to swear on oath that your daughter had set off for home. Nevertheless, it was her impression that Eris was heading this way.’
‘Well, she didn’t arrive,’ Maud said shortly, and began gathering the dirty bowls and spoons together. I thought I saw her blink back tears.
‘So, what next?’ asked Theresa, folding her arms on the table and peering at me intently. ‘What do you propose to do now?’
Her attitude that I was entirely responsible for finding out what had become of Eris irritated me.
‘It’s high time that I returned to Bristol,’ I answered. ‘If I’m to keep my word to my wife to be home by the feast of Saint Patrick, I should leave here today.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Theresa gasped. ‘You promised!’
Before I could speak, Maud sprang to my defence.
‘Master Chapman promised nothing, Mother, other than to do his best. Which he’s done. Like the rest of us, he knows that nothing can ever be discovered now. Thank you for all you’ve tried to do, sir, but you must get back to your wife, I can see that. We shall, of course, be sorry to lose your company, but we understand.’
I guessed that Maud Lilywhite would welcome my going. She had never wanted me to investigate Eris’s disappearance in the first place. She was happier in her ignorance. But my decision did not please Theresa.
‘You promised,’ she repeated.
‘I promised to do what I could in the few days I felt I could allow myself. That was all. My word to my wife must come first.’