So much for Adela’s plans. We had barely finished our meal when a knock at the street door heralded the arrival of James himself, come to discover if I had gleaned anything of importance during my trip.
‘You made good time,’ he said as I followed him into the parlour and waved him to a chair. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow. But someone at church told me he’d seen you riding through the Frome Gate earlier this morning, so I came round as soon as I could. There have been no developments here during the two days you’ve been away.’
Adela came in with a couple of beakers and a jug of ale on a tray, which she placed on the hearth where a small, very desultory fire was burning. Her annoyance at James’s intrusion was palpable, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too intent on getting an answer to his question.
‘So, do you have anything to tell me?’
I poured us both some ale and settled in the opposite chair before giving him such information as I was able.
He sat forward eagerly when I mentioned Baker Cleghorn and his belief that he might have seen Miles Deakin in Bristol three months earlier. ‘He told Miles Deakin’s father this? How long ago?’
I shrugged. ‘Recently, I assumed, when he was passing through North Nibley on his way to Gloucester.’
‘And has Master Cleghorn returned to Bristol yet?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask my wife.’
Adela, when consulted, said she had spoken to the baker only the previous day when she had visited his shop.
‘Then we’ll call on him at once.’ James, pausing only long enough to swallow the dregs of his ale, rose purposefully to his feet.
‘It’s Sunday,’ I demurred, hoping to restrain him. I had no desire to go out into the cold again and was looking forward to the rest of the day by my own fireside.
‘So he won’t be engaged in trade. We shall be assured of his whole attention.’ James picked up his cloak and wrapped it around him. ‘Where does he live? Behind the shop?’
Once again I was forced to consult Adela, who confirmed that Master Cleghorn’s house was also in St Leonard’s Lane. ‘You’re not going out?’ she asked reproachfully. ‘You’ve only just got home.’
I was apologetic, but found that my earlier reluctance to brave the elements had vanished. I was suddenly as anxious as my companion to discover what the baker had to say.
St Leonard’s Lane was only a step or two away, being the next street along in a westerly direction, running from Corn Street at one end and connecting with Bell Lane at the other. The dwellings here were substantial residences built, as were most Bristol houses, of wood and plaster and tiled with stone. The ground floors of a few, like Baker Cleghorn’s, were shops with the families living on the premises in the upper two storeys. The one we wanted was halfway along on the right-hand side proceeding from Bell Lane and was easy enough to find, a sign depicting a loaf of bread hanging above the door. This was located to one side of the shop front, now raised and bolted shut, and James had no compunction in banging on it loudly, disturbing the Sabbath peace.
We had to wait a while for someone to descend from the upper floors, but eventually the key scraped in the lock, the door was opened a crack and a voice enquired cautiously, ‘Who’s there?’
‘Master Cleghorn?’ James asked.
‘Aye. Who wants him?’
It took James some time to convince the baker that we were genuine callers and not a couple of bravos out on a Christmas jaunt, frightening elderly citizens. Our lack of masks was to our advantage and we were eventually admitted to the house and conducted to a room on the first floor. This was richly and comfortably furnished, arguing a degree of wealth which easily explained the baker’s caution. It transpired that he was a childless widower living alone except for a sister who kept house for him, but who, today, was absent on a visit to a friend.
‘So you gentlemen will, I’m sure, understand my reluctance to let you in,’ our host explained, at the same time indicating two cushioned chairs and inviting us to sit down. ‘This season of the year particularly.’
We assured him that we did and accepted his offer of wine, which he served in some very fine silver goblets. The bakery trade was obviously thriving.
‘And what can I do for your honours? Master Chapman I know,’ he added. ‘Your wife, sir, is a good customer of mine.’
He seemed unaware of James’s identity, which was all to the good. We had no desire to rouse his suspicions concerning the name of Deakin, which a connection with the Marvell family might possibly do. Instead, James claimed Miles as an old acquaintance whom he was trying to find after a lapse of some years. He then glibly explained that I had recently been peddling my wares in Nibley Green and had been told by Mistress Littlewood of her brother-in-law’s meeting with himself.
‘And Mistress Littlewood,’ I added, ‘said that you, sir, claimed to have seen Miles Deakin here, in Bristol, not three months since.’
The baker shook his head. ‘No, no! I only thought it might have been him. But I was by no means certain.’
‘You are acquainted with the Deakin family?’ I asked.
‘Yes. They were some sort of distant kinfolk of my late wife.’ He spoke apologetically, plainly ashamed of such low connections.
‘And where did you think you saw Miles, Master Cleghorn?’ James asked.
‘I’ve told you, I’m not sure …’
‘I understand that. But whereabouts?’ my companion insisted.
The baker hesitated. ‘It was only a fleeting glimpse and in the most unlikely of places.’Again he paused, adding, ‘It’s that really which convinces me I was completely mistaken.’
‘Where, Master Cleghorn?’ James spoke through clenched teeth. He was beginning to lose patience.
For a long moment there was silence, then the baker resolutely shook his head. ‘No, I refuse to say. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I realize now that I was totally in error. That it could not possibly have been Miles. I therefore prefer to keep my own counsel.’ And he got to his feet, making it plain that our visit was at an end. ‘I’ll wish you good day.’
In the face of so pointed a dismissal, we had no choice but to leave. Our host’s face had set in rigid lines. He was not to be bullied or persuaded.
Once out in the street again, James gave vent to his anger. ‘The old fool! Why did he suddenly put a clamp on his tongue like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘But I have a feeling that all of a sudden he recognized you. I may be mistaken and I can’t think of anything you said that would have made him suspicious. As I say, it’s just a feeling.’
James hunched his shoulders angrily. ‘Oh, well! It can’t be helped, but if you’re right, he has to know of the connection between Miles Deakin and my family. What was your impression, Master Chapman? Do you think Baker Cleghorn believes he saw our man or is now convinced that he was wrong?’
I shivered and drew my cloak more tightly around me. It was getting even colder and I had no desire to stand talking in the street. Nevertheless, I gave his question my due consideration.
After a few moments reflection, I said, ‘I think I do believe Master Cleghorn saw a man he thought to be Miles Deakin. But for some reason of his own is now unwilling to tell us where.’
‘For what reason?’
‘I don’t know.’
On this unsatisfactory note we parted, he to return to Redcliffe and I to walk the short distance back to Small Street. I was growing frustrated with a situation that yielded so few answers and which had marred a Christmas I had looked forward to with some eagerness as a time to spend quietly with my family and do little else except enjoy the festivities. The last two years, as I have already said, had been both gruelling and dangerous, dominated by King Richard’s seizure of the throne. It occurred to me that my use of the word ‘seizure’ was more revealing than I knew. He would say that he had claimed his birthright, but was that how I really saw it? In spite of that secret mission I had undertaken for him to France the preceding year, and in spite of what I had learned there, I nevertheless found in myself a growing dismay at what he had done and an ever-increasing foreboding for the future. ‘Stirring up a hornet’s nest’ was a phrase that, for no apparent reason, flashed into my head, and I told myself not to be so foolish. All the same, I arrived at my own front door in no very happy frame of mind.