But my wife remained unconvinced. Once it had dawned on her that a murderer was still at large, and that I might pose a danger to him or her, she was unable to be easy in her mind. I could see her wrestling with the urge to demand that I disoblige the Duke of Gloucester and give up my enquiry into the killing of Gideon Bonifant. But Adela was also wise enough to know that even if she prevailed this once, she was unlikely to do so the next time — or the next.
So she contented herself with giving me a wintry smile and saying, ‘Take care! You already have three, and will soon have four, people dependent on you for their daily bread. None of us can afford to lose you.’
I rose to my feet, stretching and yawning. ‘It’s nice to know that I’m appreciated as a breadwinner, if nothing else,’ I grinned.
I was rewarded with a look of deep hostility. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘Of course I do.’ I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my arms around her.
‘What will you do tomorrow?’ she asked, slewing round to kiss my cheek. ‘You said you’ve promised the Babcarys that you won’t disturb their Sabbath peace.’
‘Neither shall I.’ I returned her kiss. ‘But I’ve a fancy to see this Master Ford, the apothecary who was Gideon Bonifant’s former master. Undoubtedly, he will go to church. But which one does he favour, I wonder.’
There were at least four churches of importance in the area, any one of which Master Ford might attend, although none in Bucklersbury itself.
In adjoining Needlers Lane stood the churches of Saint Pancras and of Saint Benet Sherehog. Walbrook, at the eastern end of Bucklersbury, boasted Saint Stephen Walbrook, while Saint Mary Woolchurch served the inhabitants of the Stock’s Market and the Poultry.
‘Where does Master Ford, the apothecary, worship of a Sunday?’ I asked Reynold Makepeace after breakfast the following morning.
He scratched his nose while giving the matter his full consideration.
‘Now there you have me, Master Chapman, for I don’t know, I’m sure. Wait here a moment and I’ll enquire in the taproom. Someone there might be able to help you.’
He returned a few minutes later, however, shaking his grizzled head.
‘I’m afraid no one seems to know for certain, although Peter Paulet, who lives in Soper Lane, thinks he remembers that the late Mistress Ford used sometimes to worship at Saint Mary Woolchurch.’
I thanked him for his trouble and enquired about the exact location of Master Ford’s shop.
‘Now that I can tell you,’ my host said with satisfaction, wiping his hands on his best Sunday linen apron. ‘You’ll find it on this side of the street, at the Walbrook end, almost directly opposite a large stone-built house on the southern side, called the Old Barge. A strange name for a house, you might think, but ships used to tie up there before that part of the Walbrook was paved over. But Master Ford’s shop won’t be open today, if, that is, you’re needing any remedies from him.’ The kindly face clouded with anxiety. ‘It’s not Mistress Chapman, is it? If there’s anything wrong, you must let me send for the local midwife. She’ll be by far the best person to advise you.’
‘No, no! My wife is in excellent health,’ I assured him, which was true except for a somewhat disturbed night, the result of Adela’s craving for dried peas and onions. ‘I just wanted a word with Master Ford about — about something,’ I finished lamely.
Fortunately, Reynold Makepeace was not a curious man, and made no attempt to discover why I had this sudden urge to speak to one of the Bucklersbury apothecaries, or, indeed, how I even came to be aware of his existence. He simply nodded and hurried away to attend to his customers in the taproom, one or two of whom were vociferously demanding his services.
Quarter of an hour later, my wife and I left the inn, walking eastwards towards Walbrook. The storm of the previous evening had, thankfully, blown itself out, giving way to a cold, but not frosty, morning, and a thin sun struggled to break through the leaden clouds. Adela, wrapped in her thick woollen cloak with its fur-lined hood, a garment purchased especially for this visit to London, assured me that she was as warm as it was possible to be in January, while her pattens kept her feet out of the mud and rubbish. (For being Sunday and a day of rest, there were no street cleaners to remove yesterday’s accumulated filth. Cleanliness and godliness, alas, do not always go hand in hand.)
The clamour from the bells was deafening, for London, or so I’m told, has well over a hundred churches within its walls, not to mention those proliferating outside its pale. Adela had to raise her voice to make herself heard.
‘Why do you wish to speak with this Master Ford?’
‘If Gideon Bonifant was once his assistant, he must know something about the man. Anything he can tell me might prove useful. Wait!’ I paused, gripping her arm and pointing to the opposite side of the street where Bucklersbury ran into Walbrook. ‘That big house must be the one that Landlord Makepeace mentioned. And Master Ford’s shop, he said, is almost directly opposite.’
This information, however, was not as valuable as it at first seemed, for the frontage of the Old Barge was the width of at least four or five shops on the northern side of the street, three of them belonging to apothecaries. But even as we watched, people began leaving home for church in answer to the bells’ summons. A family of six — father, mother and four children — emerged from one of the apothcaries’ shops, setting off westwards, in the direction of Needlers Lane, while from another, a middle-aged couple headed for Saint Stephen Walbrook. Minutes later, a tall, thin man appeared in the remaining apothecary’s doorway, turned smartly to his left and had vanished round the corner into Walbrook before I had time to gather my wits together.
‘That must be him,’ Adela hissed, nudging me painfully in the ribs. ‘Reynold Makepeace told us, if you remember, that Master Ford is a widower, and both of the other two men had wives.’
‘I think you’re probably right,’ I nodded. ‘And that’s the way to the Stock’s Market and Saint Mary Woolchurch, where, again according to Master Makepeace, the late Mistress Ford sometimes worshipped.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ my wife demanded, slipping her hand once more within my arm. ‘In that case, that’s where we shall worship.’
‘And we’ll probably have the added pleasure of seeing Jeanne and Philip as well,’ I said.
For I had recollected that Saint Mary Woolchurch was also adjacent to the old clothes market, and consequently was the church most often attended by the Lampreys. (Although they did occasionally honour Saint Benet Fink, on the corner of Fink’s Lane, with their presence.)
Adela’s step quickened at the prospect of a possible meeting with our friends, even though she expressed doubt about finding them very easily amongst the attendant congregation. But in this she was wrong, for almost the first people we encountered in the crowded nave, standing at the back near one of the pillars, were Jeanne and Philip Lamprey, both of whom greeted us as if they had not seen us for a month, instead of only the previous day.
Once the Mass had started, and I could whisper in Philip’s ear without being overheard by all around us, I asked him if he knew Master Ford, the apothecary. Philip nodded.
‘Is he here?’
My friend craned his neck and stretched up on his toes in an effort to see over the heads of all those in front of him. Finally, he gave a grunt of triumph.
‘I can just see the top of his hat. It’s the one he wears every Sunday. I recognise the feather coiled around the brim. Why do you want to know?’
I countered with a another question of my own.
‘Are you well enough acquainted with Master Ford to introduce me to him when the service is over?’
Philip rolled suspicious eyes towards me. ‘Not really, but that needn’t stop me. However, that’s all I’m doing. I’ve already told you once, Roger, you’re not involving me in any of your schemes. They’re usually far too dangerous.’