The Hanged Man

'But did you?' I persisted. 'William Woodward was not a young man. According to Mistress Walker's calculations, her father must have been in his fifty-ninth year when he abandoned weaving and came to work for you. An advanced age for a man to be still working at the looms, let alone taking up the strenuous task of debt collecting. Did none of these things weigh with you?'

Edward Herepath frowned and stirred angrily in his chair. I realized that my questioning had been too blunt and, as well, had probably sounded a note of censure which he rightly resented. He had allowed me to interrogate him as a favour. I must watch my step.

Nevertheless, he answered with only a hint of testiness.

'William Woodward was a big, strong man, well set-up, for all that he was grey-haired. People were a little afraid of him, a little in awe of his size and strength. At least, that was my impression. Yes, I did think him capable of doing the job, and doing it well, and my belief was justified. During the four years he was in my employ, I had fewer bad debts than theretofore. As you may have been told, I have much property both in and around Bristol, and William was adept at making certain the rents were collected. I did not inquire what methods he used to ensure prompt payment. I was merely thankful that the unpleasantness of calling on the sheriff's officers to evict or threaten defaulters became less and less frequent.' Once again, Edward Herepath frowned, but this time it was not I who was the object of his disapproval. 'Perhaps I was wrong not to keep a stricter eye on William. Maybe he made greater enemies than Miles Huckbody, who, I know, swore vengeance on him on more than one occasion.'

'Miles Huckbody?' I queried.

Edward Herepath roused himself from a momentary reverie and, reaching out with one elegantly shod foot, kicked the slumbering fire into life. Flames licked at the edges of the logs, sending shadows soaring. The blues and ochres of the wall-hangings faded, and the reds ran together, mingling like blood.

'What? Oh, Miles Huckbody. His wife and child rented a cottage and field from me near the King's Wood, but the man fell ill and was unable to work the land. His wife struggled as best she could for a while, but the crops dwindled and the pig died and they were eventually unable to produce enough to live on, let alone to sell.' Edward Herepath sighed. 'Instead of consulting me, William took it upon himself to have the family evicted and, by the time I was aware of what had happened, it was too late. They had gone. But Miles Huckbody later reappeared in Bristol. His wife and child had apparently died, and he himself was sick and destitute. He was taken in by the fraternity of the Bons-Hommes, who run the Gaunts' Hospital close by Saint Augustine's Abbey. They clothe, feed and house some hundred poor souls, thanks to the charitable munificence, two centuries or more ago, of Maurice and Henry de Gaunt and their nephew, Robert de Gourney.' He added with civic pride: 'Bristol folk look after their own.'

But not enough, I thought, to prevent their eviction in the first place. On the other hand, business is business, as any Bristolian, then or now, will tell you.

Aloud, I asked, 'And Miles Huckbody is known to have threatened the well-being of Master Woodward?'

'So William himself informed me. He met the man once, down in the broad meads, near the house of the Dominican friars, and was roundly abused by Huckbody, who offered him violence, and was only just restrained by fellow inmates from the hospital. Not that William thought himself in any danger. Miles Huckbody was too feeble, he said, to pose any threat or cause him any loss of sleep.'

'All the same,' I said, 'William Woodward had at least one known enemy who wished him harm.'

Edward Herepath shrugged. 'More than one I should imagine. He was not a man who endeared himself to people. Blunt, taciturn, and bearing a grudge against the world for the way he felt life had cheated him, is how I would sum up William Woodward. Yet I got on with him well enough, perhaps because I, too, had had my cross to bear.'

He spoke with quiet bitterness, and without stopping to recollect Cicely Ford's presence in the room. Only when she cried out, a sound suppressed almost as soon as it was uttered, did he remember and rise hurriedly to his feet, hands outstretched. 'My dear child! I did not mean… Forgive me! You know I would not willingly add to your grief.'

Cicely dropped her embroidery mad grasped both his hands in hers. 'No, no! There is nothing to forgive. I know how much you had to bear from Robert, how disorderly and disobedient he could be. I know, also, how much he had to be grateful to you for, how you looked after and watched over him all his life from the time he was two years old. No one could have had a kinder, more forbearing brother. He realized it, too, though he could never be prevailed upon to acknowledge it openly. But you and I, dear Edward, both know that under all that wildness, he was good and kind; that there was a real sweetness of nature which would have surfaced after his marriage to me. I could have tamed him. I know I could!' Edward Herepath returned the pressure of her hands, his eyes looking steadfastly into hers. 'Who could doubt it? Your gentleness and beauty are such that they must prevail with any man in time.'

He stooped and kissed one of the hands he was holding, before guiltily dropping both and turning away, an expression of defeated longing on his face. I felt desperately sorry for him, understanding all that he must be suffering, for Cicely Ford was weaving her own brand of magic about me, filling my mind with a strange yearning, conjuring up fantasies of things which could never be.

Edward Herepath resumed his seat beside the fire and glanced up at me. My legs were beginning to ache with inactivity, for he had not offered me a stool. 'Is there anything else you wish to ask?' he inquired.

I hesitated, sensing that his patience was wearing thin, but reluctant to take my leave before I had satisfied my curiosity still further. At last, I ventured, 'You were in Gloucester when the seeming murder of William Woodward occurred.'

'Indeed. I had gone to look over a horse with a view to purchase. An acquaintance of my friend Master Peter Avenel had told me of his intent to sell whilst staying in Bristol a few weeks earlier. The animal sounded exactly suited to my requirements, and I therefore made arrangements to travel north as soon as possible after Master Shottery's return to his native city. I rode to Gloucester on Lady Day and took lodgings for two nights at an inn. This gave me the morrow to look over the horse and make up my mind whether or not to buy, and a third day in which to return home at my leisure, which is exactly how things fell out.' A look of distress contorted his handsome features. 'As it happened, I could well have returned a day earlier, for the purchase was speedily concluded early on the Friday morning, but Master Shottery was unable to offer me hospitality, as his wife, he said, was feeling unwell. However, I decided to adhere to my original plan and remain in Gloucester until the following day.' Cicely said quietly from the window-seat behind him, ‘You must not blame yourself, dear Edward. Your earlier return would have prevented nothing. Little though any of us knew it at the time, the mischief, whatever it was, was already done.'

I asked abruptly: 'You were not anxious, Master Herepath, as to what might have happened in your absence, knowing that you had, at least according to Mistress Walker, inadvertently let slip to your brother that William Woodward was holding the money until you came home?' Edward Herepath's face flushed a dull red beneath its beard. I held my breath, waiting to be dismissed for my impudence, but instead provoking a small, if wintry, smile. 'You take your commission seriously, Master Chapman. Mistress Walker and her daughter appear to have chosen their champion wisely. Very well, yes, I admit to having felt a twinge of uneasiness every now and then. But my brother had been the cause of so much worry throughout his life that I had grown accustomed to such feelings, as one might grow used to the nagging pain of an old wound which, with time, one is able to ignore. Does that answer satisfy you? I trust so, for it's the only excuse I have.'