I returned to Mistress Walker's for my dinner to find Lillis absent. In answer to my query, I was told she had gone to eat with Nick Brimble and his old mother, who were both fond of her. I thought there was some slight constraint in Margaret's manner and wondered, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, if Lillis had confided in her the events of the night. But when nothing was said, I decided it must be a guilty conscience and did my best to be cheerful, even ingratiating.
After some absent-minded chatter, I thought it wisest to let Margaret Walker know where I was going, and explained my morning's errand to Alderman Weaver. 'For think it possible that your father may have been carried to Ireland after all,' I said.
She glanced up from her plate, startled. 'You take care,' she advised me. Genuine concern for my safety showed in her face. 'That ale-house has a bad reputation. All the rogues and vagabonds of the city are known to congregate there. They'll cut your throat as soon as give you the time of day. I'm astonished that a man such as Alderman Weaver has intimate knowledge of it.'
I smiled at that. 'Men don't amass fortunes by being scrupulous about who they trade with,' I told her. 'You can't pick and choose in business and must go where there's money to be made. As for myself, I shall take my cudgel with me; my Plymouth cloak, as they call it in the south. I'm big and strong and forewarned of possible danger. I can fend for myself.'
She frowned. 'You've been ill, remember, and still show signs of weakness now and then. Must you go? I thought Alderman Weaver had assured you, as I did, that my father could not possibly have been taken to Ireland.
If that were so, why would he have returned wearing someone else's clothes?'
'That I don't know. But it seems to me that the slavers could have been paid to transport Master Woodward over the water and kill him, so that Robert Herepath might be accused of his murder.'
Margaret considered this for a moment, no trace of hostility now detectable in her manner. She was a quick-witted woman and immediately saw my meaning, 'But,' she asked, 'in that case, why not dispatch Father in the cottage and leave his body to be found?'
'Because it was necessary that the house should be empty when Robert went to steal the money. If he had seen a body, he could have abandoned his purpose and raised the alarm. On the other hand, if the murder had been delayed until after the theft, your father might have awakened and prevented it. So Master Woodward had to be removed, and his own story bears out the idea that he was taken to Ireland, just as his condition testifies to the fact that an attempt was almost certainly made on his life.'
Her frown deepened. 'But that points the finger of suspicion at Edward Herepath. He knew that Father was keeping the money for him until his return from Gloucester and, on his own admission, let the fact slip to his brother.'
'In itself a suspicious circumstance,' I pointed out, 'if you consider his reason for asking Master Woodward to guard his property in the first place. You told me yourself that Edward Herepath thought the money safer in Bell Lane than Small Street because, although he trusted his servants, he could not bring himself to trust Robert.
Nevertheless,' I hastened to assure her, 'that does not mean I necessarily consider Edward Herepath guilty of the plot. There must have been others who knew of his absence from home; others to whom he or your father may have dropped a word, and one of them may have turned the circumstances to his advantage. Someone who hated Robert Herepath — and there seem to have been many such people.'
Margaret Walker bit her underlip. Her dinner had cooled, half-eaten, on her dish, and she pushed it aside.
'But who was to know for certain that Robert would steal the money?'
I shrugged. 'Everyone who knew him, I should fancy.' There was silence, then she gave her head a brisk shake. 'My father wasn't taken to Ireland,' she said with certainty, 'and so you will discover, just as you will find this story of yours is a bag of moonshine. There's no connection but that of accident between my father's disappearance and Robert Herepath being hanged for his murder.'
I saw that there was no arguing with her in this mood.
She had closed her mind to the possibility of being mistaken, and it was up to me to prove her, and all the others who agreed with her, wrong. I rose from the table and fetched my cudgel from its resting place, propped in a comer of the cottage beside my pack. As I once more wrapped myself in my cloak, Margaret spoke my name. I looked round, suddenly wary.
She had risen to her feet and was propping herself against the table behind her with white-knuckled hands.
'Roger…' She stopped, as if wondering how to continue.
Then she said, 'Roger, Lillis is young for her years… irresponsible. She does not always foresee the… the,consequences of her… her actions. But you are just the opposite. You have a wise head on your shoulders. l… I trust you.'
I could not meet her eyes. She was suspicious, but hoped that her suspicion was misplaced. Lillis had not said anything, but something in her manner had made Margaret uneasy. I mumbled a few words and hurriedly left the cottage, making my way back across the bridge and turning towards Marsh Street.
From St Nicholas Back, I walked through the bustle of Ballance Street, which skirts the great marsh itself, until I could clearly see the spire of St Stephen's Church rising above the houses. From there it was but a step before I swung left into Marsh Street, swarming as it always was at any time of the day with sailors, that fraternity of the sea who live largely by their own rules and pay little heed to the rest of us landlubbers. But they were not entirely lawless. I was later told that a levy of fourpence a ton on all cargo arriving at the port provided homes for a priest and a dozen poor mariners whose seafaring days were done, and whose prayers were offered regularly twice a day for all those still labouring upon the oceans. I wish I might have known it at the time, for my heart would not have hammered quite so fast as I crossed the threshold of the ale-house.
It was dark inside, there being no windows, only rushlights and tallow candles which could easily be doused in the event of a visit from the sheriff or his sergeants.
A beaten-earth floor was dotted with long wooden tables and benches, and casks of ale, two rows deep, were ranged against one wall. There was a second door opposite the one by which I had entered, opening on to the quayside. A narrow stone staircase led to the upper storey where, presumably, Humility Dyson lived. The landlord himself was a huge man in a leather apron, black-bearded and with arms on which the muscles were knotted like fists. Alderman Weaver had not described him to me, but his air of authority was unmistakable.
As I paused in the doorway, there was a disturbing quiet. Men who, a moment earlier, had been chatting with their fellows, fell silent, and all heads were turned in my direction. There was a definite air of menace in the room.
I stood my ground, however, unable to see much at first in the sudden transition from light to dark, and tightened my grip on my cudgel, ready to lay about me if necessary.
But gradually, as the drinkers took in my size and the way I was dressed, the babel of talk resumed. I was no longer being watched, at least not overtly; but I knew one false move would place me in immediate danger. I waited, therefore, until Humility Dyson approached me.
'And what's your wish, Master?' he grunted. 'Our ale's good, I grant you, but you'd do better supping at some of the other inns in the city.'
I ignored this unfriendly opening and said, 'I was recommended to come here by Alderman Weaver. He thinks you might be able to help me.'
Humility Dyson scratched his beard while looking me up and down. 'Alderman Weaver, is it?' he muttered presently. 'Well, and in what way does he think I can be of assistance?'