‘Walk down to Saint Nicholas Backs with me,’ he invited, ‘and see if you can spot this Breton merchantman.’
But it had gone, sailing down the Avon on the morning tide, no doubt, and in its berth was a Portuguese ship, perfuming the air with a cargo of exotic spices.
Richard swore, long and satisfyingly, before turning on me. ‘I wish you’d told me all this yesterday,’ he said savagely.
I assumed a wounded expression. ‘How did I know it was of any importance? In fact, I still don’t know that. The man can’t be the murderer if we’re right about the time of death. .’
‘I’m willing to wager my last groat that he’s the killer,’ Richard interrupted with such ill-founded assurance that it took my breath away. Rendered speechless, all I could muster was a sort of outraged croak, which my companion mistook for encouragement to continue with his crack-brained theory. ‘Overbecks is right! After you and Mistress Ford saw him on Saint Michael’s Hill, the stranger changed his mind and returned to the city before the gates were closed for the night.’
‘Why?’ I managed. ‘For what reason?’
‘Unfinished business with Jasper Fairbrother. John Overbecks said that the two men were arguing. You agreed. Whatever the cause of that disagreement, our Breton friend was dissatisfied with the outcome and returned to settle the matter.’
‘By murdering Jasper?’ Even as I spoke, I recalled how the stranger had faltered at the sight of the hanged man on the gibbet. Had murder and its possible consequences indeed been on his mind?
‘Oh, he may not have intended to kill Jasper,’ Richard conceded. ‘But one thing might have led to another and, eventually, to murder.’ Richard quickened his step. ‘The city must be searched for this man, although I very much doubt that he’ll still be here. He probably left at first light. The surrounding countryside must be scoured, as well. I’ll organize a posse. We’ll catch him, and when we do, you’ll be needed to identify him, Roger, so don’t set off on your travels. That’s an order, mind. And now I must report to the sheriff.’ He moved ahead of me, lengthening his stride, but paused to call over his shoulder, ‘Tell Adela that I shall be delighted to accept her kind invitation to supper tonight.’
He pressed on and disappeared into the Councillors’ Hall, opposite All Saints’ Church.
I was left standing at the top of High Street. After a moment or two lost in thought, I began walking home, confident in Adela’s ability to have my dinner on the table in spite of the late start to her day. Besides, I told myself, she would be agog to hear all my news. But I walked slowly, not just to give her more time, but also to try to clear my mind.
Richard Manifold was neither a stupid nor an impulsive man. He had more than his fair share of intelligence and common sense, loath though I was to admit it. Why, therefore, without proof and on the flimsiest of evidence, had he seized so adamantly on the notion that the Breton was the murderer? The only guess I could hazard was that he knew something about this man that I didn’t, had heard something about him that I hadn’t, and had already been looking for an excuse to raise the hue and cry in order to arrest him. What better or more urgent than a charge of murder?
But why? Well, if the stranger were indeed a Breton, and I felt convinced that he was, could he be in the employ of Brittany’s most notorious exile, troublemaker and thorn in the government’s side, Henry Tudor? Was he one of Henry’s agents, visiting England to contact the earl’s sympathizers? That might explain Richard Manifold’s remark about Robin Avenel, ‘Well, well! Who’d have guessed it?’ The sheriff could well have received a warning from King Edward’s spymaster general that such a man was due to pay a visit to this country, travelling from town to town in order to discover what secret sympathy there was for the Lancastrian cause. Perhaps that was why the man had flinched from the felon’s corpse on Saint Michael’s Hill, because he knew how much more horrifying was the death for traitors and spies.
I was still mulling the matter over when I reached the cottage and went inside, ready for my dinner.
Five
I had barely set foot inside the door before my legs were assaulted by a small, black and white dog who yapped around my ankles, trying to nip them with a set of extremely sharp teeth. Only my stout leather boots saved me from injury. After him, in full cry, came Nicholas and Elizabeth, exhorting me, at the tops of their voices, to stop the angry and terrified animal from escaping into the street. As I bent and scooped the poor beast into my arms, it relieved itself in a warm stream down the front of my jerkin. My two young ingrates doubled up with screams of laughter.
Adela, who was busy at the table, setting out bowls and spoons, turned a flushed face — for the cottage was very warm — to find out what was happening. Having taken in the situation, she hurried forward to remove the dog from my grasp, heroically trying to suppress her own merriment. She placed the animal gently on the floor, dared the children to harass it further and went to fetch a pannikin of water and a cloth with which to sponge me down.
‘Where did that come from?’ I demanded furiously, refusing to be mollified by the caresses of the children, who were, by this time, fondling any part of my anatomy they could reach, in case I had a pocketful of sweetmeats that I might now decline to dispense.
‘Jane Overbecks dropped by about half an hour ago. She left the dog for the children to play with.’ Adela sat back on her heels, regarding her handiwork. ‘There, I think that’ll do. The jerkin probably won’t stain; at least, I hope not. But it might smell for a while. If other dogs start following you home, you’ll know the reason why.’
‘Very funny,’ I snarled. ‘Oh, I can see it’s highly amusing for the rest of you.’ The children had begun giggling again and my wife was biting her lip. I changed the subject. ‘What was Jane Overbecks doing here? I’ve always assumed she was afraid of people.’
Adela stood up. ‘Oh, I think she is. But Adam was the attraction. She adores babies.’
I cast an agitated glance around the cottage in search of my son.
‘Where is Adam?’ I asked uneasily.
Adela kissed my cheek. ‘Jane’s taken him for a little walk in his cart. . There’s no need to look like that, Roger. I’m sure he’s perfectly safe.’
‘I’m not,’ I answered tautly. ‘There’s something strange about that woman. Those simple-minded people are often extremely cunning, especially at getting their own way. Adela, my love, how could you have let her. .?’
The sentence remained unfinished as the door opened and Jane Overbecks appeared, trundling a contentedly sleeping Adam behind her. Adela hurried forward, breathing a sigh of relief. My words had worried her, I could tell; unnecessarily this time, as it turned out, but I had every intention of discouraging her from entrusting our son to the baker’s wife in future.
At the unexpected sight of me towering above her, probably looking less than pleased, Jane dropped the handle of the cart, seized hold of the dog and backed hastily out of the cottage as if I were Old Nick himself. Nicholas and Elizabeth would have gone whooping after her, to say goodbye to the animal and enquire, no doubt, when she would bring him again, but I intercepted them, ordering them to the dinner table in a voice they both knew meant trouble if they disobeyed.
‘You’re being very severe all at once,’ Adela commented, frowning. She ladled boiled bacon and peas on to our plates from the pot over the fire. ‘Has this business of Jasper Fairbrother upset you?’
‘All murder is upsetting,’ I answered sententiously.
‘You live in a cottage where one took place,’ she retorted. ‘That never seems to bother you.’
‘As to that. .’ I began forcibly.