It was by now getting on towards noon of another very warm day, the relentless sun turning the whole city into a stinking cauldron of heat. The putrid stench from the decomposing animal carcasses and rotting vegetable matter in the open drains, was overpowering, and I decided that what I needed above all else was a drink. As yet, I had sold nothing and was, in fact, worse off than when I left home on account of my gift to Goody Godsmark. If I were to escape Adela’s wrath, I must apply myself to my chosen trade without further delay, but I could do nothing until I had slaked my thirst. I headed for Bristol’s favourite alehouse, known variously to the town’s inhabitants as the Green Lattis, Abyngdon’s and the New Inn. The latter was now its official title, but it had been called by both the former names at one time and another in its long history; names that were still used by people with even longer memories. It was situated behind All Hallows Church in Corn Street, and, in less than ten minutes, I was ensconced at my favourite table near an unshuttered window.
The landlord knew me and placed a pot of ale in front of me before I had even called for it. And at this time of day, the noise was not so deafening that I was unable to hear myself think. Later on, it would be a different story, but for now, I could drink my ale in peace.
Should I tell Richard Manifold of the additional information I had wormed out of Walter Godsmark or not? That was the question. Firstly, what I had learned made my theory that the stranger was a Tudor agent seem more than a probability, almost a certainty. Secondly, it gave weight to Richard’s decision to arrest the man for Jasper’s murder. The stranger would appear to have been threatening the baker, if not actually blackmailing him. What about? Well, if yet another of my guesses were correct, paying money into Henry Tudor’s depleted war coffers seemed the likeliest answer. If Jasper, for whatever reason, had allowed himself to become embroiled with the Lancastrian cause, exposure could have seen him hanged, drawn and quartered for high treason — not a death I would wish on my bitterest enemy. (Whoever devised that method of execution for the first Edward had a nasty, twisted personality that really enjoyed watching people suffer.)
But if Jasper were the one being blackmailed, wouldn’t it be more likely that he would have killed the blackmailer? The stranger wouldn’t want Jasper dead if there was a possibility of extracting money from him. He wouldn’t want him dead, anyway. Unless, of course, the baker had attacked him first. But that didn’t make sense, either. There had been no sign of a struggle and, judging by the look on his face, Jasper had obviously been taken by surprise when the knife entered his back. So, although the stranger’s attempt to extort money from Jasper explained their argument, it failed, for me at least, to explain the murder. I sighed and took another swig of ale.
Over the rim of my cup I glanced around at the other tables. As I had guessed, the tavern was only half full at that hour of the morning. There were the usual old men who went there every day and were a part of the furniture, and a handful of regular customers who, like me, had dropped in to quench their thirst after working out of doors in the blistering heat. Then there was the inevitable sprinkling of strangers. .
My eyes suddenly became fixed on a table in one dim corner of the room. Two bulky figures sat there, chins propped on hands, deep in conversation. I stared, and then cursed myself roundly for having forgotten their existence. These were the two ruffians I had encountered yesterday; the pair I thought were watching John Overbecks’s shop, but who, in reality, might have been spying on Jasper.
Six
The two men finished their drink and stood up. I hastily lowered my gaze, and, a second or so later, they passed by my table and went out, without even noticing me. How could I have forgotten them? How could they have slipped my mind so completely? Above all, why wasn’t Richard Manifold considering them as suspects for Jasper’s murder? The sooner I saw Richard, and not only confirmed my own suspicions concerning the stranger, but also jogged his memory about the two bravos, the better.
I hurriedly swallowed the rest of my ale, at the same time remembering uneasily how cautious the sergeant had been on the subject of these two men; how vigorously he had protested their innocence. What did he know about them that he was concealing from me? Nothing, of course, in his role of sheriff’s officer, that he did not have a perfect right to hide. All the same. .
Someone sat down heavily on the stool next to mine, and a hand fell on my shoulder, making it impossible for me to rise.
‘Roger,’ said John Overbecks, ‘I’m glad to have fallen in with you. I wanted to assure you that Jane meant no harm when she took Adam for a ride in his cart this morning. She came home in tears, afraid she had angered you. She said you looked cross. I had no idea she had gone out on her own. She must have escaped while I was with you and Sergeant Manifold. I know she appears a little odd, and, at times, acts even more oddly, but, as I’ve told you before, there’s not an ounce of malice in her nature.’
By this time, my feelings of guilt were threatening to overwhelm me. My face had grown so flushed that I was conscious of beads of sweat trickling down my nose. I gibbered something incomprehensible, but the baker only smiled.
‘No need to apologize,’ he told me. ‘I understand. Now, don’t run away. Stay and have another drink with me. I’m parched after a trudge up to the nunnery.’ And he called to the pot boy for two more stoups of ale.
Much as I wanted to go and find Richard Manifold, I had no wish to affront John Overbecks by an over-hasty departure, so I allowed my beaker to be refilled.
‘You’ve been up to see the Magdalen nuns?’ I queried, unable, on the spur of the moment, to think of anything else to say.
He nodded. ‘One of my hucksters was taken ill this morning, and the bread was urgently required. I didn’t think it fair to ask any of the other women to make the climb up to Saint Michael’s Hill in this heat, so I went myself.’ He took a deep draught of ale and smacked his lips. ‘That’s better. No, that was a lesson I learned when I was soldiering abroad. Never ask subordinates to do anything you’re not prepared to do yourself.’
‘That was a bad time in France,’ I suggested.
‘A vicious time, with ill feeling on both sides. Our glory days were long over. I was twenty when I left England in ’48, and I arrived on the other side of the Channel just as we surrendered Le Mans. A few years earlier, the French had retaken most of Gascony, and we were rapidly losing control of Normandy as well. Within three years, Bordeaux and Bayonne had also been lost, and of all our French possessions, only Calais remained to us. The most disgusting atrocities were perpetrated by both armies. No quarter was expected, none was given. The year following the loss of Le Mans, we sacked Fougères.’ He shuddered. ‘The sights I saw turned my stomach, I can tell you. I even thought of deserting.’
He paused and compressed his lips tightly, as though he found the subject too painful to say anything further. The thought flickered faintly, somewhere on the edges of my mind, that perhaps he had deserted, but it sputtered and died almost immediately. John Overbecks, who did not expect others to undertake anything he was not prepared to do himself, was not the sort of man to fail in his duty.