‘He’s dead all right,’ pronounced the younger brother, having carried out a cursory examination of the body. He crossed himself and began muttering the office for the departed souls of this life, but the older man interrupted.
‘You say you know this man?’ he asked me, and when I nodded, continued, ‘Does he- Did he live within the walls, or without?’
‘Within. With his widowed mother, near the castle.’
The brother pursed his thin mouth and thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘as the curfew’s sounded, we’d better give the body a decent lodging at the friary for the night. Tomorrow morning, the sheriff or his sergeant will have to be informed and the body returned to his mother.’
I did not volunteer the information that Sergeant Manifold was himself without the walls, in a cottage halfway up Saint Michael’s Hill, guarding a prisoner who may, or may not, have recovered consciousness by now. I concluded that if I said anything, I would probably be dispatched to find Richard there and then, and I was too tired, after my day’s exertions, for another walk. I just wanted to get home to my bed.
But when I did, finally, return to the cottage, having assisted the brothers to carry Walter’s body to the friary, I found Elizabeth had been moved into my bed, which she would occupy with Margaret and Adela, while I shared a mattress with Nicholas. (I had momentarily forgotten that my former mother-in-law was staying the night.) Moreover, a bed of sorts had to be made for Hercules, and by the time Adela and I had arranged a pile of straw and old rags for him in the corner nearest the door, it was dark, and rushlights had to be lit. After that, the fire needed to be doused and kindling chopped for a new one in the morning. And, of course, Adam wanted changing and feeding yet again.
I had intended to say nothing about my gruesome find, knowing that it would only further delay preparations for the night and part me from my bed for even longer. But my taciturnity did not pass unremarked by the two women, who, when all the chores were done, joined me at the table as I drank my bedtime cup of ale. They were in their most dangerous mood, calm but determined. I knew I didn’t stand a chance against them.
Foolishly, however, I tried to prevaricate, suggesting that, as we were all likely to suffer a disturbed night, we turned in immediately.
‘When you’ve told us what’s troubling you,’ my wife said, smiling with the sweet reasonableness that I dreaded.
‘We’re not tired,’ Margaret added. ‘We can sit here until morning, if necessary.’
‘Something upset you while you were out,’ Adela added. ‘It’s no use denying it. I know you too well, Roger. That dog’s very subdued, too. You might as well tell us what it is.’
In the end, of course, I gave in and recounted the story. ‘But if either of you expects me to climb Saint Michael’s Hill and inform Richard Manifold tonight, you can think again,’ I finished.
‘Why should we expect you to do any such thing?’ demanded Margaret. ‘It’s not urgent. It’s just a drowning. Walter Godsmark got drunk and fell in the river. It happens all the time.’
Adela, however, was not so positive. She saw my quick frown and laid a hand on my arm. ‘Sweetheart, what is it? Do you think that this death may have some connection with Jasper’s?’
I put one of my hands over hers and squeezed it. ‘You must admit,’ I said uneasily, ‘that one comes suspiciously close on the heels of the other. I have to say I can’t see any connection, but-’
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ Margaret exclaimed scornfully. ‘Why shouldn’t it be an accident? People are always having them. If they didn’t spend so much time and money in the taverns, the majority could be avoided. It would be a good idea, too, if a lot more people learned to swim. In a town almost entirely surrounded by water, it’s disgraceful how many mothers and fathers don’t teach their children how to do it.’
‘I suppose poor Walter was one of those who couldn’t,’ Adela remarked sadly.
‘Of course Walter couldn’t swim! Everyone knew that for a fact! It was common knowledge,’ Margaret snorted.
Ten
It had always been a puzzle to me how my quondam mother-in-law and her friends knew something for a fact, for a certainty. But on this occasion, it seemed that Margaret was right to be positive. Adela confirmed the story she told.
The preceding autumn, while I was in Devon — solving, I may say, one of my most difficult cases, but, according to my womenfolk, shirking my parental responsibilities and escaping from the shackles of my recent marriage — Walter Godsmark had had his first brush with death. He had been standing on one of the city wharves, intimidating some poor innocent with the direst consequences if he didn’t pay Jasper Fairbrother protection money, when the poor innocent foolhardily pushed Walter into the Avon. It was a couple of minutes, apparently, before the cheering onlookers realized that Walter couldn’t swim; and, even when they did, there was no one prepared to jump in and save him. What would have happened if John Overbecks had not come along at that particular moment was a matter of speculation, but the baker had immediately plunged into the river and towed the hapless bully ashore amid the jeers and boos of the populace at large. So, if not exactly everyone, a great many of his fellow citizens knew for a fact that Walter Godsmark could not swim.
But this story, far from reassuring me that the young man’s death was the purest accident, a fate lying in ambush for him and simply waiting to happen, only made me uneasy. The idea that Walter’s and Jasper’s deaths were somehow linked had no basis in fact as far as I could see, but I could not rid my mind of the notion. And I had learned to trust my instincts. The trouble was, of course, that if the deaths were connected, then Walter’s drowning was not an accident, but murder.
I kept my own counsel, however. To persist in my theory could only provoke an argument, and I had had enough aggravation for one evening. I was, moreover, extremely tired and could foresee a disturbed night’s rest ahead of me. So I thanked Margaret for her information, asked her to turn her back while I stripped and tumbled in beside Nicholas, then hid my head beneath the blanket while the two women, in their turn, got ready for bed. Adela finally blew out the rushlight. Darkness and blessed silence descended on the cottage. But not for long.
By morning, great strapping lad though I then was, I was still so tired that I was hard put to it not to have a fit of the vapours like any overwrought young girl.
For a start, I had forgotten how loudly Margaret snored, something I must have inured myself to during the years that Elizabeth and I lived with her in Redcliffe. Secondly, I discovered that Nicholas was not just a restless sleeper, but also a kicker. (Elizabeth probably managed to avoid his flailing legs, but I was a much bigger target.) Then Hercules, unused to being confined at night, decided to explore his new territory, and kept licking my face, just to make sure that I knew he was there. He was so delighted to find me that he was all for sharing the mattress and snuggling in beside me. By the time I had persuaded him to return to his pile of straw and old rags, Adam had woken up, and as being awake and being fed were one and the same thing to him, he began bawling loudly. This led to an acrimonious exchange between Adela and myself as to whose fault this was, mine or the dog’s, and whether having a dog was a good idea in the first place. Eventually, as the first light of dawn pierced the shutters, I fell into the sort of stupefied doze that bodes ill for the coming day.
Breakfast was a silent meal, everyone, even the baby, already worn to the bone. I said goodbye to Margaret, secure in the knowledge that, by the time I returned home, she would be gone, back to her own cottage, and as relieved at the prospect as I was.