‘A very strong girl, that,’ I remarked, to break an awkward silence, and the baker nodded.
‘Strong as a horse,’ he agreed. ‘Never had a day’s illness in her life.’ He advanced a step or two towards me and held out his hand. ‘Chapman, I just want to apologize for my behaviour last Friday. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. It was unforgivable of me. I just felt so disappointed for you and for myself. I should have liked you and your family as near neighbours. But, of course, it’s entirely up to you and Mistress Chapman whether or not you want to commit yourself to such a scheme. Am I forgiven?’
I grasped his outstretched hand, feeling ashamed of the suspicions I had entertained concerning his motives. ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ I said.
‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, everything’s in a fair way to being settled now. I saw my lawyer and man of business, Master Hulin of Back Street, just this morning and he tells me he knows of several people who might be anxious to buy the property across the street. So that’s all right. Here! You must take some of the children’s favourite buns for their supper.’
I declined regretfully, explaining that Nicholas and Elizabeth were staying with Margaret Walker until the end of the week, whereupon he promised to send the buns by his Redcliffe huckster when she came to collect the bread for her evening round. I thanked him, and after expressing once again my relief at his wife’s safe return, I took my leave, uncomfortably aware that I may have misjudged him. I was beginning to be angry with myself for having allowed Adela and Cicely Ford to influence me.
As I emerged from the bakery, I ran, literally, into Jenny Hodge, as she approached along Saint Mary le Port Street from the general direction of the castle. For a moment, we clung together while we regained our balance, then released each other, laughing. I noticed with some surprise that she had her good clothes on, which she normally only wore on high days and holidays; a grey gown made of what, in those days, we called bysine, a mixture of linen and wool, and her best linen hood, crisply laundered.
‘I can’t stop to gossip, Roger,’ she advised me briskly. ‘I want to get home before the rain comes and spoils my headgear. I think we’re in for a storm at last.’
She was right. While I had been in the bakery, the clouds that I had noticed earlier in the afternoon, as I was descending Saint Michael’s Hill, had all but obscured the sun, and there was a cooler, fresher feel to the air.
‘Oh,’ I remarked, somewhat foolishly, ‘you’re going home, are you? I thought you’d come to see if Jane Overbecks had returned safely.’
Jenny stared at me in perplexity. ‘And why should I do that?’
‘Mistress Overbecks went missing today. When she came back she told her husband she’d been with you.’
The tenter’s wife pursed her lips. ‘Now, why should she say that? I haven’t seen her. I’ve been to Walter Godsmark’s funeral. Not that I had any time for the great bully, you understand, but I feel sorry for Goody Godsmark. She’s no one else.’
‘So. . You haven’t seen Jane Overbecks all day?’
‘I told you! No!’ The first drops of rain pattered on to the cobbles, and Jenny let out a squawk. ‘All the hours I took starching this hood!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’ll be ruined and I’ll have to do it all over again. That’s your fault, Roger, for keeping me talking.’ And she turned the corner, setting off at a smart pace down High Street.
I started walking along with her, moderating my stride to her small, quick steps.
‘But why would Jane Overbecks say she was with you when she wasn’t?’ I demanded.
The raindrops were getting bigger and more frequent. I took off my own hood and flung the garment over Jenny’s to protect it. Even so, its starched perfection had begun to wilt in the damp.
Answering my question, my companion replied with some venom, unusual in one naturally so sweet-natured, ‘Because the girl’s a congenital liar, that’s why.’ We hurried towards Bristol Bridge and the shelter of the overhanging shops and houses. Jenny continued on a less sour note, ‘To be fair, I don’t think she realizes that lying is sinful. Indeed, I don’t think Jane has much sense of the difference between right and wrong at all. She’s just never been taught it. She’s queer in the head, that’s obvious, even to Master Overbecks himself. But what John doesn’t accept is that she’s cunning and devious as well. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could see her, and neither would Burl.’
It was now raining heavily. There was a flash of lightning, followed almost at once by a clap of thunder, and we took refuge against a shop wall, beneath an upper-storey window.
‘What does Dick think of her?’ I asked.
Dick’s mother snorted. ‘Dick doesn’t trouble his head with anything as strenuous as thinking. All he’s concerned about is when his next meal will be on the table. He’s always been a featherhead, unlike Jack.’
I laughed, ignoring the discomfort of water trickling down the back of my neck. ‘I remember them when they were younger,’ I nodded. ‘When I was enquiring into that business of Margaret Walker’s father. Dick always repeated the last few words of everything his brother said, as though he didn’t have any ideas of his own.’
‘And he still hasn’t,’ Jenny agreed, adding, in case she had given me the wrong impression, ‘But I love him dearly.’
‘I never doubted it,’ I told her. ‘He’s a lovable fellow.’
When the rain eased a little, I saw her home to her cottage near Temple Church, received back my soaking hood and refused her pressing invitation to step inside and take a cup of ale before going home to supper. The thunder had moved away, rolling over the distant hills, and the sun was reappearing from behind the clouds, which were now beginning to disperse. I needed to be on my own, to mull things over.
I walked home to Lewin’s Mead deep in thought, hardly conscious of the crowds of people re-emerging from shelter now that the brief summer storm had passed, nor of the gently steaming cobbles and piles of rubbish in the middle of the road. My earlier feelings of guilt concerning Master Overbecks were swamped by relief that I had, after all, listened to Adela’s and Cicely Ford’s advice and refused his offer of accommodation. He may well have intended no harm towards me or mine, but after talking to Jenny Hodge, all my misgivings about his wife had been revived. It struck me forcibly that John Overbecks did not always know where Jane was or what she was up to; that his control over her was less than I had imagined. Where, for instance, had she been today, and what had she been doing during the hours when she claimed to have been with Jenny? Did she often manage to slip away, sometimes without him noticing her absence? Had there been other occasions when the baker had thought her safely in Jenny’s company, when she had really been about business of her own? But what business? Jenny had called her cunning and devious, ‘queer in the head’. I found myself wondering about the deaths of both Jasper Fairbrother and Walter Godsmark. If they had been blackmailing Jane, neither a knife in the back nor a push into the river was beyond her capability.
I reached home to find the cottage strangely quiet without the two older children, but this blessed peace was shattered as soon as my presence was detected by the dog and the baby. Hercules hurled himself at me, barking like a fiend, while Adam set up a squalling fit to deafen less sensitive ears than mine.
‘They were both asleep. You’ve disturbed them,’ Adela accused me, laughing as I tried vainly to detach the dog from my left leg, to which he had taken a sudden and highly embarrassing fancy. ‘He’s pleased to see you,’ she chuckled.
‘I can tell that,’ I snarled. ‘Just help me get rid of him, will you? What’s for supper?’
‘Oyster broth.’ She surveyed my bedraggled appearance with a wifely frown. ‘Your hair’s soaking wet. Why aren’t you wearing your hood?’
While I dried myself and rubbed my head with the linen cloth she threw me, I gave her a rough outline of the events of my afternoon, and then, over my dish of oyster broth, I filled in the details. Adela did her best not to assume an I-told-you-so look, but when I had finished speaking, she could not resist remarking, ‘I hope you’re convinced now that living so close to Jane Overbecks wouldn’t have been a good idea.’