I put a hand to my forehead and realized that I was sweating profusely as my excitement mounted. A pattern of sorts was beginning to emerge. It was all speculative, but there was also a kind of logic to it. First, there was a man who, in his youth, had fought in France and who, on his own admission, had been so revolted by the cruelty of war that he had been tempted to desert (as many another man had done, on both sides, before and after him). I remembered thinking at the time that perhaps he had deserted, but he had taken great pains to refute any such accusation. All the same — ‘You protect the people you love at all costs,’ Goody Godsmark had told me. ‘You lie and steal and cheat and kill for them.’
Who did John Overbecks love enough to lie and steal and cheat and kill for? The answer was simple. His wife: the young, fey girl who had captured his heart in late middle age and whom he adored, worshipped almost. But, once again, why? Why would it be necessary for him to kill to protect her? Suddenly, I thought I knew. Suddenly, everything began to take shape in my head. I could see, too, why, away in Brittany, a young man — not Welsh, but half-English — might enter the service of Henry Tudor in order to get back at the man he hated, a man he knew to be a loyal Yorkist. I also thought I understood why, when an agent was needed to visit known supporters of the Tudor cause in the west country, particularly in and around Bristol, this young man had volunteered. He had a special interest in the city. .
I dragged myself up and out of bed and began to dress. I felt worse than I had expected, and had to stop and rest on several occasions in order to give the room, which was spinning round and round in a disconcerting way, time to settle. Hercules roused himself and barked reproachfully. His dream of a day snuggled up beside me had been rudely shattered.
The door opened and Adela came in.
‘I’ve left Adam at Margaret’s,’ she announced, putting her basket on the table and starting to unpack it. ‘I went to see her before I did my shopping. She said to leave him with her for the rest of the morning. It would give Nick and Bess a chance to get used to him again, before they’re fetched home tomorrow.’ She broke off, suddenly aware of what I was doing. ‘Get back into bed this minute,’ she stormed. ‘You’re not fit to be up and about yet!’
‘I have to go out,’ I argued, struggling to lace my shirt to my breeches. ‘I have to see John Overbecks.’
‘John Overbecks? In heaven’s name, why?’
‘I can’t explain. Not yet, anyway. It would take too long. But I think he may be our killer. Or one of them, at least.’ I pulled on my tunic, then stood still until everything calmed down around me. ‘I’ll be all right once I get outside.’ I buckled on my belt and pouch, then pulled my hood and cape over my head, letting the hood fall back. I picked up my cudgel.
Adela was staring at me aghast. ‘You can’t do this, Roger. You look terrible. Don’t be a fool! If you have any suspicions concerning Master Overbecks — though heaven alone knows why you should — tell them to Richard. I’ll find him and bring him here, if you’ll just be sensible and lie down again. Please! This instant!’
I saw my chance and took it. ‘Very well. You fetch Richard.’
I sat down on the nearest stool, panting a little more than was strictly necessary. I was careful not to add, ‘And I’ll stay here,’ but Adela, triumphant at her apparently easy victory, simply assumed that’s what I’d meant, although, knowing me, it was unlike her to be so careless. I sent up a small prayer of thanks to God.
I walked up Broad Street, my tottering footsteps making me weave from side to side, to people’s great annoyance.
‘Look where you’re going, can’t you?’ was the universal refrain, but I was too intent on my own thoughts to feel any embarrassment. As I crossed over into High Street, someone took my arm.
‘Roger, should you be out? Dick told me what happened yesterday. This can’t be good for you. Does Adela know?’
It was Jenny Hodge, her face puckered in concern and obviously not sharing in her husband’s resentment at my possible future good fortune. ‘Where on earth are you going?’
Just at that moment, ahead of us, I saw Jane Overbecks emerge from Saint Mary le Port Street, her little dog at her heels, and set off down High Street in the direction of Bristol Bridge. I ignored Jenny’s question and countered with one of my own.
‘Jenny, you know Jane Overbecks well. Does she ever go out without John’s knowledge?’
Seeing that the answer was important to me, Jenny forbore to lecture me further and said, ‘I’ve never known her do so. Oh, he doesn’t keep her on a leash, but she likes him to be aware of what she’s doing and where she is. If she gets into trouble, she depends on him to get her out of it. He can’t do that if he doesn’t know where to find her.’ I staggered and she held my arm more tightly. ‘Let me fetch Dick from the shop to help you home. It’s only a step or two.’
I nodded. ‘Thank goodness. I’m going there myself.’
‘Oh! Well, in that case. .’
She looked at me curiously, but when we reached the bakery door and I made it plain that I wanted to go in alone, she left me to it, good soul that she was. Jenny was never one to poke her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
John Overbecks was there as usual, his back towards me. He was contemplating a long trestle table, recently set up against one wall, on which stood all his bread and pastry sculptures for Saturday’s feast. They were truly marvellous creations: crenellated castles, ships in full sail, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, the coats of arms of the Bristol guilds, Saint George slaying the dragon, alongside trays of buns, some thick with raisins, others sticky with honey. The centrepiece was the Lord Mayor flanked by all his aldermen, their civic robes glazed red, their chains of office painted gold. There was no doubt about it, John Overbecks was a master craftsman and his works of art would not have disgraced the royal table; indeed, they would probably have exceeded anything that the King’s bakers could have produced. But I was in no mood for offering praise.
He glanced round as I closed the street door and stood with my back to the neighbouring wall. We looked steadily at one another for several seconds before I turned my head and showed him my bruised and swollen face.
‘Your work, I fancy,’ I said mildly. But he wasn’t deceived.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he answered. ‘Yes, my handiwork. It was meant to kill you. I realized that you were getting too dangerous. You were seen yesterday in the company of Richard Manifold. You have the luck of the devil, Chapman.’
‘Perhaps.’ I smiled. ‘But yours has just run out. I’m on to you. You and Marion. You, too, have been fortunate. You’ve had an equally ruthless partner in crime in your sister-in-law.’
It was his turn to smile. ‘Would you care to explain what you’re talking about?’
‘Oh, come! Don’t let’s play games, John. Four deaths. Two, I think, to be laid at your door. Two at Sister Jerome’s.’
He dropped the bluster. ‘Shall we go upstairs and discuss the matter?’ he asked. ‘The bakehouse is too close to the shop.’
I shook my head. I didn’t trust him an inch. He knew that at last I had his measure and was as dangerous as a cornered rat. I settled my back more firmly against the bakery wall.
‘I’m going to talk,’ I told him, ‘and you are going to listen. When I’ve finished, you can tell me if I’m right or not.’
He inclined his head mockingly and leaned against the edge of the trestle table. ‘Get on with it, then,’ he sneered.
‘Very well. Let’s go back ten days, to Monday of last week. .’ I hesitated, then continued. ‘No. Let’s go back to the very beginning. Let’s go back nearly thirty years to Brittany, to the sack of Fougères, where, let us suppose, a young English soldier was so sickened by the horrors of warfare and the atrocities being carried out all around him, that he followed the example of many of his fellow recruits and deserted. (Of course, in later life, he would deny this, making out that he had stayed at his post.) Now, having deserted, what would he do? Where would he go? Well, in our particular soldier’s case, I should guess — and it is only a guess — that some young Breton girl took a fancy to him and gave him shelter. Or her family gave him shelter and she fell in love with him. Later on, he married her and settled down to become a good Breton citizen, husband and father. Am I correct so far?’