‘By coincidence,’ I interrupted, ‘I saw it, and learned its history, for the first time this morning. I understand the church was built on the foundations of the old city synagogue.’
‘That’s right. The Avenels have always had a close connection with the place. It was old Peter Avenel’s great-grandfather, or great-great-grandfather, or some such, who had a hand in helping to build the church on the ruins of the Jewish temple. Not literally, you understand, but he gave generously to the project. Consequently, the Avenels think they own it. Saint Giles, that is.’ Jack regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You really don’t look well, lad. Finish your ale and I’ll take you home.
But by early the following morning, after another night’s undisturbed sleep, I was wide awake long before cockcrow. By the time Elizabeth and Nicholas stormed into our bedchamber and heaved themselves astride my chest, I was ready for them. I had shoved a pillow between myself and the counterpane to prevent myself becoming the most flat-chested man in Bristol.
‘What is he today?’ my stepson asked.
‘A log!’ Elizabeth shouted. ‘Wake up, Father! You’re a log and we’re floating on you down the river Frome!’
Her penetrating tones woke Adela, who groaned and rolled on to her back, throwing out an arm and hitting me in the face as she did so. My two young limbs of Satan laughed so much they fell off the bed, so I wriggled into a sitting position before they could climb back up again. Inevitably, we were joined by Hercules, who tore upstairs, uttering short, ecstatic barks, while Adam stood up in his crib and roared to be lifted out.
‘He’s had me dancing attendance four times in the night,’ Adela announced ominously, struggling up from our goose-feather mattress in order to comply with her younger son’s wishes.
I didn’t know. I hadn’t heard. I’d slept (and no doubt snored) throughout everything, and that could mean trouble. So, being so much stronger and better in every way than I had been the day before, I hastily made plans to remove myself as far as possible from Adela’s neighbourhood once breakfast was over. And if that meant riding to Rownham Passage rather than hanging around Broad Street for a glimpse of Elizabeth Alefounder or Mistress Hollyns, so be it, I decided.
It occurred to me, while eating a second bacon collop, washed down with a third beaker of ale, that a resolution made the previous evening to have nothing more to do with this case — if, indeed, a case it was — had been completely overlooked in my urgent need to get out of the house. Not that Adela often reproached me for my shortcomings, and she knew how much I had been in need of that afternoon and night’s healing sleep. But, as so often happened, she was overtired and overworked and, consequently, short-tempered.
While she washed the breakfast dishes, the children and dog went out to play in the small back yard. This was not large, and most of the space was taken up by our very own pump and lean-to privy — both undreamed-of luxuries in either of our lives until now. Add to these things an apple tree and a little flower bed where Adela had started growing herbs and simples, and the envy of many of our former friends was understandable. This was the town house of a gentleman — which I most definitely was not.
Once the contents of Cicely Ford’s will had become common knowledge, there had, inevitably, been speculation concerning the exact nature of my friendship with this young woman, several notches above me on the social scale. Margaret Walker had warned us that there would be gossip, and she had been right. All I could do was assure Adela that there had never been anything more between myself and that lovely, sad, young creature except gratitude on her part — for proving, too late, that the man she had loved was innocent of murder — and a carefully suppressed affection on mine. Adela had accepted this with her usual generosity of spirit, even though she was fully aware of my susceptibility where fair hair, blue eyes and soft, peach-bloom complexions were concerned. The fact that she herself was the exact opposite, with dark, almost black hair and liquid, deep-brown eyes seemed to convince her that my love for her was real and abiding. And that was indeed the truth. Nevertheless she also knew that I was a man, with a man’s appetites and a roving eye, and was easy prey to flattery and admiration.
I began to inspect the contents of my pack, which had not been replenished since my illness. But there must have been something in my attitude, in my indifferent glance as I turned the remaining items over, that made my wife say sharply, ‘If you’re fully recovered, I hope you intend getting on the road again as soon as possible. We need the money, Roger.’
I turned and made a grab for her, managing to get an arm about her waist and trying to steal a kiss.
‘You are in a bad mood! I know! I know! You’ve had a rotten night while I was snoring my head off. So let me put a smile back on your face. While the children are outside, let’s go upstairs for a while.’
She pushed me away, almost violently. ‘I can’t be doing with all that just now, Roger!’ She sounded exasperated. ‘Men never have any sense of time, how short a day is or how much a woman has to do. Cleaning, cooking, going to market, preserving, mending, teaching the children their lessons.’
I knew that her protest was justified, but I felt hurt and angry at her rejection.
‘If that’s how you feel, then I’ll be off.’ I shouldered my pack and grabbed my cudgel from the kitchen corner.
‘Sweetheart! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to be so abrupt,’ Adela began, but she was still flushed and angry.
‘I know,’ I said lightly. ‘You’re busy. I understand.’ And so I did, but I allowed my tone to imply the opposite. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Don’t expect me back much before curfew.’
‘Roger! Wait!’
I pretended I hadn’t heard, and let myself out of the kitchen into the flagstoned passageway beyond. I hadn’t even bothered to summon Hercules, but had left him, along with the children, to be an additional burden on Adela.
By the time I began to feel ashamed of myself, I had walked as far as the Tolzey, where I managed to purchase a number of small goods — laces, needles, ribbons and suchlike — at very reasonable prices, and which I would be able to sell in the surrounding villages and hamlets for a slightly increased sum. Then I walked down to the Backs and the ships moored along the quayside of the river Avon to see if I could pick up any merchandise of a more exotic nature. Some of the masters were not as scrupulous as they should have been, and had no compunction in stealing and selling various items from the owners’ cargoes.
With my pack now three-quarters full, I decided to set out for Rownham Passage without further delay. I needed to find out for myself what had happened eleven days earlier, when I had been left for drowned by that murderous pair of women. This need was made all the more urgent by the discovery, since I awoke this morning, that my own belief in my story was beginning to falter. Ironically, with renewed health and strength had come increasing doubts about what I actually remembered. Had the ‘murder’ house and all that had happened there really been part of a delirium caused by my immersion in the river? Yesterday, I would have sworn not. Today, I was less certain.
But first, conscience dictated that I go home to make my peace with Adela; apprise her of my plans. I could also relieve her of Hercules’s unwanted presence. In addition, I could leave my pack, admitting that I had no intention of doing any work that day, and trusting that my recent purchases would be sufficient to convince her of my good intentions for the day after next, Monday.