‘And well soaked I got,’ she complained, ‘old Tyrrwhit pushing off to the alehouse like that. Although, to be fair, there wasn’t much else he could’ve done, the storm was that bad. So I came home and dried myself, then went across later. Anyway, who are you? And why do you want to know?’
I explained that I was the man Jason Tyrrwhit had rescued from the river and she was immediately all concern, inviting me in and offering me a seat at her table.
The cottage was of the single-roomed variety that I had been used to for most of my life. A mattress was rolled up against one wall, a pillow on top of it. A hearth, on which a small fire burned, occupied the central floor space beneath a blackened hole in the roof, while a table and two stools stood close to the tiny window. A spinning wheel, a water barrel and a cupboard, where, presumably, she kept her meagre store of food, comprised the rest of the furnishings. A solitary shelf was sufficient to hold her tinderbox, a couple of tin plates, a knife and two beakers. These last, she reached down and filled with elderberry wine, which she poured from a cracked pottery jug.
‘So,’ she said, seating herself on the second stool, ‘you’re the young man Jason pulled out of the river, are you? We thought you were dead. You’d hit your head a nasty blow on something or other when you fell in.’
‘I thought I was dead,’ I answered with feeling. ‘But I hadn’t hit my head on anything. Someone did it for me. Tell me,’ I added, ‘from where you were standing, did you see anyone else on the shore before Master Tyrrwhit fished me out of the Avon?’
‘What are you saying?’ she asked. ‘That someone deliberately threw you in?’ I nodded. ‘That’s a very serious accusation.’
‘It’s a very serious crime,’ I retorted, ‘and one I take great exception to. Let me explain what happened.’
She listened carefully to my story, which was patently new to her. It was obvious that Richard Manifold hadn’t paid her a visit; had probably not even been aware of her existence. He had accepted the ferryman’s assessment of my condition — a touch of the sun — and enquired no further. Typical!
‘And you say that all this happened in the old Witherspoon house?’ Goody Tallboys sounded doubtful. ‘Impossible! That place has been empty these fifty years and more. Ever since Silas Witherspoon was murdered by his wife and daughter.’
‘I know that,’ I said, irritated. ‘But that’s not to say the house couldn’t have been occupied for a night or two. Or even for a few hours. Who does it belong to now?’
My companion rubbed her cascade of chins. ‘I think it was the nephew who inherited. Old Witherspoon’s brother’s son. What was he called, now? John? James? That was it. James Witherspoon. He was a young man back then, but he must be getting on by now. Might even be dead, for all I know. He was an apothecary, if I remember rightly. Had a shop in Bristol, near the castle somewhere. Never came to live in Rownham Passage. Said his wife couldn’t bear the thought of the house, not after what had happened there. Or so my mother told me. Tried to sell it, but no one would buy it. So it’s just stood empty, rotting away.’
I thought about this. If James Witherspoon was married, he might well have a son who had continued in his father’s calling. It was a long shot, but worth a try. An apothecary’s shop near the castle, if there was one, shouldn’t be hard to locate. But I still hadn’t had an answer to my original question.
‘Do you recollect seeing anyone on the shore before I was rescued from the river?’ I persisted.
Goody Tallboys shook her head. ‘Let’s see now. I recollect the storm coming on. I was taking a basket of eggs to my sister who lives over on the Somerset side. I saw you get out of the boat with Master Tyrrwhit. He went off to the alehouse, so I took myself back here until the rain should stop. I don’t know what happened to you. I didn’t notice. By the time I’d got myself dry, the weather was on the mend, but when I looked out of my window, Jason was halfway across the river again. So I stayed where I was and waited for him to return. He was about mid-way across when I left the cottage and walked down to the shore. A man with a little boy was there and we got talking. Said he’d crossed from Ashton-Leigh earlier in the day to see his mother, who’d been unwell. He was going to give me details of her illness, but just then we heard old Tyrrwhit yelling and shouting. When we looked round, he was rowing off course towards something floating in the river. That was you.’
‘And you didn’t see anything or anyone further along the bank? No one running towards the Witherspoon house?’
Goody Tallboys shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. Until that moment, I was looking away from the house, you see. And the man, the stranger — I didn’t ask his name — was looking at me. Although, now I come to think of it …’ She sipped her wine slowly, frowning.
‘Yes?’ I asked eagerly, hope reviving.
‘Now I come to think of it,’ she repeated, ‘I do recall the child kept tugging on his father’s sleeve, trying to attract his attention. He was facing in my direction, but not looking at me, if you follow what I mean.’
‘He was looking beyond you? Upriver?’
‘That’s right, dear. Eyes all over the place, bored by the adults’ conversation, as children are. Perhaps he saw something. Perhaps that was what he wanted to tell his father.’
‘He didn’t mention anything later on, after I was safe ashore? He didn’t say anything then?’
‘Oh, as to that, lad, I couldn’t rightly tell you. Not that I know of, at any rate. Might have done to his father. Jason and I were too busy trying to decide if you were alive or dead and thinking up the best way to get you home to Bristol.’
‘And you don’t know the boy’s name, or where he lives?’
She shook her head sadly. ‘Only that he and his father come from the other side of the Avon. Somewhere in Ashton-Leigh.’
That was that, then. I thanked her for her time and trouble, and apologized for bothering her.
‘No bother, dear. I was glad of the company.’ She was struck by a sudden thought. ‘What’s today? Saturday?’ I nodded. ‘Ah, well then! He might be over here, that man. Told me he and the boy usually visit his mother on a Saturday. He’d only made a visit on the Wednesday that week because the old lady had been poorly, and had sent a message across by a neighbour.’
‘Do you happen to know where the stranger’s mother lives?’ I enquired eagerly, but without much hope.
My companion shook her head. ‘But don’t look so downhearted,’ she encouraged me. ‘Rownham Passage ain’t that big. Not above a score of cottages all told. Walk around a bit. Most windows’ll be open in this weather. Pop your head inside. You’ll find him and the boy somewhere. Sure to.’
I was less optimistic. I took her advice, however, having first begged a bucket of water for the cob, still patiently awaiting me. Then I stabled him in the cool of the outhouse belonging to the old Witherspoon dwelling.
It was by now very hot indeed. I removed my jerkin, slung it over one shoulder and retraced my steps towards the main group of houses, Goody Tallboys having assured me that none of her immediate neighbours was a sick, solitary, elderly woman. I had no real expectation of finding my quarry, even when the the hamlet was so small. Goody’s estimate of a score of cottages was on the generous side; by my reckoning there were no more than fourteen. But not all of them had their shutters open, and I could hardly knock on each door demanding to know who was inside.
A brief conversation, however, with a little girl sitting in the dirt and trying to mend a broken hoop with an inadequate piece of string, elicited the information that a certain Goody Longstaff was an ailing widow whose son and grandson came to visit her every Saturday. My informant pointed out the hovel, I parted with half a groat, much to her grateful surprise, then set off at a trot to the other end of the village.