Glancing round, I saw that I was standing close to the steep flight of steps leading down to the crypt. On a sudden impulse, and as no one appeared to be even slightly interested in my movements, I descended to the vault below. The same smell of must and decay that I had noticed previously met my nostrils as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. Cautiously, I inched my way forward, past the coffined rows of Christian dead and on into the second chamber of what had once been the synagogue cellars. Here, everything was as I remembered it from Friday morning, with all the parish’s unwanted bits of furniture and other rejected items ranged along the walls. Suddenly, I recollected what Jack Nym had told me — that the preceding week he had brought a bed and some other bits and pieces here for Robin Avenel.
Now, beds were as valuable a commodity in my young days as they are today, in my dotage. I was intrigued, therefore, to discover what sort of bed it could be that even a rich man could discard with impunity, especially with a household as large as Master Avenel’s. But although I looked long and hard amongst the rickety chairs, bales of rags, stools with two legs that were meant to have three, handle-less pots and pans and all the rest of those things that ‘might come in useful one day’ and so were hoarded rather than actually thrown away (to the greater profit of Saint Giles), I could find no bed of any shape or size, broken or dismantled.
To begin with, I thought I must have missed it in the gloom, but a second search, after my eyes had adjusted to the crypt’s dim light, convinced me that there was nothing there that resembled a headboard or a mattress or the empty wooden frame of a bed. So I walked forward, under the second archway and into the third chamber of the synagogue cellar, where I had seen Luke Prettywood and Marianne Avenel embracing the day before yesterday. But even though it was darker than ever in there, I could see that it was empty. The dust, rising in little clouds wherever I put my feet, made me sneeze violently.
I had turned to look behind me, back the way I had come, when a sudden noise made me spin round sharply. But the chamber was deserted except for myself. I was alone. There was nothing or no one there. After a few seconds, during which I stood stock still, almost afraid to move, I regained my courage and prowled around the room’s perimeter, trailing one hand along the rough stone walls that oozed with damp and slime. I tried to recall the nature of the noise I’d heard, the quality and density of the sound, but, as always in such cases, it grew more difficult to recapture the more I thought about it. In the end, the best I could say was that it had had a kind of hollow resonance — a thump and yet not a thump.
Something — a door, perhaps — closing? I remembered the story of the Jews’ secret chamber, and the local belief that had persisted for so many years after their expulsion that it had contained their abandoned hoard of gold and silver. Prompted into fresh action, I started rapping the walls, but all I got for my pains were bruised and bleeding knuckles, which, I felt, served me right for being such a credulous fool.
The silence now was all-encompassing. I could no longer hear even the distant murmur of voices from the church above. There was no living being down there except myself, only the sad ghosts of a long-gone past to keep me company and play tricks with my imagination, mocking me with phantom noises made by the dead.
I turned on my heel and strode the length of the crypt, ascending thankfully into the sunbeamed quiet of the nave.
Nine
For the next ten days I schooled myself to follow my own advice; to keep my nose clean and not to meddle in matters that were not my concern.
But they were my concern. I had been assaulted, nearly murdered, and the two women responsible were living quietly in the next street, going about their business, the model of two well-respected citizens. Still, as I say, I taught myself to ignore their existence; and on those occasions when it was impossible to do so, I touched my forelock with all the humility that was expected of a humble pedlar whose material good fortune had in no way enhanced his social status. (And he had better not forget it!)
All the same, it lifted my spirits to note the inconspicuous, but assiduous attention being paid to the Avenel household by Richard Manifold. It was heart-warming to remember the number of times in the past few days that I had met him either sauntering up or meandering down Broad Street, apparently looking at nothing in particular, but in actual fact keeping a close watch on the comings and goings in Alderman Weaver’s old house. And once, I ran into — literally — a heavily disguised Timothy Plummer on the corner of Broad Street and Corn Street. Well, he thought he was heavily disguised. I recognized him instantly. I apologized for stepping on his foot; he glared and called me a name I prefer to forget, but I remained faithful to my promise and pretended we were strangers. But I had no doubt as to his purpose in being there: he was observing the Avenel house on the opposite side of the street.
Fortunately for my peace of mind, I had other things to think about. We were approaching Midsummer Eve and Midsummer’s Day, with all their attendant jollifications.
On June 22nd, the day before Midsummer Eve, the rose sellers were out in force on the streets of Bristol, peddling their overblown wares. But, as I had told Jack Nym, the Midsummer Rose needs to be a flower of simple proportions. The outcome of ‘He loves me, He loves me not’ should never be left to chance. In the past it had not worried Adela when I brought her a dog rose from the hedgerow. Last year, it was true, she had mischievously started off with ‘He loves me not’, thus altering the desired resolution, but she had done so laughingly, teasingly, and had been prepared to demonstrate her affection afterwards. This year, however, I was not so sure of her reaction to any overture on my part. We seemed to be drifting further apart with each passing day, while our nights, when we weren’t sleeping, were spent in a constant passage at arms, with me attacking, she defending. In the past, I would have taken my troubles to Burl Hodge and received sound advice in return, but Burl’s jealousy had come between us. We were no longer friends.
Instead, I found myself confiding in, of all people, Luke Prettywood.
June 22nd that year, as I remember, was extremely hot, with a hint of thunder in the air. I had had a long, tiring day and was making my way homewards through the broad meadows below the castle, carrying, as well as my almost empty pack, a bedraggled and tattered-looking bunch of dog roses. As I sat down for a well-earned rest on the banks of the Frome, Luke Prettywood arrived. He was in charge of a handcart laden with barrels and pulled by half a dozen stout and sweating young apprentices. These youths set to work filling the barrels with water from the river, while Luke sat down beside me and watched their labours with the malevolent enjoyment of the foreman.
‘What’s going on?’ I enquired.
Luke grinned. ‘It’s the city’s Great Red Book again, isn’t it? Bristol brewers ain’t allowed to draw water from the public conduits for fear of upsetting the supply to our beloved private citizens, who might not be able to wash, or even take a bath, as often as they’d like.’ He roared with laughter. ‘So we take water from the Frome. It’s what gives Bristol beer its special taste.’ He regarded me with interest. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and picked up a groat.’ He added shrewdly, ‘The wife I’d guess, by all the signs.’