‘What makes you say that?’
He smiled the insouciant smile of the carefree bachelor. ‘When men look as glum as you do, it’s never anything else.’
‘Never?’
‘Well, hardly ever. Want to tell me about it? The lads’ll be some time yet.’ And he shouted a word of encouragement to the toiling apprentices. They glowered at him in return.
I hardly knew him. I should have said nothing. But I needed to unburden myself to someone. When I’d finished, he nodded understandingly.
‘Avoiding children is always a problem,’ he acknowledged with the world-weary air of a man twice his age. ‘I’m not married myself, but as you know I’m not celibate, either.’ He gave me a nudge and a wink before fishing in the leather pouch attached to his belt. ‘Ever seen one of these?’ He held out his hand.
On his palm lay what appeared to be a sheath for a knife blade, except that it was made from very fine skin or, more likely, a membrane. A calf’s or pig’s bladder, I reckoned after a closer inspection. I had heard about these things, but had never seen one. All the same, I could guess its function by its shape. I also knew that generally they were for use only by the nobility, and not for the likes of Luke Prettywood or me. The proliferation of peasant stock was necessary for the successful running of the country. Who else would perform menial tasks, or be sent as common foot soldiers in time of war?
I asked Luke where he’d got it and how much it had cost.
He grinned. ‘There’s an apothecary that makes them. For a price, naturally. He has a shop near the castle, on the corner of the Pithay and Gropecunt Lane.’ Handy for the brothels, then. ‘Funny little humpbacked fellow called Witherspoon.’
Witherspoon! An apothecary with a shop near the castle! I really should have to take myself in hand. Goody Tallboys had told me of Witherspoon, and I had forgotten all about him. Of course, I had promised Timothy Plummer and, more importantly, Adela, not to pursue any enquiries that might have to do with the events at Rownham Passage. But this was different. I needed to visit the apothecary, I told myself, on a personal matter.
‘Does it work?’ I asked. ‘Or wouldn’t you know?’
Luke chuckled. ‘Oh, I know all right.’
I quirked an eyebrow. ‘Mistress Avenel?’
The chuckle slid into a self-conscious laugh. ‘Now why should you think that?’
‘I saw the pair of you in the crypt of Saint Giles that day. Besides, it’s general gossip.’
He looked uneasy. ‘Master Avenel knows nothing, I’ll swear.’
The apprentices had finished filling the barrels and loading them back on to the handcart, and were now taking their ease on the river bank. I lowered my voice to a whisper.
‘Then you and the fair Marianne had better be more careful.’
Luke gnawed his thumb, looking troubled. ‘You wouldn’t say anything to Master Avenel, would you, chapman?’
‘Of course not!’ I exclaimed, revolted by the very idea of myself in the role of informer. ‘You and the lady aren’t planning anything foolish, are you?’
He gave what was meant to sound like an amused, man-of-the-world laugh, but which sounded somewhat hollow to my ears.
‘No, no! In truth, I rather fancy that maid-companion of Mistress Alefounder. And I rather think she favours me.’
‘A very beautiful woman,’ I agreed, subduing an impulse to punch him on the nose. I saw my opening. ‘Do you see much of her and Mistress Alefounder?’
‘Mistress Alefounder calls in at the brewery now and then. Her late husband was Master Alefounder’s nephew, you know.’
I nodded. ‘And what do you think of her? There are rumours that she and her brother are loyal to the Lancastrian faction.’
Luke Prettywood shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not interested in politics, myself. Although, now you mention it, I did hear Master Gregory the other day telling her to guard her tongue, and he wouldn’t have that sort of seditious talk in his brewery.’
‘And Mistress Hollyns?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What about her?’ He had already forgotten his vaunted interest in Rowena and was pulling petals off a daisy like any lovelorn youth. ‘She loves me! She loves me not! She loves me …’
I remembered my wilting dog roses and proffered one.
‘It’s Midsummer’s Day the day after tomorrow,’ I reminded him. ‘An occasion for the women to play at that game.’
He turned up his nose at my offering and glanced over at the apprentices, two of whom had fallen asleep. ‘Time we were getting back,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I hope things go well for you at home, chapman.’
‘And you take care!’ I warned him, but he merely laughed.
‘Oh, I can look after myself,’ he assured me, waving a hand in farewell.
I hoped he was right. As for me, I threw away the almost dead dog roses and decided that this Midsummer’s Day I would live dangerously and buy Adela a rose from a street seller, waiting with baited breath while she denuded it of petals. ‘He loves me! He loves me not!’ The answer would be unknown to both of us.
But now I had another visit to make before returning home.
It would have been easy to miss the entrance to the apothecary’s shop on the corner of Gropecunt Lane, so discreet was it. Indeed, I walked the entire length of the street without noticing it, and it was only on the return journey, steadfastly ignoring the invitations of the madams seated at the doors of their respective whorehouses, that I found it, just where Luke Prettywood had told me it would be.
The shop was as dark and dingy inside as it was outside, the light which filtered through a single, dirty window augmented merely by two miserable tallow candles standing on the counter. There was a peculiar smell about the place, too, like a very old, very dead rat. I gagged and wished I still had my roses.
Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I was aware of being watched. A small man, about half my height, with a bowed back and a disfiguring hump, was regarding me from behind the counter with a pair of bright, shrewd eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured. Not at all what I had expected.
‘Did you want something, young man?’
‘Er … Master James Witherspoon?’
‘No. I’m Silas Witherspoon. James was my father. He’s been dead these fifteen years. What would you be wanting with him?’
‘Ah! Well … Nothing really. Not if he’s dead, that is. But you may be able to help me.’
I approached the counter. The unpleasant aroma became stronger. Silas Witherspoon saw me wrinkle my nose and laughed.
‘I’m boiling up my winter remedy for chilblains. A rather evil-smelling concoction of different fungi which, when it cools, is very much more efficacious than spiders’ webs. Not so cheap, of course,’ he added with a smile, ‘but it works faster. Can I persuade you to buy some? No? Ah well! It is rather difficult to think of winter in this heat, I agree. So! As I say, my father’s dead, but if I can be of any assistance …’
I hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘Are you the present owner of the old “murder” house at Rownham Passage?’
‘I am.’ He frowned. ‘This is most strange, you know. That place has been like a millstone around the neck of both my father and myself. No one has wanted to know about in half a century. Now you are the third person to enquire about it in the past few weeks.’
‘The third? Who was the first?’
‘I’m afraid I not at liberty to tell you that. I was sworn to secrecy.’
‘Then let me guess. Was it Master Avenel of Broad Street?’
He looked disconcerted. ‘I … No … I mean, I can’t say. I told you, I promised secrecy.’
‘That means yes then. What did Master Avenel want with the house? Did he want to rent it? How long for?’