‘Please! I’ve explained. I can tell you nothing.’
‘Did it have to do with a woman? A man? Or both?’ I persisted.
‘Both,’ the apothecary answered involuntarily, then bit his lip. ‘Damnation! Look, will you please go away! I’ve already said too much.’
‘But not enough.’ I rested my elbows on the dusty counter. ‘All right! Who was the other person asking about the house at Rownham Passage?’
Silas Witherspoon sighed. ‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth. A little fellow, not a great deal taller than myself. He’s not from hereabouts, judging by his speech. London, I reckon. He had a thin, straggly beard that he kept fingering, as though unused to finding it on his chin, and a pair of those “scissor” spectacles that you perch on the bridge of your nose. They kept falling off.’ Timothy Plummer, master of disguise! It could be no other! ‘He was dressed like an out-of-work wool comber, but had a gold ring set with a very fine agate stone.’ Typical!
‘And what did he want to know?’ I asked, adding with heavy sarcasm, ‘Or are you sworn to secrecy about that, as well?’
‘No.’ Silas Witherspoon gave me a blinding smile that transformed his ugly little face into something close to beauty. ‘But I don’t suppose he could foresee that some long-nosed pedlar would be making enquiries about him, or he, too, might have instructed me to hold my tongue.’
‘But as he didn’t …’
‘He simply wanted to know the same as you. Had my house at Rownham Passage been let to anyone at any time in the past few weeks. I told him what I told you. I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Did he ask about Master Avenel by name?’
‘He did. And got the same answer.’
Well, Timothy was no fool. Like me, he could work out how many beans made five. And unlike me, with his superior knowledge of what was going on, he could complete the picture.
‘I’m sorry,’ Silas Witherspoon added, without much sign of regret, ‘that I can’t be of greater assistance. Are you desirous of hiring the house yourself, perhaps?’
‘No, no! Heaven forfend!’ I replied, rather more rudely than I’d intended. ‘I do have reasons for asking about it, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge them.’ He gave his lopsided smile again, acknowledging a hit. ‘However,’ I went on uncomfortably, ‘there is something else I understand you might be able to help me with.’
I glanced over my shoulder to make certain that no one had entered the shop behind me, then leaned even further forward across the counter.
‘Indeed?’ he queried, but there was an expression in his eyes that told me he already guessed what I was going to say.
I explained my present domestic predicament as quickly as I could in a sort of embarrassed mumble. ‘So you see,’ I concluded, ‘neither my wife nor I wish for another child for some while yet. Maybe not for a considerable time. I’ve seen a sample of … of your work. The … the sheath. I wondered if you … er … would make one for me?’
‘I can make you one, certainly,’ he agreed. ‘But they are not easy to sew. It will cost you a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
He named a sum that would normally have kept me and my family in food for a week or more. I thought about it, but only for a moment. Unknown to Adela, I had a small store of money which I had salted away for emergencies. The question was, could this count as an emergency? I decided that it could.
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll pay on receipt.’
‘That’s understood. Do you require small, medium or large?’
‘Large, naturally,’ I said, affronted.
‘I thought you might,’ was the enigmatic response. ‘When it’s ready, do you want it sent? Or will you collect it?’
‘Oh, I’ll collect it,’ I answered hurriedly.
‘This day next week, then.’ He half turned towards a rickety shelf behind him, on which reposed what seemed to be a small stack of parchment, curling at the edges.
‘I have a very good love manual, if you should need one. It contains splendid advice from a number of well known people. Arnoldus de Villanova, for example, writing in the last century, advises a lover to always be sensitive to his woman’s needs, and suggests only caressing her breasts while she sleeps, to save her embarrassment.’ What a spoilsport! ‘Then, in our own time, the eminent physician, Anthonis Guainerius, recommends men should kiss with “sweet sucking of lips”.’ I could go along with that. ‘And Hildegard of Bingen describes making love like “a stag thirsting for the fountain, the lover racing swiftly to his mate, and she to him. She like a threshing floor, pounded by his many strokes and brought to heat when the grains are threshed inside her”.’
I croaked, ‘Hildegard of Bingen? Are you sure?’
Silas was emphatic. ‘Oh, yes. She didn’t just write sacred music and verse, you know.’
Obviously not! But it left me wondering what on earth they got up to in those foreign nunneries three and a half centuries ago.
‘Well, do you want it?’ The apothecary lifted the folio off the shelf and, holding it by its rotting laces, shook it free of dust and dead flies.
I refused as politely as I could. Silas looked disappointed and returned it to its former resting place.
‘That’s up to you. But I think you’d have found it useful. I’ll see you in a week’s time, then.’
I tottered out into the brilliant sunshine and the stench of the summer streets.
I went home, confident that the weight of my purse would guarantee me the warmest of welcomes. Not that Adela was mercenary, you understand, but with the midsummer festivities almost upon us, there were bound to be extra expenses. But although I received a kiss and several words of commendation for my day’s efforts, there was a hint of coolness in Adela’s general attitude that I found difficult to explain.
Difficult, that is, until she said frostily, ‘She’s been waiting to see you. I’ve put her in the parlour. I’ll bring you both in a drink.’
‘Who’s waiting to see me?’ I asked. But suddenly I could guess. My wife’s chilly demeanour suggested only one name.
‘Mistress Hollyns. She called about half an hour ago. I told her I didn’t know how long you’d be, but she insisted on staying in the hope of your early return.’ Adela gave a small, tight smile. ‘It seems she’s in luck.’
‘I didn’t ask her to call,’ I protested.
‘No?’
The monosyllable conveyed a world of disbelief. I could see that it would take time and skill to appease my wife and convince her of the truth. But my first priority was to get rid of Rowena.
The parlour was a smaller, snugger room than the hall, but both were considerably less well furnished than when the house had belonged to Edward Herepath. In the hall, the only thing of any opulence was the big, open hearth with its intricately carved stone mantel, picked out in shades of red and blue paint. Otherwise the room remained empty. But for the parlour we had managed to buy a carved armchair — second-hand — and rescued a flat-lidded linen chest from the central drain in High Street, where it had been thrown to rot along with the maggot-infested meat and decaying vegetables. Some people have always had more money than sense. Adela had brightened up both pieces with hand-woven green and yellow tapestries, and made sure that the floor rushes were changed daily. The broad window seat was clean, but bare. I could still remember a time when it had been adorned with velvet cushions, and when the floor had boasted rugs, not reeds.
As I entered, Rowena rose from her perch on the very edge of the chair and made me a slight, formal curtsey. She gave no indication that we had ever met before, either in the distant or the more recent past.
‘Master Chapman?’ she asked.
My patience snapped. ‘You know very well who I am. I was talking to you only the ten days or so ago. You didn’t seem to have any difficulty recognizing me then.’
The colour surged up beneath the delicate skin.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t … I mean …’ She broke off and, to my horror, the blue eyes brimmed with tears.