I nodded. ‘Do you mind if I stay out here for a while? Just to give myself time to think.’
‘By all means.’ The landlord spread his hands. ‘You’re not disturbing anyone. I’ll send a lad out with a mazer of ale.’
I thanked him and he vanished indoors, where I soon heard his voice raised in anger at one of the pot-boys. I stared ahead of me, deep in thought, impervious to Hercules’ tugs on his lead. The dog gave one final disgruntled yap before settling down, but he let me know he wasn’t pleased by cocking his leg and peeing all over my ankle. But even that didn’t bother me; at least, not for the moment. I was too deep in thought. Later, I might find time to get annoyed.
Trouble in the Scots royal family was probably as commonplace as it was in our own, and recalcitrant brothers were no novelty for any ruler. All the same, if the Dominican friar were to be believed, this sounded a little more serious than most fraternal disagreements. Accusations of treason were being levelled by King James, and one of his brothers, the Earl of Mar, had already been found dead in dubious circumstances. The Duke of Albany was probably in hiding somewhere in this country, trying to find a ship to carry him to France.
So, who would be looking for him? King James’ agents for a start, hoping to drag him back to Scotland to face almost certain death. Secondly, our own king’s spies would be scouring the country, needing to discover him before the Scots did if King Edward were to gain a valuable hostage and a pawn in the bargaining game. Or they might be working together.
And where would these gentlemen be searching for their quarry? Common sense suggested the harbour towns and ports of south-east and southern England as the likeliest places. Dover. Rye. Sandwich. Portsmouth. Plymouth.
So why were Timothy Plummer and a mysterious Scotsman meeting secretly in a Bristol alehouse?
Fourteen
‘You’re late,’ Richard Manifold said as I presented myself in the Councillors’ Hall beside Saint Ewen’s Church.
‘How can I be late?’ I countered. ‘You set no specific time. Afternoon, you said. It’s afternoon.’
‘Don’t be obstructive.’ He beckoned forward his clerk, a sour-faced man with a scrawny throat and a sharp little nose that quivered in constant anticipation of trouble. ‘Master Peters will take down your statement.’
I looked around me, pointedly ignoring the clerk’s raised quill as it hovered above the inkwell.
‘Where’s the beggarman?’ I asked. ‘Or has he been and gone? If so, I’d like to hear exactly what he had to say.’
I noted the flicker of a glance between sergeant and clerk before Richard said firmly, ‘You’re here to give your statement. Nothing else need concern you.’
‘He hasn’t made one, has he?’ I asked, hazarding a guess.
But it didn’t need second sight to work out that Timothy had never intended to present his evidence formally. Having directed Richard’s attention towards Burl Hodge and away from the Avenel family and their activities, he would make himself scarce. If he did reappear in his beggarman’s disguise, which I somehow doubted, he would steer clear of the law as much as possible.
‘I know where to put my hand on our friend when I want him,’ Richard boasted, but I could see by the shifty gleam in his eyes that he was lying. ‘You just give me your version of Burl Hodge’s attack on Robin Avenel yesterday evening. I’ve told you: that’s all you need worry about.’
I thought of refusing, but there had to be other witnesses beside Timothy and myself who had observed the quarrel. What was to be gained by landing myself in the bridewell?
So I told the clerk what he needed to know, mitigating Burl’s part in events as far as possible, but without much success. On Richard’s command, whole sentences were struck from the record as being irrelevant. At last, however, I was free to go; which was just as well because by this time I was in a towering temper. I untied Hercules’ string and dragged him downstairs and out into Corn Street, where I crossed to the Green Lattis. A cup of ale would speed my recovery. I wanted to think.
I had proceeded to the Councillors’ Hall directly from the Full Moon, having decided to get the unpleasant business of the afternoon over and done with before considering the fresh knowledge with which the Full Moon landlord had presented me. But while walking across the Frome Bridge, I had recalled the man I’d heard in the ‘murder’ house at Rownham Passage; remembered the accent I had been unable to place. Could its owner have been a Scot? Yet his words had been clear enough. ‘What are we going to do with him? Toss him in the river?’ And then, ‘I’ll use my knife. Finish him off.’
I sipped my ale thoughtfully. So … A Scot whose way of talking was not totally incomprehensible to my Saxon ears. An educated man, therefore; one who was accustomed to mingling with Englishmen and to modifying the thickness of his speech for their understanding. I recollected the ring I had found embedded in the mattress and which now reposed in my secret hiding place at home; the rich chasing of the gold band and the two letter As carved into the roundel. A for Albany, perhaps? But if that were so, it brought me full circle to my original question. What would the king of Scotland’s fugitive brother be doing in Bristol? And what possible connection could he have with Robin Avenel and his sister? There was no explanation that made any sense.
I abandoned the riddle, for the time being at least, and started looking about me in the vain hope of spotting Timothy, but to no avail. I therefore finished my drink and considered what to do next.
After some reflection, I decided to call at the Avenel house in Broad Street and offer my condolences, but second thoughts told me I was unlikely to be a welcome visitor. However, I had never found this an insurmountable difficulty in the past: I simply took my pack and went to the kitchen door instead of to the front. And servants were very often a more valuable source of information than their masters. I doubted if Robin Avenel’s servants would be mourning his death with any great sense of loss; at any rate, nothing that the prospect of a yard or two of ribbon or a cheap pair of laces wouldn’t cure. He had never really been popular with any of them.
I stepped out of the cool shadows of the Green Lattis into the blazing heat of the busy street, dragging a reluctant Hercules behind me. For many people the Feast of Saint John the Baptist was a holiday; but as happens so often on these occasions, some are forced to work, some choose to work, and others, like myself, who ought to work because they need the money, use it as an excuse to loaf around and do nothing. So Adela, who had returned home from Redcliffe with the children some time before, was pleasantly surprised by my sudden appearance and my declared intention of collecting my pack.
‘But what about Burl?’ she demurred.
I could tell, however, that her enquiry was half-hearted. I muttered something indistinguishable, adding, ‘I’ll leave Hercules with you,’ and slipped quickly out of the street door in case she should protest. I poked my head back in just long enough to shout a request that we had the rabbit pie for supper, then was gone before there could be any argument on the subject.
I retraced my steps to Corn Street and turned into the narrow lane that runs along the backs of the Broad Street houses, unlatching the gate of the Avenels’ walled garden and letting myself in. Here, at least, very little had changed since Alderman Weaver’s day. The pear and the apple trees still flourished, as did the bed of herbs and simples, although the border of flowers had disappeared. The lean-to privy looked somewhat more dilapidated than I remembered it, but that was only to be expected with the passing of the years.
My knock on the back door was answered by one of the kitchen maids, whose eyes brightened when she saw me.