‘Robin called here. About the third week of May. Before his sister came to stay with him. Wanted to know if he could rent the house at Rownham Passage for a night. Beginning of June.’
‘Did he say why?’
Silas leaned closer. His breath smelled powerfully of garlic.
‘Two friends of his were coming from Worcester, on pilgrimage to Glastonbury. He couldn’t house them because Mistress Alefounder and her maid would be lodged in Broad Street by then.’
I gave a derisive snort. ‘And Bristol has no decent hostelries where they could have stayed? You didn’t believe his story?’
The apothecary laughed. ‘No, of course not. But that house has been like a millstone round my neck for years. I was hardly likely to turn down the chance of making a bit of money from it, now was I? And what he offered was generous, considering the state of the place. If you want to know what I really thought, it was that Robin was having a secret rendezvous with a woman. Someone he didn’t want either his wife or his sister to know about. He asked if there was a bed in the house. I said yes, but nothing fit for a lady.’
‘And what was his answer to that?’
‘He said there was no lady, just two men. I thought he was trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but I couldn’t say so.’
I digested this for a while.
‘So who do you think killed Master Avenel?’ Silas asked in time.
‘Footpads? Pickpockets? The streets aren’t safe anywhere nowadays. But of one thing I’m certain: it wasn’t Burl Hodge.’
‘Mmm.’ Silas puckered up his mouth. ‘They say Robin Avenel wasn’t robbed. Still had his rings and purse on him when he was found. Leastways, that’s what I was told. In which case, it doesn’t sound much like thieves to me.’
I shrugged. ‘Time will tell.’
The bright eyes regarded me shrewdly and Silas scratched his deformed shoulder with long, talon-like nails. ‘Do you connect this murder with what happened to you at Rownham Passage?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard the story now, have you? I didn’t think, when we talked the day before yesterday, that you knew anything about it. In fact, you enquired if my interest meant that I wanted to hire the house myself.’
‘Ah!’ He appeared to be unnecessarily disconcerted by this remark. ‘It would seem that that particular piece of gossip was slow in reaching me for some reason or another.’
‘Very slow,’ I agreed. ‘It happened three weeks and more ago.’
‘Well, there you are, then!’ he exclaimed, spreading wide his beautiful hands, as if proving something.
But what he had proved I wasn’t quite sure. It struck me as odd that the story had passed him by, when practically everyone else in the city had known of it from the moment I was brought home in the farmer’s cart. I tried to work out why this fact might be significant, but failed.
‘I must be going,’ I said. ‘Thank you for the information.’
‘I hope it’s been of some help.’ His eyes twinkled roguishly. ‘I shall have your order ready for you soon. A large size, I think you said?’
I suddenly felt embarrassed and made my escape. The suffocating heat of the midday streets had lessened, and between the overhanging roofs I could see a wrack of feathered cloud imprinted on the blue. I thought of Luke Prettywood and the apprentices still languishing in the pillory and was grateful on their behalf as well as my own. I paused, pondering my next move, then decided to see for myself the scene of the crime.
I made my way, therefore, to Jewry Lane. A man crossing the Frome Bridge in my direction hailed me.
‘Ah! Chapman! Daydreaming as usual?’ The tone was pitched somewhere between the jocular and the offensive.
I smiled. ‘Master Capgrave! What a pleasure! Have you deserted your post as gatekeeper?’
He told me he was on his way home to Fish Lane, so he joined me, his rolling gait, reminiscent of a sailor’s, being the only way in which his spindly legs could maintain the balance of his short, squat body. The small hazel eyes beneath their beetling brows regarded me knowingly.
‘I’m not on duty today. Come to see where Master Avenel was murdered, have you?’
‘I’m curious, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Sergeant Manifold has arrested Burl Hodge and I’m not convinced of his guilt.’
‘So you’ve decided to do a little sleuthing of your own, is that it? Ah well! Good luck to you. I’ve never thought Dick Manifold one half as clever as he thinks himself. But I can’t assist you, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ve given evidence in the case. The sergeant told me.’
‘Then he must also have told you that I saw nothing. The body wasn’t here when I went home yesterday evening.’
‘You couldn’t possibly have missed seeing it, I suppose?’
A stupid question which thoroughly deserved the scathing look he turned upon me and the note of utter contempt with which he answered.
‘No! I couldn’t have missed it. What sort of unobservant idiot do you take me for? There were precious few people about. They were all at the Midsummer Eve feast, stuffing their guts and getting drunk, while those poor buggers like me, who are always at the public’s beck and call, were keeping the city safe. Even my wife,’ he added viciously, ‘had gone off with her friends.’
It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that he could have joined the feast when he came off duty, but I had summed him up as one of those people who enjoy a grudge. So I merely asked, ‘Did you see anyone at all?’
He shrugged. ‘Only old Witherspoon, the apothecary. I don’t think he cares for all this junketing, either. It’s his deformity, I suppose. People laugh at him.’
‘What was he doing?’ I demanded.
‘Doing?’ The gatekeeper sneered. ‘What should he be doing? He was just walking along by Saint Giles’s Church and minding his own business. Going home, presumably.’
‘Then he could have been to the feast and left early.’
‘Could have been, aye. But I doubt it. I told you. He isn’t comfortable in the presence of a crowd, especially of young people when they’ve had more to drink than is good for them. They pick on him. Make fun of him.’ I wondered if the same applied to the gatekeeper, but kept my thoughts to myself. ‘Although now I come to think of it,’ Edgar continued, ‘maybe he had had a drink or two. He was behaving rather oddly.’
‘In what way?’
‘We-ell … It was nothing really. Just the manner in which he was walking. He was keeping close to the wall of Saint Giles’s and the other buildings, and taking very precise, evenly paced steps. I spoke to him and remarked on the increase of noise coming from the direction of the city streets, where the feast was being held. He didn’t answer, although he’d heard me. He seemed to be concentrating on his feet, and it did occur to me then that he might have had a cup or two of cuckoo-foot ale. But when he reached Saint John’s Arch, he turned round and called out, “Good evening to you, Master Capgrave! A growing crescendo of noise, as you say.” Well, that wasn’t quite what I’d said, as you can guess. A bloody great row was what I’d called it. “It sounds to me,” he adds, “as if there’s trouble brewing. I’m going home while the going’s good, and if you’ve any sense you’ll do the same.” So I did. And he was right, as it turned out. Apprentices’ riot. Haven’t had one of them in Bristol for a year or two now.’
‘What about your wife? Was she all right?’
‘She’s always all right,’ he answered morosely. ‘Can’t get rid of her … And talk of the devil! I must be late for supper.’
A very tall, almost emaciated woman was bearing purposefully down upon us from the direction of Fish Lane.
‘Mistress Capgrave,’ I said before she had time to open her mouth, ‘I’m afraid I’m to blame for detaining your husband.’
I smiled seductively, and for the first time that day my charm seemed to do the trick. The set, angry lines of the angular face softened slightly.
‘Oh well, in that case …’ she simpered.
‘Your husband tells me you were at the feast yesterday evening. I hope you weren’t harmed in the riot.’