‘Er … not a lot.’
She knew me sufficiently well to accept that this meant nothing at all, and lapsed into disapproving silence. But after we had finished supper and she had despatched all three children to play in the buttery, she left the dirty dishes and coaxed me into the parlour, where she sat me in the window embrasure, drew up a stool and invited me to confide in her what was wrong.
‘For you looked as white as a sheet when you came in, though you seem somewhat better now. I’m afraid you haven’t really got over that near-drowning in the Avon.’
I allayed her fears, assuring her that I was fighting fit, and recounted the afternoon’s events, including the information I had gleaned from the Avenels’ kitchen maid, my conversations with Apothecary Witherspoon and the Capgraves, and my discovery of the bloodstain on the floor of the old synagogue cellars. The only episode I omitted was the appearance and disappearance of the spectral woman, which, since my meeting with Rowena Hollyns, I was now convinced had been some sort of hallucination. I didn’t want Adela fussing any more than she was doing already.
‘So,’ she commented, after a moment’s reflection, ‘you think Robin Avenel was murdered in one of those empty chambers next to Saint Giles’s crypt and his body removed later to Jewry Lane?’
‘I think it possible. Indeed, I’d say it’s probable.’
‘But why? Why would it be necessary to move the body, I mean?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. If I did, I might have a better idea of who the murderer is.’
Adela wrinkled her forehead. ‘But where does Timothy Plummer fit into this puzzle? What’s he doing in Bristol?’
I shrugged. ‘At first, I thought he was just keeping an eye on Robin Avenel, but now I’m convinced there’s more to his presence than that.’ And I told her what I had learned from Jack Hodge and also from the landlord of the Full Moon, together with the tentative conclusions I had drawn from this information.
Adela was as incredulous as I had been.
‘But why on earth would King James’s brother come to Bristol?’ she snorted. ‘If he’s trying to escape to France, surely he’d make for the eastern ports, either in his own country or in this. The west country simply doesn’t make sense.’
‘So I tell myself,’ I answered gloomily. ‘I must try to find Timothy Plummer. I’m certain he holds the key to this mystery. The trouble is, I’ve no idea where to start looking. It’ll mean scouring the city from end to end. And I’ll have to talk to that sea captain, the one Robin Avenel was arguing with. That’s if he and his vessel are still anchored in Redcliffe Backs.’ I began to fret. ‘He could have sailed on the morning tide. Maybe I should go at once.’
Adela said forcefully, ‘You’re not going anywhere else this evening, Roger. It’s raining like the Great Flood and if you get soaked to the skin you’ll make yourself ill for a second time. Besides,’ she added, sitting on my lap and twining her arms about my neck, ‘I’ve bought a cabbage.’
It was so long since she was the one to make any advances, that I was momentarily taken aback.
‘You hate cabbage,’ was all I could think of to say.
‘It’s better than onion juice or bees,’ she pointed out. ‘But, of course, if you’re not interested …’
I tightened my grip on her. ‘Oh, I’m interested, sweetheart. It’s just that I don’t really believe that any of these remedies work.’ A crescendo of screams and yells from the buttery made us both shudder. ‘There must be a more effective way.’
‘Do you know of any?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to admit the truth, but caution held me silent. It would be time enough to test Adela’s reactions to the sheath once it was ready. Meanwhile, we should just have to put our faith in raw cabbage and my own ability and skill as a lover …
I awoke the following morning refreshed and reinvigorated, ready to face a new day, as hopeful as I could be that I had managed to avoid the conception of another child. Which was just as well, as I could already hear Adam stirring in his attic room overhead, and knew it was only a matter of minutes before our chamber door opened and he landed heavily on my chest.
Adela’s insistence on eating the whole of the cabbage, in spite of my assurance that it really wasn’t necessary, seemed to have done her no harm. She lay sprawled beside me, her dark hair strewn across the pillow, a sweet, satisfied smile curling her lips. The sight gave me a warm, smug glow. Abstinence hadn’t made me lose my touch. I was just as good as ever I was.
Even Adam’s usual breakfast-time tantrums failed to spoil our mutual feeling of love and goodwill. And although my wife suggested that I took both my pack and Hercules with me on my wanderings, she did not, in so many words, forbid me to continue with my quest to clear Burl’s name, with the result that, long before the city muckrakers had finished cleaning the streets, I had crossed Bristol Bridge to Redcliffe Back and was trying to decide which of the many ships anchored there might be the one approached by Robin Avenel the night before last.
I had noticed that both the Wine Street and Redcliffe pillories were free of malefactors, and wondered how Luke Prettywood and the apprentices were feeling after their ordeal. They would no doubt be the recipients of further punishment from their respective masters. Later on, I must seek Luke out and commiserate with him.
It was not easy to make my enquiries above the general racket of the quayside. But eventually a Portuguese sailor, who had witnessed the events of Midsummer Eve, and who spoke good English, informed me that the ship and crew I was looking for had sailed on yesterday afternoon’s ebb tide.
‘Do you know where the ship was from?’ I asked him.
‘Oh, yes. From Ireland. Gone back there now, I think.’
‘Ireland? You’re sure of that? Not Brittany or France?’
‘No, no! Ireland. I see captain drinking with his friends in Marsh Street alehouse.’
A slaving ship, then. But why would Robin Avenel be in touch with an Irish slaver?
I thanked my Portuguese friend and walked back to Redcliffe Street, wondering what to do next. I was annoyed with myself that I had let such an obvious source of information slip through my fingers, but the tidings of Robin Avenel’s murder, followed by Burl’s arrest and my own summons to give evidence, had led to muddled thinking and the wrong priorities.
While I debated my next move, I heard myself hailed. ‘Chapman!’
It was Luke Prettywood, looking dreadful with a black eye and a cut running the length of one cheek. Evidence of the filth and ordure thrown at him still clung in places to his shoulder-length fair hair, and his tribulations of the previous day had robbed him of all trace of cockiness. His customary satisfied smile was a travesty of its normal self.
‘Luke! What are you doing in Redcliffe during working hours?’ I clapped him on the shoulder and he winced.
‘I was on my way home. I’ve been dismissed from the brewery.’ He laid an urgent hand on my arm. ‘Roger, have you seen Marianne? I was told you were at the Avenel house sometime yesterday.’
‘But I didn’t see Mistress Avenel. Nor Mistress Alefounder, either, if it comes to that. So! Brewer Alefounder has dismissed you, has he? I’m not surprised. Assaulting a law officer was a stupid thing to do. So why did you do it, for heaven’s sake? It’s a few years now since you wore the apprentice’s flat cap. Why get involved in the quarrels of a pack of silly, muddle-headed boys?’
Luke shrugged. ‘It was something Jack Gload said. I can’t even remember what it was, but it got my goat. He’s such a stupid, ignorant fellow. I tell you what, chapman. Come back with me to the Green Lattis and I’ll buy you a stoup of ale. I’ve still a few coins left in my purse.’
I knew I shouldn’t oblige him — I had other, more pressing matters commanding my attention — but he looked such a sorry sight that I didn’t have the heart to refuse. So I accompanied him back across the bridge to the Green Lattis, and settled with him on a couple of stools near an unshuttered window.