‘And the murder of Robin Avenel?’ I asked. ‘What do you know of that?’
‘I’ve told you, no more than you do. My one concern is to keep his name separate from my search for Albany. Let matters alone there, lad. Your friend won’t be the first innocent man to swing. In the interests of the State, it’s better that this death is resolved simply and cleanly.’
He pressed my shoulder once again and strode off in the direction of the friary. I sat where I was, watching him until he entered the gate and disappeared from view.
Nineteen
I was conscious of an overpowering feeling of rage and resentment against the Spymaster General. I had never before actually disliked Timothy Plummer — I had found him pompous, irritating, self-important, yet nothing that was not eventually forgivable, if not exactly lovable — but now I was overwhelmed with hatred, not just for him, but also for his masters. The State? What new concept was this that could so dispose of innocent lives as if they were worms to be crushed beneath our feet? In the old days, men served their liege lords; living, breathing people who listened to pleas for help and clemency, who were open to reason and charity. But I had been threatened, my wife and family had been threatened, and now Jenny Hodge was likely to find herself a widow — and all because of this heinous, faceless new monster: the State. The wheel of fate and fortune revolves, my friends, but not necessarily for the better.
I realized that I was hot and very thirsty, but judging by the sun it was not yet time for supper. If I went home now, Adela would want to know where I had been, what I had been doing, and, above all, how much I had sold and what money I had earned. So, like many an erring husband before me — and no doubt like many who will come after — I decided to drown my grievances against the world in drink. I dragged myself to my feet, dried my wet hose as well as I could in the long grasses bordering the river, put on my boots and jerkin, shouldered my pack and set off back the way I had come.
The Green Lattis was full at this time of day, and although I recognized most faces, there were one or two strangers among the people crowded around the tables and seated on benches along the walls. I managed to catch the pot-boy’s eye and ordered a cup of ale before beating a local pieman to a stool that had just that second been vacated. The other occupant of this narrow trestle eyed me approvingly.
‘You’re nippy on your feet today, Master Chapman.’
I stared at him, trying to place the thin, tired-faced man who addressed me as if he knew me. There was something familiar about him, but for the moment, recognition eluded my grasp.
He smiled. ‘My name’s John Longstaff. We met at Rownham Passage a week or so back. You questioned my son, Henry, about two women you said had attacked and tried to drown you … Friday’s the day I sell my vegetables in Bristol market,’ he added, seeming to feel that his presence in the alehouse needed an explanation.
‘Of course! I remember now.’ The pot-boy set my cup of ale before me, slopping its contents as he did so, and departed to serve someone else with an equal lack of grace. ‘How is your mother?’ I asked. ‘She was none too well as I recall.’
Master Longstaff sighed. ‘Much the same, I thank you. Always dying, but never quite dead.’ He looked ashamed of this remark as soon as he had uttered it and continued hurriedly, ‘She’s looking after Henry for me. Or he’s looking after her, I’m never quite sure which.’ He set down his own beaker and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand before continuing, a little self-consciously, ‘By the way, there was an odd sequel to your interrogation of my son.’
I raised my eyebrows and waited. He appeared to be faintly embarrassed, although I couldn’t think why, and twisted the half-full beaker of ale between restless hands.
‘When we got home,’ he said, ‘that day, I naturally quizzed Henry further about what he’d seen, just to make sure he hadn’t been making it up.’
‘He hadn’t,’ I interrupted.
‘No, no! I realized that. His story didn’t vary, however many times I made him repeat it. But a day or so later we were visiting my mother yet again and I had to help her to the chamber pot. Henry was in the room at the time, and afterwards he asked me why his grandmother wasn’t made the same as other women. I told him that of course she was. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.’ Master Longstaff took another swig of ale. ‘Finally, I winkled out of him that one of the two women he’d seen pushing you into the river — the one who’d hoisted her skirts up around her waist — had … had … well … had the same thing as you and I and every other man conceals in his breeches. Naturally, I told him this was impossible and that he must have been mistaken, but he swore — and continues to swear — that it’s true. Says he saw it plainly.’ My companion finished his drink in one gulp and rose to his feet, flushing deeply. He really was surprisingly shy. ‘I … I just thought you might be interested to know. I mean, I thought it might have some significance for you. I do hope you won’t take offence at my plain speaking. Well, I must be off, back to my stall. God go with you, Master Chapman. If you’re ever in the manor of Ashton-Leigh, come and see us. Everyone knows where we live.’
He eased his way out of the Green Lattis, now crowded to the point of discomfort, and left me sitting at the table, my mind reeling, while so much that had been a puzzle fell into place. Of course! Of course! What was wrong with me that I had been unable to work out such an obvious truth for myself? My wits had gone wool-gathering, atrophied by my brush with death, by my weeks in bed and by the unrelenting heat.
Elizabeth Alefounder’s companion on Saint Elmo’s Day — that person whom Edgar Capgrave had seen riding beside her as she entered Bristol by the Frome Gate, that person in a wet and muddied blue brocade gown — had not been Rowena Hollyns, had not in fact been a woman at all. I ordered another stoup of ale from the harassed pot-boy and ignored all attempts by the pieman, who had seized upon Master Longstaff’s empty stool, to enter into conversation with me.
I knew now that there never had been a third assailant in that room in the ‘murder’ house. The man’s voice I had heard belonged to my attacker in the blue brocade gown. She was a he, and I had no hesitation in assigning him a name. This surely must have been King James’s brother, the Duke of Albany.
I recollected a question I had meant to put to Timothy Plummer. Who or what was the Midsummer Rose? Now, with my new knowledge, I never doubted but I had the answer. It was the name by which Robin Avenel and his sister referred to their guest in case they were overheard by inquisitive eavesdroppers such as Jess. How Timothy had learned of it, I was unable to guess, although I doubted that anything remained a secret from him and his fellow spies for very long. His network of informers must be formidable. I swallowed some more ale and set my mind to working out what must have been the likely sequence of events.
How, or by whom, the suggestion that he might replace Henry Tudor as the Lancastrian pretender to the English throne had been put to the disaffected Albany, I had no idea, and probably never would have. Nevertheless, I was certain that someone in Brittany had instigated this proposal. While King James’ agents had conducted a vain, and what they hoped was a secret, search for the refugee along the eastern and southern English coast, that someone had accompanied Albany south to Rownham Passage. There, Robin Avenel, alerted to the plan and obviously approving, had hired a night’s lodging for the duke and his escort in the abandoned Witherspoon house on the Avon shore. (‘A couple of friends … both men,’ Robin had told the apothecary.) Meantime, a deal had been struck with Eamonn Malahide for the Irishman to sail an unnamed gentlewoman to Brittany in his ship, the Clontarf. But the captain, running true to form, had somehow managed to discover his passenger’s true sex and identity, and promptly offered to sell the duke back to his brother. He would take him not to Brittany, but to Scotland.