I scraped my stool back from the table and stood up, stretching and yawning.
‘I have to go out again, sweeting,’ I said. And it was only when I met Adela’s outraged gaze that I recollected our quarrel.
I knew that I should stop and make things up between us, but I didn’t have time just then. I was filled with a sudden urgency to put my theory to the test. I would have kissed her, but she ducked away.
‘I won’t be long,’ I promised.
In the bright evening sunshine, I, too, paced the distance of Bell Lane and of Jewry Lane from the Fish Street end of Saint Giles’s to Saint John’s-on-the-Arch. Then I entered the church and descended to the crypt, where I walked its and the two cellars’ length. I did it a second time. And a third, just to make sure. But there was no doubt about it. The interior was shorter than the exterior by a good ten paces.
Once again, I conjured up my God-given dream (although the ‘sight’ can be an instrument of the Devil, as my mother had taken care to warn me) and as far as I could recall, the two men bending down had been in the far right-hand corner of the last of the three chambers. It was too dark to see anything in detail, so I went back upstairs to the church and lit a candle, then descended once more, sheltering the flame with one hand.
I knelt down, holding the candlestick as close to the wall as I was able, but saw nothing except damp stones and spiders, the latter scurrying away in high dudgeon, angry at being disturbed. In spite of the heat outside, the chill struck up through my knees, making me shiver. At least, I persuaded myself it was the cold and not fright that had this effect. I shifted the light again and the shadows assumed new shapes. Still I could see nothing but slime and mould. Then I had an inspiration. I drew my knife from its sheath and began to scrape away the patches of lichen that mottled the wall.
How long I had been down in the cellars, I had no idea. I seemed to be losing all track of time and I was growing sleepy. Deciding to stretch my legs and walk around for a while, I picked up the candle, which I had placed on the floor beside me, but as I did so, something caught my eye. I moved the flame closer to the wall, my heart pounding with excitement. And there it was: a tiny six-pointed star carved into one of the stones where I had recently removed a circle of moss no bigger than a thumbnail. I sat back on my haunches, staring at it and wondering what to do next. Tentatively, I put out my right hand and pressed my fingers to the star …
There was a muted rumble, a slight rattle like a hiccough, and a section of the wall, just about big enough for two men to enter abreast, swung inwards on well-oiled hinges to reveal the chamber beyond. I took a grip on my knife and cautiously stepped across the threshold.
There was some unidentifiable source of fresh air in the chamber, but it was not enough to counteract the strong smell of urine and human excrement that met me, and my eyes were at once drawn to the chamber pot that stood near the end of a bed that occupied most of the room’s cramped space. But there were also a chair, a stool and a table, on which stood the remains of a meal. Three or four lighted candles and a flint and tinderbox stood on a shelf above the bedhead, a chessboard and chessmen were scattered over the floor, as if their owner had thrown them down in a fit of pique, while a green velvet-covered book, its laces all tangled, lay alongside them. And seated on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and staring in alarm, sat a man dressed in a soiled white shirt and dark-red hose. A blue brocade gown, together with a woman’s coif and hood, lay beside him.
Several moments of complete silence followed my entrance while we stared at one another. Finally, the figure on the bed rose slowly and stretched to its full height, which was about as high as my chin, but still no word was spoken. I decided I must break the deadlock.
‘Am I addressing His Grace, the Duke of Albany?’
He replied formally, ‘Alexander Stewart at your service,’ and inclined his head. Then formality was thrown to the winds as he demanded violently, ‘And who in the Devil’s name might you be?’ I saw one hand grope behind him, searching for his dagger, which was lying on the counterpane.
I gave what I hoped was a disarming grin.
‘Thomas Bourchier, Archbishop of Canterbury,’ I said, hoping to make him laugh and, much to my surprise, succeeding. Well, he smiled — quite broadly as a matter of fact.
‘Has Elizabeth sent you?’ His Scots accent was thick, but, as I had remembered from our first encounter, sufficiently anglicised as to be comprehensible to my west country ears.
‘No,’ I answered bluntly. There was no point in beating about the bush. ‘I’m the man you’ve twice tried to murder; firstly in the house at Rownham Passage when you thought I was the Irish sea captain, and secondly when you broke into my house two weeks ago. And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t you. You left a shoe behind — a shoe I now know was lent to you by Robin Avenel.’
He had stopped smiling and was looking grim. He had at last found the dagger, and I saw his fingers close around the hilt. I moved swiftly to hold the point of my own knife at his throat, although somewhat hampered, I have to admit, by the candlestick in my other hand. Reluctantly, he released the dagger.
‘Proceed,’ he said. ‘What do you want? Or is that a stupid question? I’m sure there’s a price on my head.’
‘Not that I know of. In any case, I don’t deal in blood money,’ I assured him, but without lowering my knife. ‘Why did you try to murder me a second time? And how did you know where I lived?’
He blinked rapidly. ‘The answer to both questions is Mistress Alefounder. She asked me to do it and she told me where to find your house. She’s afraid of you. She said you can’t keep your nose out of other people’s business and were better disposed of. Sooner or later, she thought, you’d puzzle out what was happening. It seems she was right.’
He was smiling again, so I took a chance and removed my knife from his throat. He made no move to attack me.
‘I’m not the only one who’s been looking for you,’ I said. My anger with Timothy Plummer had still not abated. ‘There’s a government spy in the city, desperate to discover your whereabouts and take you hostage for our king. A bargaining counter to use against your brother, King James. There’s also the apothecary, Silas Witherspoon, who owns the house at Rownham Passage and is one of Henry Tudor’s agents. I have reason to believe that he has also joined in the search. Now, the motives of both these men bode ill for your future good. I, on the other hand, just want to prove the innocence of a friend of mine who’s been arrested for murdering Robin Avenel.’ With a jerk of my arm, I brought up my knife again and pricked the skin of his throat. A bead of blood appeared on his neck. ‘So, what can Your High and Noble Mightiness tell me about that?’
‘I? N-Nothing,’ he stammered. But his eyes shifted sideways and downwards to try to locate his dagger.
I pressed the knife further into his thin flesh and a second gout of blood joined the first.
‘By my reckoning, Master Avenel was killed right outside this door. If you didn’t kill him, you must know who did. I just want to know the name of the murderer, that’s all. Then as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go to Brittany or France or wherever you wish. I shan’t try to stop you, I promise.’
The sweat was standing out on his forehead in great drops.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know, I swear by Christ and all His saints.’ He made to push aside the point of my knife, but I held it steady. ‘Look,’ he said desperately, ‘in return for your help, I’ll tell you all I do know.’