It was just my luck that the first person I saw, and who saw me, was Richard Manifold, attended by his two henchmen, Jack Gload and Peter Littleman.
‘Ah! Roger!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re back at last, safe and sound. Not taken prisoner by the rebels, then?’ Jack and Pete gave a dutiful snigger at this pleasantry. ‘Master Foliot told me that he’d met you and how you’d all taken refuge at Tintern Abbey. I think he was expecting your arrival a day or two ago.’
‘I had business in Gloucester that detained me,’ I answered shortly. And, with no intention of satisfying his obvious curiosity, I went on, ‘Have you seen anything of, or did Master Foliot happen to mention, a pedlar by the name of Oliver Tockney, a Yorkshireman? He left Gloucester ahead of me, bound for Bristol. I’d be glad to know that he was safe. He’d never travelled this far south before.’
The sheriff’s officer bit his lip.
‘Ye-es,’ he answered slowly. ‘Master Foliot did say how you and this Tockney — is that his name? — had struck up a friendship. Said you left Tintern for Gloucester together. But then this other fellow arrived in Bristol without you, oh, all of three days ago. Told Lawyer Heathersett, when he met him in the street, that you’d gone to call on a woman.’ My companion’s eyes gleamed hopefully.
Could one never keep any of one’s business private in this city?
‘That’s right,’ I said casually, adding with malicious pleasure, ‘Adela knows all about it. Get her to tell you the story at supper tonight. I understand we are to have the honour of your company.’
I watched the light of hope die out of his face. ‘I shouldn’t dream of being so inquisitive,’ he replied stiffly. Again, there came a snigger, muffled this time, from Pete Littleman. Richard Manifold glared at him before turning his attention back to me. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Roger, concerning this Yorkshire friend of yours.’
‘Bad news? What. . What sort of bad news?’
‘The worst, I regret to say. He’s dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Murdered.’
EIGHT
‘Murdered?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Murdered,’ Richard Manifold confirmed, while Jack Gload and Peter Littleman nodded lugubriously.
‘When?’
Richard fingered his chin. ‘Let me see. The day before yesterday, was it?’ He turned to his henchmen but, as usual, the pair just looked blank. Mind you, that was their normal expression, so I don’t really know how he told if they were agreeing with him or not. But he seemed satisfied. ‘Yes, the day before yesterday. That would have been Saturday, and he arrived in the city on Friday. Several people noted his arrival, which they might not otherwise have done if he hadn’t wanted directions to Master Foliot’s shop in St Mary le Port Street. Or else to Lawyer Heathersett’s, although he wasn’t sure of his address.’
‘Did he get to see either of them?’ I interrupted.
Richard Manifold shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask them. Certainly Goldsmith Foliot identified the body, but then it seems he’d met the pedlar before.’
‘How. . How was Oliver killed?’ My tongue stumbled over the words as my ears still refused to believe what they were hearing.
‘Strangled from behind with a piece of knotted rope.’ Richard blew his nose in his fingers and wiped them delicately on his sleeve. ‘Favourite trick of thieves and pickpockets.’
‘The motive was robbery?’
‘Of course it was robbery,’ Richard said impatiently. ‘His pack was missing, and Master Foliot understood the Yorkshireman meant to fill it up at Gloucester.’
‘Yes, he did.’ My mind was still whirling. ‘Where are you keeping the body?’
My companion looked bewildered. ‘Keeping the body?’ Pete and Jack gave another snigger. ‘We’re not keeping it anywhere. It was tipped into a pauper’s grave on Saturday afternoon. And it would have gone to the common pit if Master Foliot hadn’t offered to pay the fee for a pauper’s funeral.’
‘You mean,’ I demanded hotly, ‘that there was no inquest?’
‘Inquest?’ Richard Manifold was scathing. ‘Why would the city be put to such a cost when the cause of death was obvious? And what’s more, he was a stranger.’
‘Stranger,’ echoed Jack Gload, in much the same way as five-year-old Adam echoed me. His crony nodded solemnly in agreement.
‘How do you know he was robbed?’ My brain continued to dispute the inevitable.
Richard Manifold sighed. ‘Because,’ he enunciated slowly and carefully like someone speaking to a backward child, ‘as I’ve told you once already, his pack was missing and has never been found, and because strangulation with a knotted rope is, again as we have already established, a favourite method of killing by Bristol’s criminal population. Wake up, Roger! Any more stupid questions?’
This last remark provoked a full-scale explosion of mirth from his loyal followers and attracted the attention of fellow drinkers, who looked around to find out what they were missing.
‘All right! All right!’ I said hurriedly, ordering a beaker of ale from the potboy who had finally arrived, hot, flustered and overworked, to know my wishes. ‘Whereabouts was the body found?’
I could see that Richard Manifold was dying to tell me to mind my own business, but he was supping with Adela and me that afternoon and was afraid to jeopardize his invitation.
‘In one of those alleyways between St Peter’s Church and the Mint,’ was the reluctant answer. He went on quickly, ‘Now, mark my words well, Roger! Just because you knew this fellow and were friendly with him — although not friendly enough, apparently, to accompany him all the way to Bristol — I forbid you to start poking your nose in, snooping about and asking questions. This is a straightforward case of a man, a stranger, being set upon by robbers, probably putting up a fight and consequently being murdered for his pains. A circumstance which, unfortunately, is all too common in this city. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Understood,’ I muttered, taking my brimming beaker of ale from the potboy and swallowing an almighty gulp.
Richard Manifold regarded me suspiciously for a long moment, but then, obviously deciding there was no more to be said, finished his own drink, jerked his head at his two subordinates and quit the Green Lattis without looking back.
I sat on, staring into what remained of my ale and feeling, without being able to pinpoint exactly why, uneasy. But this was swamped by my distress as I pictured Oliver’s wife and family looking for his return up there in distant Yorkshire, waiting week after week, month after month until, finally, when a year and more had passed, reaching the sad conclusion that he was never coming home again, wondering what had happened to him and if his absence were voluntary or not. And, to my annoyance, I also felt guilt, as if I had been responsible for him and somehow let him down. That was nonsense, of course. He was a grown man and in charge of his own destiny. Moreover, it had been his decision to strike as far south as Bristol and, furthermore, he could have waited for me in Gloucester if he hadn’t been so impatient to get on. Of course, if I were being truthful, I had done nothing to discourage his independence: I was heartily sick of his company by that time, and he of mine. All the same, a nagging voice whispered at the back of my mind that I should have done more to protect him. I had been on familiar territory, and had we stayed together, no doubt he would have lodged with us at journey’s end. Adela would have made up a bed for him somewhere and he would therefore not have been out alone at night.
I finished my ale and got to my feet, giving only a cursory nod in the direction of several friends and acquaintances who were trying to attract my attention. Outside, it was cold and damp as the pale November sun struggled in vain to impart a little warmth. I made my way down High Street before turning left into the gloom of St Mary le Port Street where the houses’ overhanging upper storeys made winter of even the warmest summer’s day.