Walking from the High Street, Master Foliot’s shop was situated on my right, halfway between St Mary le Port Church and St Peter’s Church, the latter being flanked on the farther side by the goldsmith’s splendid new house which was the envy of all his friends. That he sold quality wares was obvious by the goods displayed on the counter inside, and by the fact that he had no less than four apprentices, the two younger keeping the furnace stoked, working the bellows and sweeping up the shavings and bits of gold from the floor. The elder lads, one of them probably nearing the completion of his time, learned their craft under Master Foliot’s expert tutelage and, from what I could see, would no doubt set up in competition with him some time in the future.
As I entered, the goldsmith glanced up from examining the setting for a ring which one of his pupils had just finished making. He wore a look of expectancy, hoping for a sale, and his face fell a little as he saw who it was. But then he recovered himself and advanced smiling, one hand extended. ‘Ah! Master Chapman! You’ve returned at last. I suppose — ’ he hesitated briefly before resuming with a suitably altered countenance — ‘you’ve heard about your poor friend, Tockney?’ I nodded mutely, temporarily bereft of words. Master Foliot went on, ‘A terrible thing to have happened! And to the stranger within our gates! A second death coming so soon after that of poor Peter Noakes. . Well, it has shaken me, I confess.’
I cleared my throat. ‘You. . You don’t think by any chance that the two deaths were connected, do you?’
The goldsmith stared at me in much the same way as Richard Manifold had done, as though there was something amiss with my powers of reasoning. ‘Connected?’ he repeated, puzzled.
‘Yes.’
He frowned. ‘But. . Good God, man! Why should there be? No, no! Whoever told you of the pedlar’s death couldn’t have explained it to you properly. The fellow was set on by robbers, his goods stolen and he himself strangled. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times, the Watch should be more vigilant. There should be more torches left burning in the streets at night and a second patrol is needed. .’
I interrupted him with an assurance that the details of Oliver Tockney’s death had indeed been made plain to me. It was just that. . But, I didn’t bother to explain just what it was that had prompted my question because, to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure myself. Instead, I went on, ‘Did Oliver come to see you when he reached Bristol?’
‘Friday last, yes! I gathered that I was his first port of call.’ The goldsmith looked a little shamefaced. ‘I think it was merely a friendly visit, a renewal of our former acquaintance. Nothing more than that. But I’m afraid I was rather short with him. There were two customers in the shop at the time, and I was in the middle of a very lucrative transaction with one of them. A fair sum of money was involved.’
I could picture the scene. In the presence of a rich client whom Master Foliot wished to impress, he had no desire to be hailed as the companion of a shabby pedlar who spoke in a strange dialect. So Oliver Tockney had been given short shrift and had probably walked off in a huff to look for, and secure, lodgings for the night.
‘Was this late in the day?’ I asked.
If Gilbert Foliot felt any resentment at this continued questioning by one inferior to him in station, he didn’t show it. ‘It was getting dark,’ he agreed. ‘But then, it gets dark early this time of year. Oh yes, I recollect now. Both the bells of St Peter’s and of St Mary le Port were ringing for Vespers.’
‘And you didn’t see Oliver again?’
‘No. That is not until the next day, Saturday, when Sergeant Manifold asked me to identify a body which had been found not far from here, in Pit Hay Lane. You must know it. It’s between St Peter’s and the Mint, close to the castle.’
I knew it, and I also knew the origin of the name because Adela had once, and rather surprisingly, informed me of it. It came from two Norman French words, puits meaning well and haie meaning hedge. And the well with the hedge around it was still there, used every day by many people in the vicinity and by many of the pilgrims who came to St Peter’s to worship at the shrine of St Mary Bellhouse.
‘Why did the sergeant ask you to identify the body? Was he aware of your previous connection with Oliver?’
A shade of annoyance crossed the goldsmith’s face and I wondered if I had strained his patience too far. But although he compressed his lips for a second or two, he answered pleasantly enough, ‘I believe Lawyer Heathersett, who Sergeant Manifold had reason to visit a day or so earlier, had mentioned something of our adventures to him.’ (Of course, the three men must have arrived back in Bristol almost a week earlier. The atrocious weather had eased, the rebels had dispersed and the horse ferry across the Severn was most probably again in use. I daresay there had been no need for them to ride north to Gloucester, after all.) ‘So when the presence of a strange pedlar in the town was reported to him, Richard Manifold put two and two together and made four. And when the poor man’s body was discovered on Saturday morning, not so very far from here, he did the same again and came straight to me. A very intelligent fellow, Manifold.’
I could have argued with that, but it was neither the time nor place. Besides, honesty compelled me to admit that I was biased against the man. Instead, I changed the subject. ‘How did Master Roper take the news of his nephew’s death?’ I asked.
‘As one would have expected,’ was the tart rejoinder, and I could tell that the goldsmith’s goodwill was at last running out. One of the senior apprentices had been standing patiently by for some little while, waiting to attract his attention. It was high time that I took my leave. I had only been tolerated this long because Gilbert Foliot was possessed of this mistaken belief that I was somehow hand in glove with the king.
‘I hope Mistress Ursula is well,’ I said, turning towards the door.
‘As well as can be expected.’ Another curt response. Then he relented, adding, ‘She’s taken the news of young Noakes’s death badly, I’m sorry to say.’ A snort of derision. ‘Far worse than the lad’s uncle.’
‘Who’s this you’re talking of? Your daughter?’ demanded a deep voice as the door behind me opened, admitting a tall, well set-up man with very blue eyes and a shock of thick, wavy brown hair beneath an emerald-green velvet hat. I recognized him as Gilbert Foliot’s friend, Sir Lionel Despenser and, as luck would have it, the very man I wanted to see.
‘Who else?’ the goldsmith shrugged.
‘Well, you know I’ve offered to take her off your hands at any time,’ the knight said, smiling. ‘As her father, she’d have to obey you. And — ’ he gave a falsely modest smile — ‘although I say it myself, I’m quite a catch. You’d be surprised — or then again perhaps you wouldn’t — at the caps that have been set at me.’
The goldsmith laughed. ‘I’ll say this for you, Lal, you never try to hide your light under a bushel. . One day, maybe, we’ll arrange it. But not just at this present. So what brings you in from Keynsham?’
‘Originally, to find out how you got on during your journey into Wales. But as I had some business with Henry Callowhill first — a couple of butts of malmsey he’s been keeping for me — you may assume I know all there is to know about it already. What a gossip the fellow is! All the same, I thought I’d like to hear your version of events.’ Sir Lionel, suddenly becoming aware of my presence, gave an irritated frown and raised his strongly-marked eyebrows as much as to say, ‘Who is this fellow?’
Gilbert Foliot looked a little surprised himself to find me still present, but made the necessary introduction. ‘This is Master Chapman. Roger Chapman. I feel certain you must be acquainted with the name.’
Was there a note of caution in his voice, or had I imagined it?
‘Oh, that man.’ The knight laughed.
I bowed subserviently. ‘Sir Lionel.’