I awoke the next morning very little refreshed and with unresolved questions still going round in my head. Was the man I had seen Walter Gurney? Was the story of his flight a lie? And if so, why? And would Sir Lionel be on such familiar terms with his groom as to embrace him as I had seen the two men embracing the previous night? Perhaps. I recalled Jane Spicer saying that when a travelling barber had brought word of Sir Lionel Despenser seeking a new head groom, Walter had packed his things and left in a hurry. She had assumed that it was because of her hints about adopting Juliette’s baby, but could there have been another motive? Had the two men known one another in the past?
A maid arrived with a ewer of hot shaving water and a message that I would find breakfast waiting for me in the kitchen when I was ready. Sir Lionel, she added in response to my enquiry, had already eaten and left the manor. He would not be returning until late.
So I was to be denied any further conversation with my host. He could have no idea that I had overlooked his meeting with his nocturnal guest — neither man had glanced up and seen me — but he was taking precautions not to be alone with me again. Or, at least, that was how it appeared to me in the suspicious state of mind I was in. But there was nothing I could do about it. Even if I hung around all day waiting for Sir Lionel’s return, what could I accuse him of when, finally, we came face-to-face? Of lying to me about the horse? But to do that I should have to admit that I had spied on him the night before, a sad breach of the rules of hospitality. And it was possible, of course, that Walter Gurney had not really run away. Perhaps he had merely asked his master to concoct a plausible enough story to discourage any further visits on my part. In which case, the best thing I could do would be to go home and wait a week or two before making a further, unheralded appearance. Besides which, I had promised Adela to return as soon as possible — probably the most cogent reason of all for not delaying my departure.
It was almost dark when Hercules and I reached the Redcliffe Gate and we passed through with only minutes to spare before the curfew bell began to toll. The streets were still crowded with people shutting up shop for the night or hurrying home for a belated supper. There was a deal of noise and rowdiness along the Backs, where the foreign ships were berthed, and near the marsh in the street known as ‘Little Ireland’. It was there that the Irish slavers congregated, carrying on their highly illegal trade with any good Bristolian who wished to rid him- or herself of an embarrassing or unwanted member of the family. I had myself had dealings with a couple of the Irish fraternity in the past, but in general I gave the place a wide berth.
Since Oliver Tockney’s murder, I had been more than usually conscious of the evil stalking the streets after dark and so I walked purposefully and with lengthened stride, swinging my cudgel as I did so. As I crossed Bristol Bridge, I stopped to use the public latrine and found it already occupied.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded the gentleman struggling fractiously with the laces of his codpiece. Then, as I began to fiddle with my own, a face was suddenly thrust close to mine and a voice said in relieved accents, ‘Ah! Master Chapman, it’s you!’
‘Master Callowhill,’ I acknowledged as I made out the handsome features and bulky physique of the wine merchant.
‘Yes. I’ve been hoping for a word with you. Will you walk as far as Wine Street with me?’
‘With the greatest pleasure,’ I answered, wondering what on earth he could want. I had a nasty feeling he was going to remain in the latrine with me, but after a second’s hesitation, he withdrew to wait for me outside. When I at last emerged from behind the wooden screens, he was standing a few feet off. Hercules, who had taken the opportunity to cock his leg against the wall of a neighbouring house, gave a low growl and tried to bite the merchant’s ankles. Cursing, I grabbed the dog and tucked him firmly under my arm.
Henry Callowhill cut short my apologies and, to my astonishment, took hold of my arm as though I were one of his particular cronies, after which we completed our crossing of the bridge in silence.
I was just beginning to wonder if my companion had changed his mind about desiring a word with me when, as we started up the gentle rise of High Street, he said, ‘Master Chapman, you may think this an odd question, but since our return home have you noticed any sinister strangers lurking about the streets?’
I was at first inclined to think he was jesting, but peering at his face in the light of two wall cressets above our heads, I saw to my astonishment that he was in deadly earnest. ‘But Master Callowhill,’ I protested, ‘there are always more strangers than one can count in Bristol. For a start, it’s a port, which means that there are foreign sailors. French, Bretons, Portuguese, Spanish and from a dozen or more countries you can think of. Not to mention the Irish! Then there are people who come in from the surrounding villages. It stands to reason that not all of them are honest trading folk. And there are plenty of rogues native to the town itself.’
‘I know all that,’ was the testy answer. ‘I’m not talking about those sort of men. I can recognize a foreign sailor when I see one and I’ve lived in Bristol all my life. I’m able to sort the wheat from the chaff. No, I’m talking about three or four — or maybe in reality it’s only one or two — big, strong, ugly-looking fellows who seem, on occasions, to be watching my house. And don’t tell me I’m imagining it because Lawyer Heathersett has complained to me of exactly the same thing. So I was wondering if you had noticed them anywhere in Small Street.’
‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘I don’t remember seeing anyone of that description. All the same. .’
‘Yes?’ he prompted eagerly.
‘I was going to say that it might tally with one I was given by someone who witnessed the murder of poor Oliver Tockney.’
Henry Callowhill stopped in his tracks. ‘Someone witnessed the murder? Then why hasn’t he gone to Sergeant Manifold or one of the other sheriff’s officers with this information?’
I laughed. ‘Because he isn’t the kind of man who would have dealings with anyone in authority. His mother has a house — a hovel — in Pit Hay Lane and he claims he saw the attack on Master Tockney from her doorway. His description of the attackers suggests a couple of ruthless but highly efficient ruffians, although apart from saying they were great big fellows, he wasn’t close enough to see any other details. As for himself, he stinks to high heaven and it wouldn’t surprise me to know that he’s also one of the city’s criminal fraternity.’
The wine merchant began walking again, but slowly, obviously lost in thought. After a moment or two, he went on: ‘As I said, “great big fellows” would describe the pair I’ve noticed once or twice hanging around opposite my shop.’
‘And you say that Lawyer Heathersett has noticed them as well?’
‘Yes. He reckons there have been strangers loitering around Runnymede Court for the past week, if not longer.’
‘Are you both sure they’re the same men you’ve noticed every time? After all, there must be a number of big men in the city. I could probably name you half a dozen.’
My companion was silent for a moment or two before reluctantly admitting, ‘Well, no! I wouldn’t like to say that either of us is absolutely certain. But certain enough to make us both uneasy.’
‘Could it be,’ I persisted, ‘that you and Lawyer Heathersett are imagining things in the wake of Oliver Tockney’s death?’
The wine merchant hesitated. ‘I suppose it‘s possible,’ he agreed, but in a tone that showed him to be doubtful.