‘True,’ he murmured. ‘All the same, you didn’t think to search for any signs of unlawful entry, I suppose?’
‘No, because. .’
‘Because you were convinced the man had a key. I understand. Master Chapman.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I must go immediately, first to St Mary le Port Street, then, as I said, to see the sheriff.’ He donned his hat and grabbed his cloak without pausing to put it on. ‘Forgive me! My housekeeper will see you out.’
And I found myself alone, left with a number of questions still unasked and, more importantly, still unanswered.
THIRTEEN
I found myself staring at the fire leaping on the hearth and recalling the scene of the previous evening when Henry Callowhill and I had called on the goldsmith so unexpectedly. Master Foliot had been entertaining and entertaining lavishly. I remembered the second armchair, the flask of wine, the two fine Venetian glass goblets. (I had presumed they were Venetian, so much of the finest glassware came from Italy. But what did I know?) An important customer he had claimed, but suddenly I began to wonder if that were really true. Could it possibly have been the man I later saw leaving the house in St Mary le Port Street, a man who might possibly be a Tudor agent?
No, no! That was ridiculous! Everyone knew that Gilbert Foliot, close friend of the mayor and sheriff, a member of the Fraternity of the Shrine of St Mary Bellhouse and whose late wife had been a Herbert, was a loyal supporter of the House of York, none stauncher. And yet, as I had so recently been reminded, the setting aside of King Edward in favour of King Richard had played havoc with the allegiance of many Yorkists. And the vicious rumours now circulating of the death of young Edward and his brother must have alienated many more waverers who were still uncertain whether the substitution of uncle for nephew had been a good thing or no. Or even legal.
A slight noise behind me broke my reverie and made me spin round to find Margery Dawes, the housekeeper, standing at my shoulder. ‘The master said I was to show you out, Master Chapman. He’s had to go somewhere in a hurry.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I answered, smiling. ‘He needn’t have troubled you. I could have found my own way.’
Her slightly protuberant eyes and full red lips returned the smile as she assured me that it was no trouble, no trouble at all, in her soft, sleepy voice.
‘The master’s in a bit of a taking. Someone tried to break into the house last night,’ she added comfortably, in much the same tones, I imagine, as she would have informed me that the cat had just had kittens.
I was going to say that I knew all about it, when the door opened again and Ursula appeared.
I could see at once that she was in an even more dramatically tearful mood than on our previous meeting. Her black draperies were even more profuse than before, the natural pallor of her face further enhanced with white lead paste and her voice, when she spoke, was low and throbbing. I was more than ever convinced that she was in love with romance and tragedy equally as much as she had been with Peter Noakes.
‘I thought I heard you,’ she said, coming forward and painfully gripping my wrist. ‘Alderman Roper returned last night from Tintern with Peter’s body.’ A sob escaped her and, freeing my arm, I put it gently around her shoulders. She went on: ‘His funeral is tomorrow at St Thomas’s Church. I shall attend, even though my father has forbidden it.’ The housekeeper made a vaguely protesting sound which Ursula quite rightly ignored. (Even I could tell that it was made from habit rather than conviction.) The girl continued, ‘I have been with the alderman this morning and he says he is almost certain that Peter’s death wasn’t caused by drowning, but that he was hit over the back of his head before he went into the water.’
‘What makes Alderman Roper think that?’ I asked sharply.
‘He claims he can see a bruise and feel a lump under Peter’s hair.’
‘Has he informed the sheriff of his suspicions?’
Ursula shook her head and gave another sob. ‘No, he says he doesn’t want to stir up trouble. That Peter’s dead and nothing is going to bring him back so there’s no point making a fuss and that he’s probably mistaken anyway.’ She gulped and burst out: ‘He and his wife never liked Peter. They always resented having him foisted on them after Master Roper’s sister died. Oh, I know Peter wasn’t as good a nephew to them as he might have been, but it isn’t easy to be good when you’re unhappy.’ She uttered this last with real feeling and I suddenly found myself genuinely sorry for her. It can’t be easy for a girl to lose her mother when she’s young.
‘I’ll go and speak to Alderman Roper,’ I said, but she immediately shrieked and clutched my arm again.
‘No! I told you, he doesn’t want to make any fuss. He only blurted it out in front of me by accident.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘If the truth be known, I believe he and Mistress Roper are glad that Peter’s dead. They’ll bury him tomorrow and that’ll be the end of him. Promise me you won’t say anything. To anyone.’
Her distress was so evident, and Margery Dawes was looking at me so reproachfully that, much against my will, I gave my word not to approach the alderman, nor to pass on his suspicions to anybody else.
Ursula was plainly relieved and grew calmer. She glanced around the room.
‘You asked me once, Master Chapman, if I knew what Peter was doing at Tintern.’
I nodded. ‘You said you didn’t, but that he had talked of something there that might make you rich.’
‘Yes. And then I think you asked how he came by his information and I said I didn’t know. That he wouldn’t tell me.’ I waited impatiently for her to continue while she once more glanced about her before turning to the housekeeper. ‘Margery, do you recall an evening last September, an evening when my father returned unexpectedly while Peter was here?’
Mistress Dawes chuckled. ‘And he had Sir Lionel with him. The master, I mean. Oh yes! Oh, Sweet Lord, yes! Your father had promised you a whipping if he found you anywhere near young Master Noakes again.’
Ursula’s mouth tightened. ‘I remember.’ She turned to me. ‘Peter and I were in here when Margery rushed in to tell us that my father had just come home with Sir Lionel and that my father had ordered wine to be brought to the parlour immediately. We didn’t know what to do until Margery had the idea of pulling the curtain across the dais and concealing Peter behind it.’
The housekeeper nodded agreement. ‘Fortunately, it was a dark, miserable, wet evening, only fit for huddling around the fire. Pulling the curtain to make all cosy seemed a natural thing to do. And it was your forethought,’ she added, smiling at Ursula, ‘that made us shift the armchair from the dais and place it near the hearth. Then we both sat down and pretended to be toasting our toes at the flames when the master and Sir Lionel came in.’
‘What happened then?’ I asked.
Ursula took up the tale. ‘Margery and I were both sent out of the room because, my father said, he had business to discuss. And it was an age before Sir Lionel left, with poor Peter sat behind that curtain, on the floor, not daring to make a sound. By the time Father eventually came up to bed, and I was able to creep down to let Peter out, he was so cold and chilled and had such cramp in both his legs that he could barely stand, poor lamb.’
Margery chuckled again. ‘We were nearly caught out that time and no mistake.’
‘Yes, but what I’ve remembered,’ Ursula went on, ‘is that it was not long after that evening that Peter started talking about going to Tintern, dropping hints that he knew something that would make our fortune.’
I took a deep breath. The scene she had just described was exactly the one I had imagined to myself when trying to work out how it was that Peter Noakes and Gilbert Foliot had been at Tintern at one and the same time. Whatever the goldsmith and his friend had discussed that September evening must have concerned the abbey and the secret hiding place discovered all those years ago during William Herbert’s funeral. And whatever that was had been enough to send both Master Foliot and young Noakes scurrying across the Severn into Wales.