‘King Richard took it seriously then?’
‘Of course he took it seriously!’ Timothy fairly exploded. ‘I’ve told you, this report came from one of our best men; a man probably only second to myself in reputation. A man who, if he works hard and lives long enough, may even one day succeed to my office. That shows you how good he is and how highly his opinion is regarded.’
‘You’ve no need to say more,’ I assured him, straight-faced. ‘So the king sent you in disguise to Bristol to find out more?’
‘Of course. He would trust no one else. It had to be done under a cloak of the greatest secrecy.’
I said meanly, ‘Not secret enough, I’m afraid. I was informed of your possible presence in the city yesterday and asked, as someone who knew you well and might be able to penetrate your disguise, to keep a lookout for you.’
Timothy stared at me disbelievingly. ‘This is one of your ill-timed jests.’
‘No. The absolute truth, I assure you. It would seem that a close friend of His Worship the Mayor had just returned from London and had been warned of the fact that there might be treasonable activity in the city, and that you were here to investigate.’
Timothy was silent for a long moment, then he burst out: ‘Matters are worse than I thought. The king is beset by traitors! Even the people he thinks he can trust betray him! Buckingham was the prime example, but there are others less open in their disaffection and therefore even more dangerous.’
‘His taking the crown has incurred a great deal of ill will,’ I said soberly. ‘Even amongst former friends and well-wishers.’
Timothy nodded grimly and leant forward, clasping his hands between his knees. A flame spurted suddenly between the logs on the hearth and a shower of sparks, like golden thistledown, burned brightly for a moment, then vanished. The shadows of the November afternoon thickened and I realized that my companion was no longer a young man. He was growing old and cares pressed heavily on him. The future, in spite of its bright promise a few months ago, now looked dark. The old familiar bombast, once so laughable, now invited sympathy. It covered a multitude of anxieties.
Timothy,’ I said urgently, also leaning forward and lowering my voice almost to a whisper, ‘what is the truth in this rumour that the king’s nephews have been murdered?’
His head reared up at that. ‘False, of course! You, at least, should know better than to believe it.’ His tone was accusing.
‘I don’t believe it.’ There was another silence filled only with the crackling of the fire. Then, ‘You know for certain it’s not true, do you?’ I asked.
He flung me a contemptuous glance. ‘I know him! I know the king! So do you, and that should give you your answer.’
‘It does. . But he hasn’t publicly denied it.’
Timothy turned on me in a fury.
‘Why should he? Why should he give himself the trouble, the indignity, of publicly denying what anyone who knows him must be aware is a vicious lie?’
‘It would make sense to do so,’ I argued gently. ‘Produce the boys. Bring them to court. Show people that they’re still alive.’
‘And remind everyone of their existence? Make them a focus of rebellion yet again? Is that what you want? It’s much better, surely, to keep them quietly secluded in the Tower until he decides what to do with them. Given time, and once King Richard has established his rule, people will forget about them. Or they’ll appreciate how much better off they are with a man than a boy on the throne. How much better off without the Woodvilles! Then he can establish the boys again in the world without the fear that someone will rise up on their behalf.’
‘But you are certain that the lord Edward and his brother are still alive?’
‘I’ve told you, yes!’ Timothy almost shouted.
‘That’s all right, then,’ I said.
The trouble was that I didn’t believe him. I wanted to. How I wanted to! But I had a feeling that he didn’t really know. Like the rest of us who loved King Richard he was saying what he wanted to be the truth, not what he knew to be fact. Why I felt this, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way his eyes refused to meet mine, sliding away to focus on the fire or the fleas hopping about amongst the rushes, brought out of hiding by the warmth.
‘Now,’ Timothy remarked briskly, changing the subject with obvious relief, ‘let’s get on with the business in hand, shall we? What information do you have for me?’ He flung up a warning finger. ‘And I’ve told you, don’t pretend you know nothing. If you haven’t sniffed out something by this time, then I’m a Chinaman.’
Once more, I risked his fury by countering with another question. ‘Who’s this beggar you were accused of murdering? And how did you come to be found stooping over his body?’
‘For Christ’s sweet sake — ’ he was beginning, but it was my turn to hold up an admonitory finger.
‘It might be important. Did someone mention that he lived in Pit Hay Lane?’
‘I don’t know! Quite possibly. I’m not acquainted with the names of the streets in this town, let alone the alleyways. I just know I tripped over something, crouched down to see what it was and the next moment I was being clapped on the shoulder by that oaf of a sergeant who was putting me under arrest for murder.’
‘You’re sure the man had been murdered? I know Sergeant Manifold said so, but — ’
‘Oh, yes! That was plain. He’d been strangled, any fool could see that. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets, his tongue was swollen and protruding from his mouth, his face, what I could see of it beneath the dirt, was suffused with blood.’
‘A small man? Stank to high heaven?’
‘He didn’t appear to be very big and he certainly stank. Like an old fish barrel.’
I nodded. There were a lot of beggars in the city but I had no hesitation in concluding that this was the man who had witnessed the murder of Oliver Tockney. Now he, too, was dead. Strangled. And I was the idiot who had so carelessly made it known that the pedlar’s killing had been overlooked. There would have been little difficulty in identifying him. A bribe offered for the person in question to come forward and tell what he had seen, a meeting in a dark corner of the alleyway, a knotted rope slipped swiftly around the neck. .
‘Are these questions relevant?’ Timothy’s voice broke in on my thoughts and his nails tapped against the arm of his chair impatiently.
I nodded. It was quite dark outside by now and I rose to kindle a taper at the fire and light some candles.
‘Timothy,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder at him, ‘do you have any idea what happened in the year thirteen twenty-six?’
He goggled at me. ‘Thirteen twenty-six? Thirteen twenty-six? That’s. . That’s more than a hundred and fifty years gone! Sweet Jesu! How would I know what went on over a century and a half ago?’ He eyed me wrathfully. ‘What’s this all about, Roger? Why do you keep putting me off with these ridiculous questions?’
‘They’re not so ridiculous,’ I said, returning to my seat on the other side of the hearth. I sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning and tell you everything I know. But try to refrain from a lot of foolish interruptions. Just wait until I’ve finished or I’ll lose the thread of my tale.’
To do him justice, the only questions he asked were to clarify some point which I had not made clear; other than that, he remained silent throughout the long and sometimes complicated story. I even had to admit to the tangled history of my relationship with Juliette Gerrish in order to introduce the name of Walter Gurney.
When at last I had finished, he said nothing for a while, sitting forward and staring into the flames as though for inspiration. Finally he grunted, ‘Then the two conspirators would appear to be this goldsmith, Gilbert Foliot, and Sir Lionel Despenser.’
‘I wouldn’t even be sure about that. There’s no proof against either of them,’ I pointed out. ‘No solid proof. And both men have a reputation of being loyal to the House of York. Foliot, as I told you, was married to a Herbert and attended William Herbert’s funeral after Edgecote.’