‘The poacher’s woman?’ The reply was sharp and harsh.
‘Yes, the poacher’s woman.’
Sorrel paused. She was sure she’d heard a whisper, as if Deverell was telling someone to keep quiet. She walked around but there was no other entrance. She returned to knock at the high wooden gate.
‘Go away!’ the voice called. ‘I am busy!’
‘What are you frightened of, Deverell?’ Sorrel taunted.
She went round to the front of the house and stepped into the porchway. She noticed the Judas squint on her right. Deverell must be frightened to be checking on everyone who came here. She pounded on the door but there was no answer so she went back to the gate and knocked again. This time Deverell pulled the bolts back and swung it open. He was a tall, thickset man with a sallow, sharp-boned face, thin-lipped and anxious-eyed. His sparse black hair was covered in dust and he was nursing a cut on his right hand.
‘I can treat that for you,’ Sorrel offered.
‘What do you want?’ Deverell sucked at the bloody cut.
‘I’ve seen the royal clerk.’
‘And?’
‘I thought you would be interested. We can discuss it here in the street or I can shout out what I know.’
Deverell sighed and beckoned her in. He led her across a cobbled yard; stacks of timber lay about. Sorrel noticed how, near the back fence, the wood had been piled high but then dragged away as if Deverell was anxious lest an intruder climb the fence and use the wood to ease the drop into the yard. He led her into his workshop, a long dark shed containing a work bench, stacks of wood, racks of hammers and chisels. He gestured at a stool but kept looking over his shoulder.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sorrel asked. ‘Are you alone?’
‘My wife’s in the market,’ the carpenter replied. ‘You call yourself keen and sharp-eyed, Sorrel. You know I have no maid or servant.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about!’ Sorrel exclaimed, though that was a lie. She knew little about Deverell’s private life but she was intrigued. Deverell was a good carpenter, a master craftsman. Even Furrell had praised his work.
‘Why does a wealthy man like you have no apprentice, maid or servant?’ she demanded.
‘That’s the way I like it.’
‘Why? What are you hiding?’
‘I like my privacy.’ Deverell sat on the corner of the table as if he wanted to block her view. ‘Now, what’s really your business? Why have you come here bothering me?’
‘I have seen the clerk, master carpenter! Sharp-eyed he is, with close-set lips. He’s going to start asking questions. .’
‘Then I’ll give him the same answer I did on oath in court. On the night Widow Walmer was killed, I saw Sir Roger Chapeleys fleeing along Gully Lane. He looked stricken and worried.’
‘You have got such sharp eyes at night?’
‘It was a clear evening. You can tell from the way a man rides, how he wears his cloak, if there’s something wrong.’
‘And what were you doing out there that night?’ Sorrel taunted.
‘I was bringing some wood into my workshop.’
‘I thought you had timber delivered?’
Deverell struggled to control his temper. ‘I am a carpenter and the King’s loyal subject,’ he replied. ‘If I want to go out to look for a certain type of wood, then that’s my business.’
‘And that’s when you saw Sir Roger? Furrell claimed you couldn’t possibly have seen him, stricken, fleeing along Gully Lane.’
‘Well, he’s not here to contradict me, is he?’
‘No, but Furrell gave his testimony in court as well. He claimed to have seen Sir Roger that night, and he looked anything but stricken!’
‘Pshaw!’ The carpenter waved his hand. ‘I thought you had something to tell me.’
‘I have. The clerk is going to ask the same questions. Where were you standing? How did you see Sir Roger? What were you really doing that night?’ Sorrel leant forward. ‘And why should you, who loves to keep a distance between himself and his fellow man, bustle forward so busily to swear away another’s life?’
‘Sir Roger murdered Widow Walmer.’ Deverell stood up. ‘He killed those other women. Don’t forget, poacher woman, there was more evidence, whilst the jury, not I, found him guilty.’
‘Aye,’ she replied. ‘A jury led by Molkyn and Thorkle, and you know what’s happened to them. I have seen the squint hole,’ she continued, gesturing with her thumb over her shoulder. ‘And the bolted gate.’
Her attention was distracted by Deverell’s hands as he pointed towards the door. They were stained, covered in wood dust but she noticed how fine and long the fingers were.
‘That’s my business. Now, Mistress, you should be gone.’
‘Do you sleep well at night?’ she taunted. ‘Or do you have nightmares about Molkyn’s head floating across the mere?’
Deverell grasped her by the arm. ‘I think you’d better go.’
Sorrel shook him off. She walked back across the cobbles. The gate was still open and she slipped through. She turned to make some parting remark but Deverell closed the gate behind her, pushing home the bolts.
The carpenter listened to the woman’s retreating footsteps, sighed and crossed himself. He went round the yard checking all was well, and felt his hair prickle on the nape of his neck. He really should be more careful. Had his other mysterious visitor gone as silently as he’d arrived?
A low whistle came from the workshop. Deverell walked hurriedly back. He sat on the stool and stared further down the room towards the shadowy recess. His heart beat quicker and he swallowed hard. He should lock everything more securely; he’d been trapped so easily. Was his mysterious visitor still there? His heart jumped as the cowled, hooded figure stepped out of the recess and stood, hands up the sleeves of his voluminous gown. Deverell chewed his lip. He had been busy here, sawing a piece of wood and, when he’d looked up, a man dressed like one of those wandering friars was standing in his workshop, though this one wore a mask as well as hood and cowl. As soon as he spoke, Deverell recognised the voice he’d heard five years ago. Yet, what could he do? How could he protest?
‘You heard what was said?’ Deverell tried to break the ominous silence. ‘That busybody-’
‘I’ll take care of her,’ came the grating reply. ‘She’s madcap and fey with it. No one believes her.’
‘She asked the same questions the clerk will.’
‘And you’ll give the same answer.’
‘How did you get in here?’ Deverell made to rise.
‘I wouldn’t come closer,’ the voice replied. ‘I just wanted to show you how careful you must be, Master Deverell. I came across your fence. It’s not so dangerous or so difficult. Your wife is in the market and you are always by yourself.’
‘I did what you asked,’ Deverell gasped.
‘And you’ll do it again,’ came the hurried reply. ‘You saw Sir Roger that night, hastening along Gully Lane. You took an oath, you gave evidence. What more can you say?’
‘But, but Molkyn, Thorkle. .’ Deverell stammered. ‘They’re dead.’
‘Aye, and so they are. Perhaps they didn’t keep their word, master carpenter. But, that doesn’t bother me. I have come to remind you of the agreement we reached some years ago.’
‘I fulfilled my part of the bargain,’ Deverell protested.
‘And I have mine,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I won’t bother you again. I just want to remind you of what I know and what I can do. If the clerk comes, and he will, have your story by rote, like a monk knows his psalms.’
Deverell’s mouth went dry.
‘You have a good trade, Deverell,’ the voice teased. ‘Your work is admired, and your wife hot and lusty in that great bed of yours? And what do the good burgesses of Melford think of you? A master craftsman! Perhaps one day they will elect you to the council or allow you to carry one of their stupid banners in their processions. It’s a small price to pay.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Deverell agreed.
‘Good! Come, come, man,’ the voice continued. ‘Who can recall where you were five years ago on a certain night? That’s the attraction of a man like you, Deverell! You keep yourself to yourself, well away from the taproom of the Golden Fleece. You could be on the other side of the moon and no one would know.’