I realized that I was walking up Bishop’s Gate Street Within without any clear idea of how I got there. It was quiet today, quieter than it had been at any time since my arrival a fortnight previously; although I had to admit that that St George’s Day now seemed more like two months than a mere two weeks ago. And for one of those two weeks I had been ill, thanks to an excess of Father Berowne’s elderflower wine. .
Or had that really been the cause? I drew out the little box from my pouch and contemplated it, another suspicion taking shape in my mind. Yet more memories surfaced; one in particular: the tailor’s story of how he had volunteered to head a subscription to replace the stolen pyx during one of Father Berowne’s visits to him. The offer alone would have implied that he had money put by, and although he had not actually said as much, I suspected it to be more than possible that he had confided further in the priest, even going so far as to disclose his treasure’s hiding place. It would have been the natural thing to do, and the tailor had been emphatic that nothing had been disturbed during the robbery. Whoever took the money seemed to have known exactly where to look for it. .
I paused, leaning against the wall of Crosby’s Place, biting my lower lip between my teeth and trying to discern where my galloping thoughts were leading me. Were they really saying what they appeared to be saying? That Father Berowne was a murderer and a thief? That he was in reality Henry Maynard? But even as I told myself that the idea was ridiculous, I could hear in my imagination the priest’s Irish lilt and his hasty denial that he had ever seen that country. His explanation had been that he must have picked it up from his father, who came from around Waterford, and I had said. . What had I said? I struggled to remember. I had said that the slavers used the coves and inlets around the port to land their illegal cargoes, and he had known instantly what I meant. There had been no need to explain to him the details of Bristol’s infamous trade with their southern Irish neighbours.
Arbella Rokeswood and Father Berowne, could they truly be Lucy and Henry Maynard? Charity Godslove’s death by mushroom poisoning could so easily have been arranged by the housekeeper, as could the mysterious illness that had so nearly disposed of Clemency. And my own indisposition after toping with the priest might well have been caused not by too much elderflower wine, as I and everyone else had assumed, but by something administered either in the drink itself or smeared on the cup.
The more I considered the idea the more plausible it seemed, and the less I was able to reject it. And if money was again becoming an object with the pair, it must surely mean that they had another plan afoot to dispose of one of the three remaining siblings; a plan which entailed the assistance of someone other than themselves, as in the deaths of Martin Godslove and Reynold Makepeace and the attempted murder of Sybilla. And what of Julian Makepeace? If it had been considered a part of the couple’s revenge to dispose of not just the culprits, but anyone else remotely connected with them, then the apothecary’s life might also be in danger. I have often heard people carelessly use the expression ‘my blood ran cold’, but now I knew what was meant in good earnest. I found I was shivering convulsively in spite of a bright sunny morning.
I heaved myself away from the garden wall of Crosby’s Place just as the gates were opened and two young men in the Gloucester livery rode out, carrying on a loud-voiced conversation from which anyone within earshot might gather that they were bound for Baynard’s Castle with an important message for the duke, and also, in the next day or two, that the young king was to be moved to the royal apartments in the Tower. At any other time, such a titbit of news might have caught my attention, but at that moment, I was interested in no one’s affairs but my own. I walked on slowly, passing under the Bishop’s Gate — merely giving an unresponsive grunt in reply to the gatekeeper’s attempt at conversation — wondering what it was best for me to do. Obviously, I must impart my suspicions to Oswald and his sisters as soon as possible, but would they believe me? And if they didn’t, would they be right to be sceptical? Would it not be better for me to try to discover more definite proof of my suspicions before speaking to them?
It was then I became conscious of the fact that I was still clutching the box of feverfew extract in one hand. I had promised Julian Makepeace to deliver it to Father Berowne on my way back to the Arbour, a good enough excuse, if one was needed, for calling on the priest. Of course, he could well be from home, visiting a member of his flock. .
I experienced another jolt to the pit of my stomach as yet a further memory obtruded. On the day of Celia’s disappearance, when I had questioned Father Berowne, he claimed to have heard the children playing in the garden that morning because he had been on his way to visit one of his parishioners who lived further up the track. I remembered his exact words: ‘A poor, childless widow who has been unwell.’ Yet when Adela and I had gone for our stroll two evenings since, we had come across no other dwelling anywhere near the Arbour in spite of having walked some considerable distance. So what had he been doing in the vicinity of the house? Had he, indeed, even been there? If not, why had he lied? No one had accused him of anything. It was simply one of those unnecessary embellishments of an untruth provoked by a guilty conscience.
This last recollection convinced me even more that my theory was correct: Father Berowne and Henry Maynard were one and the same person. And if only Oswald and his sisters had seen fit to confide in me from the very beginning, I might have reached this conclusion much sooner. I could see why they hadn’t, of course. Selling two innocent children to the Irish slavers was not the sort of admission anyone wanted to make, not even to themselves, and most certainly not to a stranger. Only her secret fear had forced Clemency to speak out in the end.
As I approached St Botolph’s everything lay quiet and still in the morning sun. There seemed to be no sign of life anywhere, although the church door stood open, inviting all those who wished to communicate with God to enter. I went in briefly to return thanks for the solution that I trusted was the answer to my prayers and to beg pardon for doubting that I should receive it. As I was leaving, I sent up a brief admonition to God not to desert me, just in case I should prove to be in any danger.
I knocked on the door of the priest’s house, but there was no reply. I tried twice more, but each time was greeted with silence, so I strolled round to the side of the cottage and the small garden where Father Berowne — for until I was certain of his true identity, I could not think of him by any other name — dug so diligently to produce something green from the stony soil. At the back, out of sight of the road, two pigs grunted at me from their sty, big, ugly brutes that stank to high heaven, while a goat, tethered to its post, regarded me with a pair of evil yellow eyes. An attempt had been made to grow a few herbs, and the vegetables I had noticed on my first visit appeared, if anything, even sallower and more drooping than before. But the thing which really drew my eyes was a patch of freshly turned earth some six feet by three. Just the right size for a grave. .
A hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped. A soft laugh sounded in my ear. ‘Admiring my new seed bed, Master Chapman?’
I spun round. The priest was standing there, smiling at me. I hesitated for a long moment before deciding to take the plunge.
‘Am I addressing Henry Maynard?’ I asked him.
TWENTY