Wheel of Fate (17 page)

‘Could you – would you – be kind enough to tell me exactly what happened? If you'll bear with me, I'll explain my reason for asking later.'

The apothecary hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Why not? There was nothing extraordinary in it. It's what I said, a most unlucky accident.' He got up and went to the door, calling to his housekeeper to bring a jug of ale and two beakers before coming back and resuming his seat again. ‘During the past few years, this whole area around Bucklersbury has, most unhappily, become far seedier than it used to be. The tenements in the building known as the Old Barge, at the Walbrook end of the street, have fallen into the hands of a rougher kind of tenant as former inhabitants have died off and the rooms been re-let. Moreover, word of the Voyager's reputation for good food and ale spread, and in a way Reynold's success as a landlord contributed to his downfall. Foreign sailors, dockers, began walking up from the wharves to sample what he had to offer and bringing their uncouth habits with them. There was, of course, nothing my brother could do about it. A hostelry is there for everyone's enjoyment and trade was certainly brisk. Apart from anything else, Reynold couldn't afford to turn away the custom.'

At this point, the young girl called Naomi entered with our ale and beakers on a tray. She gave me a provocative wink which she made no attempt to conceal, but Julian Makepeace only smiled indulgently and patted her rump with a loving hand, telling her she was a minx and sending her on her way. As he poured the ale, I asked, ‘What happened to Landlord Makepeace's wife? I seem to remember that when I first met him, five years back, he was married.'

Julian handed me a beaker. ‘You're quite right, but my sister-in-law died of the plague one summer . . . oh . . . I couldn't say exactly when. I'm only thankful she didn't live to know of my brother's miserable end. Now, where was I?'

I sipped my excellent ale. ‘You were saying that the customers of the Voyager were not what they had once been.'

‘Yes. There's not much more to tell. There had been a fight or two in the taproom on various occasions between some of the foreigners and the locals, but only fisticuffs, a few knocks and blows. And if you knew Reynold at all well, you'd know that he wouldn't stand for a disorderly house. He and his tapster soon broke up such brawls with a few well-placed blows of their own. But the evening he died, it was different. A couple of Genoese sailors, newcomers to the Voyager, drew knives on one another. The quarrel grew nasty, terrifying such women as were present, and Reynold decided he must stop the fight before anyone was seriously hurt. Foolishly, he sent the tapster to summon the Watch while he tried single-handedly to prevent murder being done.' Julian broke off, his lips quivering. He was forced to wait a moment or two while he got his emotion under control, then finished. ‘Unfortunately, murder was done, but it was his own.'

Silence ensued. Somewhere in the house, I could hear Naomi singing, a bright, popular street ditty of the moment, while she went about her work. I reached out and laid a hand on Julian's wrist. ‘I'm sorry,' I said. The trite little phrase had never sounded so inadequate. I added, ‘I liked your brother as much as any man I've ever met.'

My companion nodded. ‘Everyone liked him,' he responded huskily. He remained lost in thought for a moment, then asked, ‘So what else is it you want to know?'

I hesitated to cause him further distress, but my question needed an answer. ‘Was there a suggestion at the time – any suggestion, however slight – that Landlord Makepeace's death might not have been an accident?'

Julian looked puzzled. ‘I don't understand,' he said.

I cleared my throat. ‘Was there any hint . . .? Did any of the onlookers get the impression that the two sailors might . . . well, might have been paid to kill your brother? That their quarrel was faked in any way?'

The apothecary was frankly bemused. ‘Faked?' he demanded incredulously. ‘No, of course it wasn't faked! Why do you ask such a stupid question? What is all this about?'

‘Forgive me,' I said. ‘I've upset you. Let me explain.'

‘I should be glad if you would. If you can,' he answered coldly. But by the time I had finished my explanation, Julian's attitude had grown less frosty. ‘What an extraordinary tale,' he said slowly. ‘Naturally, I know the Godsloves. Four of them are my stepbrothers and -sisters, and two my half-siblings, but neither Reynold nor myself ever had anything much to do with them. I did inform them when Reynold died, but they meant very little to us, you see. We never lived with them. We were never part of their family. After our mother met and married Morgan Godslove – she met him while he was here in London on business – and went away to Bristol, Reynold and I went to live with our grandmother in Candlewick Street. We were informed, of course, when our half-brother and -sister were born and also of our mother's death six years after her marriage, but none of it meant very much to us. We had lost touch with her by then. Members of the family, particularly Martin and Celia, did come to visit us when they moved to London – that would be . . . oh . . . about twenty-three, twenty-four years ago – but, as I say, we were never close. I knew that my half-brother had died, but not in such a fashion. Maybe I was told, but I was still mourning Reynold – I suppose I still am – and it didn't sink in. Last autumn, you say?' He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘How odd,' he said, ‘that both my brother and half-brother should have died violently within such a short time of one another.'

TEN

‘
V
ery strange,' I agreed. ‘Perhaps now you can understand, why the Godslove family are worried. And added to those two deaths are the near fatal illness of the eldest sister, the death by mushroom poisoning of another and the narrow escape of the second eldest, Sybilla, from falling masonry at Bishop's Gate wall. Your half-sister, Mistress Celia, and the head of the family, Oswald Godslove, are the only two who have so far suffered no apparent attempt on their lives.'

Julian Makepeace gave a wry smile. ‘And myself,' he pointed out. ‘If you intend to include Reynold as a family member, then I suppose I must regard myself as one, too. Although I have to stress that neither he nor I ever considered ourselves as such. Polite acquaintances, maybe, but no more than that. Even our mother became a stranger to us after she went away. We never saw her again once she had left London, and Morgan Godslove we met only at the wedding. He was Reynold's and my stepfather, but I doubt if we thought of him in that way. I doubt if we ever thought about him at all, if the truth be told. I can't speak for my brother, of course, but I know I didn't.'

‘I don't think he can have done, either,' I said, ‘or, knowing that I was from Bristol, I feel he would probably have mentioned something of the circumstances to me. But he never gave the smallest indication that he had any connection whatsoever with the city.'

‘There you are then.' The apothecary spread his hands and shrugged. He went on, ‘I'm unable to believe that Reynold's unfortunate death has anything to do with these other accidents that have befallen my stepfamily.'

On the face of it, his argument seemed reasonable enough, but I couldn't allow myself to be convinced. To a deranged mind, nothing was simple or straightforward. But the thought occurred to me that whoever the killer was, he or she must have intimate knowledge of the Godsloves' complicated family history. There had been no obvious tie between them and the Makepeaces; nothing to tell an outsider that they were even on speaking terms. Which, to be fair, ruled out even further the possibility of Adrian Jollifant being the moving spirit behind the killings, leaving the finger of suspicion pointing at Roderick Jeavons and Arbella Rokeswood as the more likely suspects.

Julian Makepeace refilled my beaker with ale and pushed it towards me.

‘Drink up,' he urged. ‘You look very tired, like a man who should be home resting in his bed, rather than worrying his head over things that don't concern him.'

I gave a rather strained laugh. ‘I'm afraid my wife wouldn't agree with you. She's made the Godsloves' concerns her own and therefore mine.' I added, with seeming inconsequence, ‘Are you married?' (I had guessed that he wasn't.)

It was his turn to laugh, flushing slightly as he shook his head. ‘Women, eh?' he said, but his quick glance towards the door told me that my surmise was probably correct. The lucky devil was bedding young Naomi.

I swallowed my ale and set the empty cup back on the tray. My companion was right: I was extremely tired and wanted nothing more than to return to the Arbour and Adela's loving embrace. But there was one other question I had to ask.

‘Master Makepeace,' I said, ‘has anything untoward, however slight, happened to you recently?'

He looked astonished. ‘To me? No, of course not. Oh come, Master Chapman! You surely didn't take me seriously just now?'

‘I'm not saying you really have anything to worry about,' I protested. ‘I'm merely asking if anything has occurred lately that you couldn't explain. Anything in the nature of an accident or a near miss that could have injured you.'

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,' he answered firmly, ‘nor, frankly, do I expect it to. In spite of all you've told me, I still believe that Reynold's death was an accident. He simply got in the way of a knife intended for another man.'

‘Were either of the Genoese seamen caught?'

‘No, but there's nothing to be read into that. When they saw what had happened, they were out of the Voyager before anyone could stop them. Indeed, I doubt if anyone tried to stop them with those knives in their hands and their apparent readiness to use them. They were never found in spite of enquiries by the sheriff's men. They must have gone straight back to their ship where they laid low, protected by their fellow shipmates and the master of the vessel. I never had any expectations that they would be taken. Nor, I think, did anyone else.'

Of course not! It was the simplest explanation. And hadn't William of Ockham always taught that the simple explanation was usually the correct one? Ockham's Razor, men had called it since the thirteenth century.

I rose to my feet, steadying myself on the edge of the table as a slight dizziness threatened to overcome me.

‘Are you feeling unwell?' the apothecary enquired anxiously, also getting up and putting out a steadying hand.

‘It's nothing,' I said quickly. ‘A momentary weakness, that's all.' I squared my shoulders. ‘I'm better now. Master Makepeace, thank you for your time and patience. I'll relieve you of my company.' He followed me out into the shop, where he hovered, a worried frown creasing his brow. I forced a reassuring smile. ‘There truly is nothing wrong with me. But promise me you'll take care. Watch your step, and if anything should happen that gives you the slightest cause for concern, please let me know at once. You know where the Arbour is.'

It was not a question, but he nodded and said, ‘Of course,' then stood in the shop doorway until I had untied and mounted Old Diggory and ridden off up the street. ‘God be with you!' he shouted after me.

I raised a hand and waved.

It seemed to have grown warmer since I entered Bucklersbury half an hour or so earlier (but May is that sort of month, when all four seasons can happen in one day). I suddenly found that I was sweating profusely, while all about me the city noises assaulted my ears and everyone I met seemed intent on doing something to annoy me. Other riders jostled my horse, beggars rattled their tins under Old Diggory's nose, making him shy nervously or come to a complete standstill, abandoned garlands of mayflowers littered the roadway and the stench from the central drains, normally something I didn't even notice, made my belly heave. I felt that at any moment, I might disgrace myself and throw up all down my smart green tunic and nice brown hose.

But by the time I reached Bishop's Gate Street, I no longer cared if I were sick or not. Old Diggory was heading home without any guidance from me, which was just as well as my senses were swimming so much that I was barely conscious of my surroundings. I was vaguely aware that the thoroughfare was still blocked, but that was all. I had just enough strength left to pull on the reins and bring the horse to a halt before I swayed in the saddle and began to fall into darkness . . .

I opened my eyes and stared up at the richly carved, red and gold ceiling above me. Light flooded in through spacious, lofty windows, one an oriel window of peculiar size and beauty. I could also see a minstrel's gallery and the floor beneath my trailing hand was marble. For a moment, I wondered if I had died and gone straight to heaven, until conscience told me that such a contingency was highly unlikely. After that common sense reasserted itself and I realized that not only was I still very much alive, but also that I knew this place. I had been here before.

I was lying on a velvet day-bed. Somewhere behind me, a door opened and closed.

‘Well, well, well!' said a familiar voice, and a hand was placed on my forehead. ‘Drunk again, eh, Roger? And not long gone noon.'

I sat up with such violence that the room spun around me and I was forced to lie down again in a hurry. But at least now I knew where I was – in the great hall of Crosby's Place – and I knew who was speaking, although I hadn't expected him to be in London yet awhile.

‘You know damn well I'm not drunk, Timothy,' I snapped. ‘Even you can't be such a fool as to believe that.'

He came closer, where I could see him, pulled up a low, velvet-covered stool and sat down beside the couch.

‘There's the smell of ale on your breath,' he said, ‘but I must admit I've never seen you drunk in the middle of the day.'