Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (7 page)

Zacharias
was not concerned about the safety of the money. He had ingenious hiding places
in his house - in the roof, in the floor and in the walls - and he had placed the
bags in the most secure place that he had. He carried on with his work as
though nothing had changed. The beautiful silver bell, the prize for the winner
of the Widderis-Grasset match, gleamed in his hand. Metal liked to be handled,
he always thought; it liked to be handled and cleaned. Silver, the metal of the
moon. Beautiful, mysterious, gentle silver. Silver had revealed some of its
secrets to Zacharias. He knew that silver worn against the skin guarded against
disease. Silver reflected and softened the features when polished into a
mirror. And then there was the other silver, that was not silver; dangerous,
deceptive quicksilver. Mercury’s metal. The metal of madness.

He put the
bell down and went towards the place where the bags were hidden. Turning the
key, he went into his sleeping chamber. The door was stout and reinforced on
the inside with hefty pieces of iron. As with the door into his house, there
were two strong chains, one at the top and one at the bottom. Two iron bars
were used to pin it once he was inside. More bars secured the window. There was
the horse pistol; there was the arquebus leaning at the foot of the wall under
the casement. Zacharias grinned. Who would guess?

The bags
were in the bolster of course. Inside each end was tucked some cloth and beyond
that, the bags. It was obvious. Most robbers would immediately seek out the bed
chamber and ransack it, shaking out the bedclothes, ripping up the bolsters and
mattress. This was still the securest place in the house, though, because of
the strength of the door and window. And the weapons he kept here.

Robbers
would, by instinct, pick up the bolster as soon as they saw it. Greed was a
great spur. If they grabbed the bolster to loosen or rip at it, then Zacharias
had a little surprise for them. A hidden trail of rope led up into the canopy
of the bed - it was a grand bed; why not, he could afford it - and as the
robber took hold of the bolster and began to lift it, a heavy piece of wood,
cleverly placed to look like a strut in the canopy, was released to smack down
on his head. For obvious reasons, Zacharias never got out on the wrong side of
bed in the morning.

He disarmed
the mechanism and took up the bolster. Inside the leather bags were coarse
fabric bags and inside those were the coins. They had been sorted, to some
degree; Zacharias knew Goldspink well and he reckoned that one bag, containing
mainly angels and sovereigns, contained the wagers of some well-to-do Marcaster
worthies - possibly even Widderis and Grasset gentry themselves. The other was
literally a more mixed bag. Zacharias, who had investigated the contents of
both bags thoroughly, had found sixpences and groats and even a lead token -
usually used for gaming - alongside the more expected shillings, crowns,
halfpounds and sovereigns. He wondered if Goldspink was making wagers with
other people as well as simply holding their money. One thing was certain;
there was something that he hadn’t told Zacharias.

Selecting
particular coins from the bags, Zacharias made his way thoughtfully down to the
workshop. He laid them out on the wooden work bench and looked at them closely.
Then he smiled. He was pretty sure he knew what Goldspink’s secret was now; but
there was a test he needed to make.

* * * * *

The Jingler
had been about to approach the horse slowly, with a soothing tone to his voice.
He had barely had time to move before he felt the presence of someone behind
him. Something, that he knew instinctively was a pistol, was sticking in his
back and a voice, low and grim, said “What are you about, there?” The
Jingler stood stock still.

“Naught,”
he said, and the surprise in his voice was genuine. “Just sweeping up
…” He held out the broom in his hand and dropped it to the ground.

“Up
before the larks, eh?” said the voice ironically. The Jingler knew that if
he had really been about to be shot, it would have already happened. He was now
more curious than alarmed.

“I
like to get an early start to me work.”

“Walk
forward and turn round,” said the voice. The pistol disappeared from his
back. The Jingler did as he was bidden. When he turned round, he saw, by the
dim lantern light, not one man, but two. They had evidently been seated
silently, deep in the shadows in the stall opposite the black horse. It was
empty, and the Jingler pondered this fact briefly. The stables had been busy
and yet this place remained unoccupied. Curious …

“Will
I fetch the horse some water?” he asked, casually. “Or ‘is corn,
like?”

“We’ll
see to it,” said the first man, but the second man interrupted.

“Let
him get watter,” he said. “No harm in that, is there? And we can keep
an eye on t’hoss.”

“Aye,
well, might be there’s no harm in it and might be there is,” said the
first man. “Who’s to know until it’s too late?”

The
Jingler’s curiosity was piqued beyond bearing, but he simply said, “No
harm, gentlemen, I’m just trying to be helpful.” Two men; one to watch,
one to sleep. Taking turns. There must be something of great value here. The
horse?

“Thanks
to thee, man,” said the friendlier of the two men. “But no need.
There’ll be plenty more needs doing, eh?”

The Jingler
nodded agreement. It was hard to make out their faces or clothing in the dark,
but he thought he saw the faint gleam of something light-coloured on both of
them and the shape of hats that were identical. Servants; but possibly servants
of a well-to-do household. He tugged his forelock - it was too dark for them to
see the ironic look that accompanied it - and walked quickly back down between
the stalls. Somehow - by some means - he was going to discover what the mystery
was here.

When the
light grew great enough and the rest of the household of the inn began to stir,
the Jingler got a better look at the two men. They came forth, singly, to visit
the common room to fetch food and drink and visit the stinking hut known as
‘the offices’ that was located as remotely as possible from the inn. They were,
as he had thought, smartly and similarly dressed in dark blue and white
garments, although their clothing looked slightly the worse for a night in an
inn stable.

The Jingler
worked, watched and waited. The old ostler kept the lads busy and, the Jingler
noted, well away from the corner of the stable where the black horse stood. At
mid morning, the friendlier of the two men took saddle and bridle and went into
the stall. Shortly afterwards he led the black horse out to a mounting block on
the yard and tightened the girth. The Jingler, head down as he groomed a stout
grey horse, watched sideways from under his brows. That was a fine horse, all
right. Black, with a white star. Very fine. The servant walked the horse about
a little. When one of the stable cats chased a bird on the yard the horse threw
up its head and laid its ears back, stepping sideways. The servant leading it
ignored it, then, as it calmed, stroked its neck down from its ears to the
withers. The horse relaxed and rubbed its nose on his sleeve. It was groomed to
a smoothness that gleamed in the hazy morning sun. The Jingler knew that viewed
closely, every single hair would reflect an entire spectrum of colour. Very,
very fine …

There was
no opportunity to get one of those talkative lads on one side and ply him with
a drink or two to find out who owned the horse and why it was being held in the
stable. The pace of the work and the ever-watchful eye of the old ostler saw to
that. The Jingler had an inkling - but he needed some inside information.
Choosing an informer would require a lot of thought, if he wasn’t to give his
interest away.

Whilst he
was thinking about this, the old ostler sought him out to tell him curtly that
there was a place for him if he wanted it and that it would be agreed properly
like, but not in a hurry because t’maister was busy. That suited the Jingler
down to the ground. He was in no hurry to tie himself to this work and he had
other business in Marcaster. He frowned as he thought about the less pleasant
aspect that needed attention.

The black
horse was ridden out by the servant, who came back leading it two hours later.
There were little traces of foam and sweat on its neck and flanks, but it had
not been ridden hard. The Jingler happened to be out on the yard wisping one of
the horses belonging to the inn. He moved with compact, efficient strokes that
left the horse’s coat gleaming and flat under his hand. While he worked, he
whistled out between clenched teeth. He had shaken his head when one of the
other lads attempted to clean the horse with a hedgehog skin brush. The Jingler
only ever used a wide wooden toothed implement, a wisp made of hay, or his own
hands. He would flatten the coat with a sprinkle of water and follow with a
trace of scented oil wiped on to finish. He knew several recipes that would
make a horse look and feel fine, protect the skin and promote hair growth. He
also knew several that would darken a horse’s coat or lighten it. Then there
were the secret ones, the dark ones, that would have undesirable effects -
undesirable to most owners, at any rate. He looked up to find the liveried
servant watching him. The man looked at him with approval.

“Ah
like to see a good worker,” he said. “Tha knows horses, I can see
that.” The Jingler said nothing, but allowed his face to relax slightly
and nodded his thanks. He carried on grooming the horse.

The servant
unsaddled the black horse and glanced over at the Jingler.

“Y’nearly
done there, man?”

“Aye,”
said the Jingler.

“Well,
y’can tak’ care o’ this’un an’ all,” said the man.

“Aye,
sir,” said the Jingler, with relish. “And if I may say so, it’ll be a
pleasure to work on so fine a beast.”

“He is
that, all right,” said the servant, with the pride that reflects from a
master and his chattels onto one of his household. He looked around as if to
see if the other servant were watching before continuing, “The best in my
master’s stable.”

The Jingler
raised a questioning eyebrow and took the reins that the servant offered him.
As he ran a hand up over the horse’s nose, past the star on its brow and over
its ears, the horse started a little. The Jingler continued passing his hand
down the horse’s neck on top of the mane to the withers and the horse settled,
blowing out gently. He felt the warmth rising under his hand and continued down
the shoulder and leg. All clean, save for a small bony lump on the lower limb.
Nothing that would affect the horse’s performance, he thought. It would seem
too obvious if he checked its mouth, but he reckoned it was about eight. It had
been treated well.

“I’ll
see to it,” he said, starting. “Seems gentle enough.”

“I’ll
watch, if y’don’t mind,” said the servant. “‘Tis a pleasure to see
you work.”

The Jingler
almost smiled as he accepted this double-edged compliment. The servant
evidently didn’t enjoy stable chores. He gave compliments as his master might
have done, not necessarily out of generosity but to gain a result. The Jingler
was not offended by this. He appreciated it, in a way. The servant wanted
something from the Jingler; and the Jingler wanted something in return.

“What’s
‘is name?”

There was a
slight pause. Then the servant began to speak. “Y’mean - ye’ve not
heard?”

The Jostler
looked at him blankly.

“This
here horse belongs to my master, Sir Richard Grasset,” began the servant,
but before he could get any further, his companion gave a shout across the
yard.

“Hoy,
what’re ye about, there!” His voice was angry. He strode over and began
berating his fellow servant and the Jingler. “Leave t’horse, I said leave
it!” The Jingler, remembering the pistol, stepped back and turned his
palms to the man in a conciliatory, confused gesture.

“Just
trying to help, like,” he said. “No harm done. Grand horse.”

“Aye,
well,” said the man, slightly mollified. “I’ll not disagree with thee
there.” Turning to his fellow servant, he continued, “Could y’not
have seen to t’horse thysen? I know what it is - y’think thysen too good for
it, cleaning a horse!”