[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man (24 page)

'What truth?' Edward Herepath sneered. 'He told the sheriff's officers that he had been abducted by slavers and taken to Ireland, from where he had eventually escaped. Many doubted the story, I know, but I saw no reason to. Meanwhile, my poor unfortunate brother had been hanged for a murder he had not done, though, as Heaven's my witness, no one could be blamed for disbelieving his protestations of innocence. The money - the rents and debts collected on Lady Day by William - was in his possession, and one of the pouches containing it was bloodstained, as was the breast of his jerkin. Furthermore, several days later, William's hat, also bloodstained, was fished out of the Frome.' The sneer became more pronounced. 'Are you claiming that William arranged all these things himself?'

'With your help and guidance, yes. Oh, you couldn't force your brother to steal the money, that I admit. It was the one risk you had to run in your otherwise carefully laid plan. But given Robert's character, the fact that he was wild and constantly in debt, it was a very small risk.

Mistress Walker told me that you admitted to informing your brother that William was to hold the money for you until your return from Gloucester.' It was I who laughed this time. 'You carefully make an arrangement with your rent collector, the whole purpose of which is to ensure that Robert and the money are not under the same roof during your absence, and then you let the information slip? That made me suspicious of you from the very first. It would have been the action of an incompetent fool, and that you most certainly are not.'

Edward Herepath came to his feet with a sudden movement which was surprisingly lithe in so heavily built a man. I was not expecting it and, caught off-guard, lost my balance and fell to the floor, pinned down beneath his weight. His hands found my throat while I was still struggling to free my arms, and had begun to tighten their grip when I managed, using all my strength, to throw him off.

Before I could scramble to my feet, however, he was at me again, his murderous intent plainly written on his face.

He had had time to reflect that I knew too much, that I had at least one witness to William Woodward's being in the neighbourhood of Gloucester when Edward himself was known to have been staying there; sufficient to plant the seeds of doubt in people's minds. I could not be allowed to tell my story, and my death was the only way to stop me. He had, as I well knew, a subtler, surer means of death at his command, but it would not serve his purpose. It had to seem that he had killed me while defending himself, and with only the two of us in the house, he could make up whatever story he pleased to satisfy the sheriff.

The murderous hands were almost at my throat again, but now I was ready and rolled beyond his reach. At the same time, I grabbed the top of the coffer and hauled myself to my feet. Edward Herepath was swiftly up as well and swung his fist in a well-aimed blow at my jaw.

Fortunately I saw it coming, and jerked my head back so that it merely grazed my chin. He lost his balance, clutched at me for support and, a moment later, we were once more on the floor, locked in a lover-like embrace.

Had he been wearing a knife, he would not have scrupled to use it, and it was my good fortune that there was no such weapon to hand. He was a strong man; not so strong as I was when in the best of health, but my strength had been sapped by my illness, and by undertaking my recent journey before I was really well. And he had the advantage that, if he murdered me, he could explain the killing, whereas my salvation rested on keeping him alive.

As I felt my limbs begin to turn to water, I was filled with panic. My senses were swimming and my body was running with sweat. My adversary scented victory and, with a last great effort, he managed to get on top of me and plant one knee on my chest. I clutched desperately at his wrists, but his splayed hands fought their way nearer and nearer to my throat. In another minute, his thumbs would gouge at my windpipe...

The door opened, although neither Edward Herepath nor I was aware of it until a horrified voice exclaimed, 'Stop it! Stop it! Whatever is going on here? Both of you, get up!'

Chapter Twenty

Edward Herepath's arms went limp; the spread fingers relaxed and, with one heave, I dislodged him, scrambling to my feet. I saw his eyes widen with horror at the sight of Cicely Ford, standing in the doorway. Leaning against the coffer, I drew several deep breaths in order to clear my head.

The girl closed the parlour door behind her and advanced into the room. She was still clutching her missal, but had rid herself of the candle. She looked pale but composed.

'I was correct, then,' she said. 'I had this unaccountable feeling that something was wrong. I could not explain it, either to Dame Freda or to myself, and tried to shake it off. But at the very door of St Ewen's, I had to turn back and come home. Edward, what has happened? And Master Chapman, what are you doing here? When we met earlier, you did not say that you had business with my guardian.'

Edward Herepath had by now got up from the floor, and he sank once more into his chair. He was sweating, his skin grey with fear, but he was not yet ready to admit defeat. He gave an unpleasant laugh. 'You may well ask the pedlar what he is doing here! He has come with some pernicious story, accusing me of murdering my own brother.'

'Robert?' Cicely's breath caught in her throat as she uttered the name. 'How could you? He was.., he was... hanged.' She repeated, 'Hanged,' as though facing up to the word and all its implications for the very first time.

Her guardian nodded. 'And so the chapman knows full well. You may judge for yourself why I lost my temper, and so far forgot myself as to attack him.'

Cicely Ford turned towards me, her delicate oval features rigid with anger. 'What have you to say for yourself, Master Chapman?' She added reproachfully, 'I thought you my friend.'

'And so I am,' I answered levelly. 'I am also a friend to the truth, and I repeat that Master Herepath here killed his brother as surely as if he had set the noose about his neck with his own two hands. He also tried to murder William Woodward.'

'That's a foolish lie!' Her scorn was palpable. 'Edward was in Gloucester when William was abducted.'
 

'But Master Woodward was not abducted,' I said. Now that I was no longer in danger of violence from Edward Herepath - for he would hardly dare attack me in front of his ward - I felt myself to be once more in command of the situation. When Cicely Ford started to protest at this statement, I interrupted. 'If you would be willing to sit down and listen to me, you may judge my story for yourself.'

Edward Herepath stood up. 'I have had enough of this nonsense!' he exclaimed furiously. 'Neither Mistress Ford nor I wish to hear your lies. Leave my house now, and I will say nothing of these monstrous accusations of yours to anyone, provided you leave the city tonight. You would do well to take that offer, otherwise you will find yourself in prison. I have powerful friends in Bristol.' I noticed the first flicker of doubt in Cicely's eyes as she glanced at her guardian, and pressed my advantage.

'I don't think you would hand me over to the sheriff or any of his officers, Master Herepath, because you know that I would be certain to repeat my accusations to them.

They might grow suspicious that I was telling the truth and make their own inquiries. Mistress Ford, will you have the goodness to give me a hearing?'

There was a moment's silence before she answered firmly, 'Yes. Yes, I will. Edward, please don't be cross. It is only by listening to what Master Chapman has to say that you will be able to refute it? She drew a stool close to the fire and sat down. Edward Herepath hesitated for a second, then resumed his own seat, defeated. Perhaps he hoped there was still a chance that I knew too little, or that he would be able to find specious answers to my allegations. Be that as it may, he made no further effort to prevent me speaking. Cicely gestured in my direction.

'Proceed, Master Chapman.'

For brevity's sake, I will set down my story as I told it to Cicely Ford, but without detailing either her interruptions or her gradually diminishing exclamations of disbelief. Edward Herepath said nothing, but as my recital continued, he huddled deeper into his chair, his face growing ever more ashen, his whole demeanour giving weight and substance to my indictment. If Cicely Ford had doubts when I began, I think she had few by the time I had finished.

The paths of Edward Herepath and William Woodward crossed because they were both followers of John Wycliffe and believers in the Lollard heresy. They probably first encountered one another at one of the meetings in the cave in the great gorge, outside the city. Lollards foregathered - and for all I know still do - in such places, for lack of their own conventicles. Edward must have learned of William's discontentment with his lot, living with his widowed daughter, and dissatisfaction with his treatment by the Weavers' Guild. Five years earlier, therefore, he had offered William the job as his rent collector, when it had suddenly fallen vacant, together with the cottage in Bell Lane. And I guessed it to be Edward Herepath who had given William his English Bible, for the older man could never have afforded such a thing himself.

Although at the time it had been nothing more than a gesture of goodwill from one Lollard to another, the offer, and its acceptance, had later proved invaluable to Edward when the most pressing desire of his life became that of ridding himself of his brother. For barely a year after William Woodward was installed in his new job, John Ford died, leaving his daughter and only child in Edward Herepath's care; and Cicely went to live in the house in Small Street. Edward fell instantly in love with his ward, but he was then still a married man, and in any case, Cicely had eyes and heart for no one but Robert.

A year later, Mary Herepath, Edward's wife, died, leaving him a free man. And from that moment on, Edward must have started planning how to get rid of his brother.

It had to be in such a way that no blame could possibly attach to himself, but there was more to it than that. Mistress Walker had told me that nothing Robert did, however venal, seemed to lessen Cicely's affection for him. Therefore, to have him killed, as Edward Herepath had tried to have me killed, by hiring bravos from the Backs to do the deed, would only have made him a martyr in Cicely's eyes. No: it had to appear that Robert had committed a crime so heinous that even she would be unable to forgive him. And what could be more horrible than the murder of an old, defenceless man for gain?

But Robert Herepath could not be made to kill to order.

He was a thief, a drunkard, a gambler, but not a murderer; so Edward had to make him seem one. He laid his plans carefully. The Lollard heresy was spreading, and about that time was reaching across the Severn. William, again according to his daughter, was a devoutly religious man, but with his own beliefs. I had no proof, but I was as certain as if I had overheard their conversation, that Edward Herepath had persuaded him it was his duty to go as an itinerant preacher into Wales, in spite of the attendant dangers. 'But when I eventually return,' William would have argued, 'how shall I explain my absence?' And so Edward had persuaded this simple man to lay a false trail, secure in the knowledge that he would never come back. 'Say you were captured by Irish slavers, but managed to escape. Do as I tell you and you will be believed.'

I remembered Margaret Walker telling me that William had been seen, late on the day of his disappearance, coming from the butcher's shop near All Hallows Church; and when I had watched her making black pudding on that morning some weeks since, I had suddenly realized that his purchase must have been sheep or ox blood, which, on Edward's instructions, he had daubed about his room. He had smeared some on his hat as well, which, under cover of darkness, he had dropped into the Frome.

Also, when it was dark, he had left his cottage in Bell Lane and walked the little distance to the Small Street garden, where, in the outbuilding, he had changed into clothes which Edward had left for him before he himself set off for Gloucester earlier in the day. For it was essential that William should not be recognized when he left the city the following morning.

It was also necessary to Edward's plan that William should reach the vicinity of Gloucester by nightfall on the Friday, and therefore he could not travel on foot. He was given a key to the stable and instructed to take the bay, for had not the farrier told me that he and his master were the only two people who had the means to unlock the wicket gate? And so, dressed in Edward Herepath's clothes which, although the two men were much of a size, were just a little too small for him, and riding the bay, it was hardly surprising that Henry Dando had mistaken William Woodward for Edward Herepath in the dim light of that early Friday morning, as he turned from Magdalen Lane into Stow Hill and rode towards the windmill.

'Indeed,' I said, sparing a glance for the huddled figure in the armchair, 'it is less surprising than the fact that William was not "recognized" as you by the porter at the Frome Gate. But he was probably still half asleep, for I imagine that William began his journey as soon as it was light.'

'You imagine a great deal too much,' Edward Herepath sneered, but the sting had gone out of his words. I could see that Cicely's stillness frightened him: she was beginning to be convinced by my story. Nevertheless, he continued, 'And when William reached Gloucester, what then? If you have made inquiries at the New Inn, as I am sure you have, you will know that the only person to visit me there was Richard Shottery, from whom I bought the gelding.'