[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man (6 page)

She had thought nothing of it; many people called at the cottage in the course of a day, and she had glanced up, smiling a welcome. But the smile had turned to an incredulous stare, which had rapidly changed to one of horrified disbelief. For standing in the open doorway was her father. William Woodward, for whose murder another man had been tried, found guilty and hanged, was still alive.

Or half alive. According to Margaret, her father was a mere shadow of his former self; a broken man whose memory played him constant tricks, the result of some great blows to the head, the healed scars of which were plainly visible on his forehead and on the scalp beneath his thinning grey hair. He never again recovered his former good health or wanted to set foot out of doors, spending the short time remaining to him sitting crouched over the fire, which he seemed to need whatever the weather.

'But what did he say had happened to him?' I asked.

'Where had he been for those missing months between March mid August? Was he able to tell you?' Margaret shrugged despairingly. 'All that I or the sheriff's officers could get out of him, after many hours of questioning, was that he had been captured by slavers and carried to Ireland. Beyond that, there was no sense to be had of him.'

'But might that not have been the truth?' I knew that the slave trade between Bristol and Dublin had been outlawed for many centuries, but it was still carried on. Like the smuggling of other contraband merchandise, it throve in the dark.

Margaret raised her head and looked me full in the eyes. There were shadows beneath her own. 'He was an old man,' she said, 'past sixty. Why would slavers bother with him, however strong and hearty, a man with a respectable family and an employer who would raise the hue and cry if he vanished, when there are so many younger people who either have no home, or whose parents are willing to sell them into slavery? Young people give good value for money to the purchaser. An old man like my father would hardly be worth the cost of his passage to Ireland.'

Chapter Five

A profound quiet settled over the room, in which the sudden cry of the Watch from an adjoining street sounded as loudly as if they had been in there with us. I know Margaret and I both jumped, but there was never a stir from Lillis.

It was she, however, who broke the silence, referring back to her mother's last remark. 'It's what everyone thinks, including the sheriffs men and the sheriff himself, for all I know.'

Margaret shivered. 'It's true. No one believed my father's story, and although some had the sense to accept that he was not responsible for what he was saying - that he was confused and befuddled in his wits - there were many more who thought that he was covering his tracks for some evil doings of his own.' She once more pressed a hand to her forehead. 'And who's to condemn the poor souls if they wanted to shift their own guilt on to Father? When people remembered what their words and testimony had done to Robert Herepath, even if they had not actually borne witness at his trial, is it any wonder that they needed someone else to blame?'

'That may be so,' Lillis responded drily from among her blankets, 'but when he died, they began looking askance at us, as though we too are not telling them all we know.'

'Is this true?' I inquired of Margaret.

She nodded. 'Oh, we have friends, real friends like Nick Brimble, to see we come to no harm. But there are those who won't give us the time of day, and shopkeepers who refuse to serve us.'

I snorted contemptuously. 'What of Edward Herepath and Mistress Ford? How do they treat you?'
 

'Well enough,' Margaret conceded. 'What bitterness and anger they feel, they don't lay at our door, although Edward Herepath could never bring himself to visit Father. But Mistress Cicely came on several occasions, latterly bringing him broth from the Small Street kitchen when she saw how ill he was. She blames no one more than she blames herself for denying belief in Robert's story. She has grown so thin and pale and silent these past few months that it breaks my heart to see her.' Lillis mumbled something under her breath which I was unable to catch, nor did I wish to. She would have little sympathy with anyone's sorrows but her own and, to do her justice, even those would receive short shrift. She was not a girl who indulged in self-pity. Any display of sympathy on my part for the two women's predicament would be ill-received by her, but I felt that Mistress Walker was in need of friendship.

'I can see that things are difficult for you,' I said. 'People find it hard to blame themselves for any tragedy, and need a scapegoat. But can you think of no reason for your father's absence? A reason which would take into account the bloodstains you found in the Bell Lane cottage? It still seems to me that his story is the only one which explains all the circumstances.'

I was not looking at Lillis, but I heard the sound of an indrawn breath, as though she were about to speak.

Margaret cut in firmly, 'No, nothing.' Was she just a little too vehement? 'I am sure in my own mind, however, that he was not taken to Ireland for the reasons I have told you. And Alderman Weaver, who has many contacts in Waterford and Dublin, has made inquiries for me insofar as he may, but no one recollects having seen hide nor hair of my father.'

'Alderman Weaver?' I asked, my attention momentarily diverted. 'Who lives in Broad Street?' But of course she had mentioned an Alfred Weaver earlier in connection with her husband. I should have realized then of whom she was speaking. He was the owner of many of the weaving sheds this side of the Avon. When she nodded, puzzled, I went on, 'I have some acquaintance with him. Indeed two years ago I was able to do him a service in connection with the disappearance of his son. I'll tell you of it sometime, but it's too long a story to be gone into here and now. Suffice it to say that, with his blessing, I could probably inquire further into this business if that is really what you want.'

Both women were half inclined to probe more deeply into my connections with Alderman Weaver, but thankfully their own concerns were uppermost in their minds and they soon abandoned their half-hearted questioning.

'If there is indeed anything that you can discover, it would be a relief to know it,' Margaret said, 'for at least it might prove that Lillis and I had no knowledge of whatever, or whoever, it was lured Father from home that night and inflicted on him such terrible injuries.' But there was a note of doubt in her voice, as though she were aware that the truth is not always pleasant.

Lillis had no such misgivings. 'We need to know anything Roger can find out, Mother, in spite of the fact it might besmirch Grandfather's good name. He must be told everything.'

Margaret rose to her feet and placed two more turfs on the fire, banking it right down for the night ahead, so that no stray spark could set the cottage aflame. What was left of the earlier blaze might smoulder until morning, or go out altogether in the cold night hours, in which case it would have to be relit on the morrow.

'Roger knows all that you or I can tell him,' she answered smoothly, yet I also detected a hint of warning behind her words. 'If we remember aught that we've forgotten, it will be time enough then to repair the omission but, for now, we're all three tired and need our beds. Lillis, get up from that mattress and straighten the blankets and move it back against the wall.' When her daughter had done her bidding, Margaret pulled the curtain of faded red and green woven fabric which divided the room in two, smiled her good-nights and vanished with Lillis behind its shelter. "Sleep well,' she called out as she got into bed.

I stripped to my shirt and rolled between the blankets, nestling my head on the soft, feather-filled pillow. I was still weak after my illness and aching in every limb with weariness, but sleep eluded me. I tossed, restless and uneasy, from side to side, going over in my mind the strange facts of William Woodward's disappearance. That he had been removed from home by force seemed obvious, or why else would there have been bloodstains? And Margaret had spoken of scars which showed injuries to his head which would account for them. Furthermore, the discovery of his hat in the River Frome would make sense if he had indeed been dragged aboard a ship bound for Ireland. And in that case, the evidence of witnesses who said they had heard screams and moans coming from William's cottage, or seen shadowy figures by St John's Wicket, need not be discounted.

There appeared, however, to be too much doubt by too many people on this score for me to insist on its being the likeliest explanation, and until I had spoken to Alderman Weaver, I must reserve judgement. I would visit him tomorrow morning, and trust that he would let me presume on our former acquaintance to give me audience.

Meantime, what other answer could there be to the riddle of William’s apparent death and mysterious resurrection? And why did I have a strange, nagging feeling at the back of my mind that Margaret Walker was keeping something from me? With these and other unresolved questions circling inside my head, I at last fell into a troubled sleep and woke in the morning, still weary.

I knew I should give myself a few more days' rest before undertaking any great exertion, but I trusted to my natural strength and rude health to see me through my investigations. For the truth was that, in spite of having agreed to be the Walkers' lodger for what was left of the winter months, I was anxious to pay my debt and be free of them. It was not that I disliked either woman; indeed, I already felt the stirrings of affection for Margaret Walker because she reminded me in some ways of my mother.

It was Lillis who made me uneasy. The determined and predatory glint which appeared in her eyes whenever they glanced my way, told me that I was a marked man and that she would snare me if she could. She was twenty years of age, for all that she looked younger, and ripe for a husband.

I rose before the two women were even stirring, pulled on my hose, unlatched the door and walked down the narrow alley alongside the cottage to the yard at the back.

When I had used the privy, I fetched up water from the well which served the surrounding cottages, poured some over my head, filled a tin can and carried it indoors. A judicious use of the bellows brought the slumbering fire to life, and when I had removed the turfs I was able to heat my shaving water and get rid of my beard. I had lit two of the rushlights, trusting that their fragile glow would disturb neither Margaret nor Lillis for a while, but I hoped in vain. As I ran a satisfied hand over my once again smooth chin, Lillis slid out from behind the curtain.

She was wearing nothing but her thin linen shift and, as I turned my head to look at her, she lifted her arms, stretching and yawning, smiling secretively and watching me between half-closed lids.

'You're handsomer without a beard,' she said, 'if that's possible.'

I made no reply. What was there to say? I was not a vain youth, but neither was I falsely modest. I knew women found me good-looking, and had often marvelled that Nature should have endowed me in such a way; for my father, what I remembered of him, was a small dark man with weather-beaten features. My mother always maintained that I was a throwback to her grandfather. 'A true Saxon,' she used to call him. She herself was fair, but her hair was more honey-gold than mine, and her eyes less intensely blue. 'I'll get more water,' I offered, 'to boil the oatmeal for breakfast,' and, lifting the can from the fire, I was about to retreat into the yard, when Lillis moved swiftly to block my passage to the door.

'Are you afraid of me?' she asked, her mouth tilting into a provocative grin.

'Why should I be?' I asked, praying that Margaret would come to my rescue, and sensing that, if she did not, it would be only a matter of moments before those thin, childish arms were wound around my neck and the thin but sensuous body was pressed against mine.

For once my prayer was speedily answered. Although my back was to the curtain which divided the room, I knew that Margaret had emerged from behind it by the change of expression on her daughter's face. The look of naked desire faded abruptly to be replaced by a sullen pout, arm the narrow shoulders were visibly braced for Margaret's reprimand.

'Lillis! Get dressed immediately! Suppose someone were to walk in, what would they think? There's enough gossip about us already, without you adding fuel to the flames.'

Breakfast - oatmeal and dried fish - was not a comfortable meal, with Lillis sulky and out of humour, and Margaret preoccupied, plainly wondering if she had invited trouble beneath her roof when she had urged me to stay. I, too, was worrying about the same thing. My best course, I decided yet again, was to find out what I could about William Woodward's disappearance and then take my leave. I eyed my chapman's pack with longing, suppressing the desire to grab it and run.

Margaret must have followed my glance, for I turned my head to see her watching me anxiously. I gave her a reassuring smile. 'I'll be off to Broad Street as soon as it's light,' I promised.

I approached Alderman Weaver's house in Broad Street as I had done two years ago, from the back and the narrow confines of Tower Lane. The little walled garden with its pear and apple trees, both now bare of leaves, its herb and flower beds deep in their winter slumber, was much as I remembered it. But the formidable dame with the bunch of keys at her belt who came to the kitchen door in answer to my knock, was not Marjorie Dyer. She, I supposed, had long gone.

My request to speak to the Alderman was greeted with suspicion, and my insistence that he would know me with outright contempt. Behind the housekeeper's back, I could see two little kitchen-maids regarding me goggle-eyed, delighted by the unexpected diversion. I was desperately calculating how long it would be before the door was slammed in my face with nothing achieved, when someone entered the garden and made to push past me into the warmth of the kitchen.