The Christmas Wassail (28 page)

‘So, do you have anything to tell me?'

I poured us both some ale and settled in the opposite chair before giving him such information as I was able.

He sat forward eagerly when I mentioned Baker Cleghorn and his belief that he might have seen Miles Deakin in Bristol three months earlier. ‘He told Miles Deakin's father this? How long ago?'

I shrugged. ‘Recently, I assumed, when he was passing through North Nibley on his way to Gloucester.'

‘And has Master Cleghorn returned to Bristol yet?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘I'll ask my wife.'

Adela, when consulted, said she had spoken to the baker only the previous day when she had visited his shop.

‘Then we'll call on him at once.' James, pausing only long enough to swallow the dregs of his ale, rose purposefully to his feet.

‘It's Sunday,' I demurred, hoping to restrain him. I had no desire to go out into the cold again and was looking forward to the rest of the day by my own fireside.

‘So he won't be engaged in trade. We shall be assured of his whole attention.' James picked up his cloak and wrapped it around him. ‘Where does he live? Behind the shop?'

Once again I was forced to consult Adela, who confirmed that Master Cleghorn's house was also in St Leonard's Lane. ‘You're not going out?' she asked reproachfully. ‘You've only just got home.'

I was apologetic, but found that my earlier reluctance to brave the elements had vanished. I was suddenly as anxious as my companion to discover what the baker had to say.

St Leonard's Lane was only a step or two away, being the next street along in a westerly direction, running from Corn Street at one end and connecting with Bell Lane at the other. The dwellings here were substantial residences built, as were most Bristol houses, of wood and plaster and tiled with stone. The ground floors of a few, like Baker Cleghorn's, were shops with the families living on the premises in the upper two storeys. The one we wanted was halfway along on the right-hand side proceeding from Bell Lane and was easy enough to find, a sign depicting a loaf of bread hanging above the door. This was located to one side of the shop front, now raised and bolted shut, and James had no compunction in banging on it loudly, disturbing the Sabbath peace.

We had to wait a while for someone to descend from the upper floors, but eventually the key scraped in the lock, the door was opened a crack and a voice enquired cautiously, ‘Who's there?'

‘Master Cleghorn?' James asked.

‘Aye. Who wants him?'

It took James some time to convince the baker that we were genuine callers and not a couple of bravos out on a Christmas jaunt, frightening elderly citizens. Our lack of masks was to our advantage and we were eventually admitted to the house and conducted to a room on the first floor. This was richly and comfortably furnished, arguing a degree of wealth which easily explained the baker's caution. It transpired that he was a childless widower living alone except for a sister who kept house for him, but who, today, was absent on a visit to a friend.

‘So you gentlemen will, I'm sure, understand my reluctance to let you in,' our host explained, at the same time indicating two cushioned chairs and inviting us to sit down. ‘This season of the year particularly.'

We assured him that we did and accepted his offer of wine, which he served in some very fine silver goblets. The bakery trade was obviously thriving.

‘And what can I do for your honours? Master Chapman I know,' he added. ‘Your wife, sir, is a good customer of mine.'

He seemed unaware of James's identity, which was all to the good. We had no desire to rouse his suspicions concerning the name of Deakin, which a connection with the Marvell family might possibly do. Instead, James claimed Miles as an old acquaintance whom he was trying to find after a lapse of some years. He then glibly explained that I had recently been peddling my wares in Nibley Green and had been told by Mistress Littlewood of her brother-in-law's meeting with himself.

‘And Mistress Littlewood,' I added, ‘said that you, sir, claimed to have seen Miles Deakin here, in Bristol, not three months since.'

The baker shook his head. ‘No, no! I only thought it might have been him. But I was by no means certain.'

‘You are acquainted with the Deakin family?' I asked.

‘Yes. They were some sort of distant kinfolk of my late wife.' He spoke apologetically, plainly ashamed of such low connections.

‘And where did you think you saw Miles, Master Cleghorn?' James asked.

‘I've told you, I'm not sure …'

‘I understand that. But whereabouts?' my companion insisted.

The baker hesitated. ‘It was only a fleeting glimpse and in the most unlikely of places.'Again he paused, adding, ‘It's that really which convinces me I was completely mistaken.'

‘Where, Master Cleghorn?' James spoke through clenched teeth. He was beginning to lose patience.

For a long moment there was silence, then the baker resolutely shook his head. ‘No, I refuse to say. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I realize now that I was totally in error. That it could not possibly have been Miles. I therefore prefer to keep my own counsel.' And he got to his feet, making it plain that our visit was at an end. ‘I'll wish you good day.'

In the face of so pointed a dismissal, we had no choice but to leave. Our host's face had set in rigid lines. He was not to be bullied or persuaded.

Once out in the street again, James gave vent to his anger. ‘The old fool! Why did he suddenly put a clamp on his tongue like that?'

‘I don't know,' I said slowly. ‘But I have a feeling that all of a sudden he recognized you. I may be mistaken and I can't think of anything you said that would have made him suspicious. As I say, it's just a feeling.'

James hunched his shoulders angrily. ‘Oh, well! It can't be helped, but if you're right, he has to know of the connection between Miles Deakin and my family. What was your impression, Master Chapman? Do you think Baker Cleghorn believes he saw our man or is now convinced that he was wrong?'

I shivered and drew my cloak more tightly around me. It was getting even colder and I had no desire to stand talking in the street. Nevertheless, I gave his question my due consideration.

After a few moments reflection, I said, ‘I think I do believe Master Cleghorn saw a man he thought to be Miles Deakin. But for some reason of his own is now unwilling to tell us where.'

‘For what reason?'

‘I don't know.'

On this unsatisfactory note we parted, he to return to Redcliffe and I to walk the short distance back to Small Street. I was growing frustrated with a situation that yielded so few answers and which had marred a Christmas I had looked forward to with some eagerness as a time to spend quietly with my family and do little else except enjoy the festivities. The last two years, as I have already said, had been both gruelling and dangerous, dominated by King Richard's seizure of the throne. It occurred to me that my use of the word ‘seizure' was more revealing than I knew. He would say that he had claimed his birthright, but was that how I really saw it? In spite of that secret mission I had undertaken for him to France the preceding year, and in spite of what I had learned there, I nevertheless found in myself a growing dismay at what he had done and an ever-increasing foreboding for the future. ‘Stirring up a hornet's nest' was a phrase that, for no apparent reason, flashed into my head, and I told myself not to be so foolish. All the same, I arrived at my own front door in no very happy frame of mind.

Here, however, a pleasant surprise awaited me.

Elizabeth answered my knock and as soon as she saw me went scurrying back into the parlour. I heard her whisper loudly, ‘He's here!'

Adam gave vent to one of his shrill giggles.

I pushed open the parlour door with some apprehension, wondering what the three children were up to; an apprehension which, I'm ashamed to admit, turned to annoyance when I became aware of Margaret Walker's presence. Luckily, before I had time to make some caustic remark, Adela came forward, smiling all over her face.

‘Roger,' she beamed, ‘come and see what Cousin Margaret's brought you. Just look at this!'

‘This', spread out over one of the chairs, was a splendid dark blue woollen cloak, held together at the throat by a smart brown leather tie.

‘Grandmother made it for you,' my daughter announced, taking my hand. ‘Isn't she clever?'

I stared blankly for a moment, then asked stupidly, ‘For me? You made it for me, Mother-in-law?'

‘Oh, for Our Sweet Lady's sake!' she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You'd think I'd never given you anything in your life before.' To be honest, I couldn't think of many presents I'd had from her, but I refrained from saying so. ‘I spun the yarn myself and paid Master Adelard to have it woven and dyed. The cutting and sewing I had done by a tailor who has rooms in Tucker Street. And a very good job he's made of it, too. Here! Try it on instead of just standing there, staring at it.'

She and Adela divested me of my old cloak and draped the new one around me. It had that faintly sour smell of newly treated wool and its folds were wonderfully warm and soft.

‘B-But why?' I stuttered ungraciously.

‘Oh, for Jesu's sake, does there have to be a reason?' Margaret demanded irritably, adding with a half-laugh, ‘I'm fond of you, Roger. Always was in spite of the fact that you're like most men, utterly selfish and boorish. Moreover, I'm tired of seeing you in that old grey cloak of yours. The hem is rubbed and the wool is wearing thin in places. It might have been all very well when you were in a duke's employ, but now that Richard is king …'

‘Margaret,' I began, but then stopped. What was the use of saying yet again what I had said so many times in the past? I had never been in the duke's employ, nor was I now that he was king. I had done favours for him from time to time, but had rarely been paid, preferring to keep my independence. (Although it's true to say that favours for royalty are tantamount to commands.) My former mother-in-law liked to believe differently: it was then a connection that gave her added importance in the eyes of her friends.

I took a deep breath. ‘Margaret,' I said again, ‘it's beautiful and I thank you with all my heart. I shall be the grandest man in church today and every Sunday.'

‘Oh, no!' she answered firmly. ‘That cloak is not just for Sundays and holy days, to be put away in a chest the rest of the time. It's for everyday use, to smarten you up a little. Adela, you must see to it. Give that old grey thing away so that he won't be tempted to wear it. I know what men are, Roger especially. He's never happy unless he looks like a – a –'

‘Pedlar?' I suggested ironically. ‘Mother-in-law, I can't go tramping round the countryside in this. It will be stolen in a trice.'

Margaret sniffed. ‘No, it won't. Not the way you treat clothes. You'll have it looking like something Hercules has made his bed on before many days have passed, just you wait and see.'

It was no use to argue with her. I thanked her again with genuine warmth – indeed, I was deeply touched by this unlooked-for gesture – and at the same time made up my mind to keep my old grey cloak for common use, wearing the magnificent new blue one for those occasions when I thought it appropriate.

But for me to make a decision is simply throwing down the gauntlet to Fate.

We all went to St Giles's in the afternoon – I wearing my new cloak, needless to say – then I escorted Margaret home to Redcliffe, Adela having been unsuccessful in her attempt to persuade her cousin to stay for supper. It was after I had seen Margaret safely into her cottage that I had the notion, as I was so close, to call on young Dick Hodge. It crossed my mind that perhaps Baker Cleghorn might, just possibly, have said something to his assistant concerning his sighting of Miles Deakin. I considered it unlikely, but it was worth the effort of visiting Burl's cottage near the Rope Walk to find out.

Jenny answered my knock and was pleased to see me, as always. ‘Burl's not here, Roger,' she said. ‘He and Jack have stepped out for an hour, but if you care to come inside and wait …'

I thanked her, adding, ‘It's not Burl I've come to see. Is Dick at home?'

She looked surprised, but held the door open at once. ‘Yes, he's here,' she said, calling over her shoulder, ‘Dick! It's Master Chapman. He wants a word with you.'

The inside of the cottage, cramped and dark and overcrowded, reminded me forcibly of the one Adela and I had once shared in Lewin's Mead, and I realized with a shock that, with four children as well as ourselves, this is how we would be living, had Cicely Ford not willed her house in Small Street to me. I realized also something of the reason for Burl's jealousy and resentment at my undeserved good fortune over the past few years.

Dick was seated at the table, trying to learn his catechism, one forefinger laboriously tracing the words, his lips silently forming them as he made out each one. Jenny looked on proudly. Neither she nor Burl could read or write, but she had insisted – much against Burl's wishes as he thought it a waste of time and money – that the two boys be taught their letters.

Dick looked up as I sat down on the stool facing him, obviously glad to have an excuse to leave his reading. ‘What can I do for you, Master Chapman?'

Jenny put a stoup of her homemade ale in front of me and went off to stir the pot over the fire which contained their supper. (It smelled good, whatever it was.)

‘Dick,' I began, but then hesitated, not quite sure how to proceed. He regarded me stolidly and waited. Life had no urgency for the younger of Burl's two sons. ‘Dick,' I said again after a pause, ‘has Baker Cleghorn recently mentioned to you that he'd seen, or might have seen, an old acquaintance who – er – who perhaps had returned to the city after several years' absence?'