Chapter Four

‘I told you,’ Adela said, addressing me, ‘that the cry I heard was made by someone in distress. But you wouldn’t stop and go back.’

‘How could we have gone back?’ I demanded indignantly. ‘The Porter was just shutting the gate. Besides, there are so many cries. Who was to say that this one was different from any other? And even so, what you heard may have had nothing to do with the murder of Mistress Bracegirdle.’ I turned to my mother-in-law. ‘Do you – I mean did you – know her?’

‘Not very well – only by sight. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.’

‘Nobody knew her well. She kept herself to herself,’ Goody Watkins put in with the regretful air of one who had failed in a self-imposed challenge which could never now be met. She added venomously, ‘Secretive, that’s what Imelda Bracegirdle was. Secretive.’

There was a general murmur of agreement from most of the other women, but one raised her voice in dissent.

‘It’s true she wasn’t one for company. I disremember seeing her at the High Cross or the Tolzey amongst the gossips, but she was always civil if you gave her the time of day.’

‘Anyone can be civil if you give them the time of day. Did she ever invite you into her cottage?’ Goody Watkins asked belligerently, one wrinkled hand scratching her equally wrinkled chin.

‘No.’ Her friend was defensive. ‘But then there are a lot of people who live outside the walls who aren’t well known to those of us living within.’ She glanced at the older woman. ‘Are you on visiting terms, Maria, with anyone dwelling in Bristol Without? Because if so, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘I don’t tell you everything, Bess Simnel,’ Goody Watkins snapped back, but the spots of high colour in her wizened cheeks told their own tale.

The rest of the women were becoming anxious to get home. They had done what they came to do; they had inspected the new arrival in their midst, and one more death, even murder, in a city where death was commonplace failed to excite more than a passing interest. The Sheriff’s men would do what was needed to be done, ask all the necessary questions. A woman whom some of them knew only by sight, and others not at all, was soon forgotten. Someone had a grudge against Imelda Bracegirdle, that was certain, but there were very few people without an enemy or two; and when feelings ran high, animosity now and then turned to murder.

Goody Watkins, sensing her companions’ restive mood, said briskly, ‘We must be going. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Adela, but why you had to marry a “foreigner” from upcountry in the first place, I shall never understand, not when there were plenty of good Bristol men for you to choose from.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed Adela’s cheek. ‘Well, well. That’s all in the past. You’re home now where you belong, but next time, pick one of your own kind. Westcountrymen are best. I should know – I’ve married three of them.’

The beady, bright blue eyes, the only youthful features in her ancient face, flickered from Adela to me and back again. I pretended not to notice and stooped to gather Elizabeth into my arms; but my daughter, formerly so flatteringly eager for my embraces, protested vociferously and struggled to get down again. I had interrupted a game she was playing with Nicholas. My mother-in-law suppressed a triumphant smile as she saw her visitors to the door and closed it behind them. Margaret knew better, however, than to remark on Elizabeth’s defection, although she did give her granddaughter an approving pat on the head on passing.

‘You’d best be off, Roger,’ she advised, ‘if you want to get started early.’ She seated herself at her spinning wheel. ‘Adela, my dear, I shall leave the children and the cooking in your charge today.’

Adela was doubtless only too pleased to be able to repay her cousin’s hospitality in this fashion, but she nevertheless looked somewhat resentful at being told what she should do, rather than asked. There was an edginess to the way she responded with, ‘Of course, Cousin, anything you say,’ which made me glad to escape from the house. In my experience, when women fall out, it’s better to be elsewhere. I pulled on my boots, threw my cloak around my shoulders, gathered up my pack and cudgel, and let myself out into the street.

*   *   *

I retraced my steps of the previous afternoon, over the bustling thoroughfare of Bristol Bridge, with its busy shops and elegant houses, up High Street to the High Cross, where the citizens gathered to hear the latest gossip, and along Broad Street towards Saint John’s Archway, beyond which lay the Frome Bridge and Gate.

In Broad Street, I paused opposite Alderman Weaver’s house, staring up at the three-storeyed building, searching for signs of life. But the door remained firmly closed, and the windows, although unshuttered, had the dead-eyed look of an uninhabited place. Yet somewhere inside was a man either newly reawakened to an awareness of his former existence, or a clever imposter, trained in his deception by one even cleverer than himself. I wished I could get a glimpse of him, thought it would do me little good, for I should not recognize my quarry if I saw him. But no one appeared, not even one of the servants.

As I passed under the Frome Gate, I looked for the Porter, but it was a different man from the one of the previous afternoon. All the same, I gave him good-day and added, ‘There’s been trouble, I hear.’

He understood me at once. ‘Ay! A murder just over the way, one of the houses in Lewin’s Mead. Imelda Bracegirdle. She was strangled, so they say. The Sheriff’s men are over there now.’

There was a temporary lull in the traffic going in and out of the gate, so I asked, ‘Did you know her?’

The Porter shrugged. ‘I’ve seen her about. A widow, but not a woman who mixed much with her neighbours.’

‘So I’ve been told. Was she old or young? Plain or pretty?’

He laughed. ‘Neither. Not young, not old. Not plain, not pretty. A well-looking creature, I suppose, but over thirty. Her husband, John Bracegirdle, died some seven or eight years ago. The house was rented by him from Saint James’s Priory, and after his death, the Brothers let Imelda go on living there.’ The Porter added darkly, ‘Her mother was from Oxford, a woman called Elvina Stacey. But her father’s name was Fleming.’

I smiled inwardly. Although it was over a century since the last King Edward had encouraged his Flemish wife’s countrymen to settle here, and although, in the meantime, Fleming had become a common enough surname, Englishmen in general have never ceased to resent this influx of foreigners who came, as our forefathers saw it, ‘to take the bread from out of our mouths.’ To my way of thinking, the descendants of the Flemish are usually hardworking, diligent and sober-minded people, not much given to the theory that it is a working man’s bounden duty to do as little as possible in exchange for his wages. But in England, both when I was young and still, today, we believe that pleasure is just as important as industry, maybe more so. And who is to say that we are wrong?

According to my mother-in-law, who had it from her father, the Flemings who settled in Bristol had given a great boost to the city’s flagging wool trade, so that Bristol’s red cloth soon became famous not only throughout the land, but on the Continent, as well. This fact, however, had not made them any more popular, and their progeny were still regarded with a certain amount of suspicion and dislike. Those who lived retired, like Imelda Bracegirdle, would inevitably incur more than their fair share of hostility from inquisitive neighbours.

I went out into Lewin’s Mead, once an open meadow but which was now gradually being built over as the town’s population steadily increased. (It was no longer possible for everyone to live within the safety of the city walls, as was witnessed to by the number of houses already climbing up the sides of the encircling hills.) Across from where I stood and a little to my right, I noted a great deal of activity around one of the cottages, much tramping to and fro and in and out, and people busily conferring with each other. A Brother from the Priory, his black Benedictine habit flapping about his ankles, was running agitatedly from one person to the next, and it was all I could do to stop myself from going over to join them. But it was not my business; God had not called upon me to intervene here. (Or to poke my nose in, which would, I suppose, be a more honest way of putting it.) So, reluctantly, I turned to my left and proceeded westwards along the northern bank of the Frome.

It was only then that I paused to wonder why I had not turned left after passing under Saint John’s Archway, and walked along the river’s southern bank. Why had I bothered to cross it at all? The answer, of course, was simple. Because I had wished to see the site of last night’s murder. My natural curiosity would not let me rest until I had done so – but did this also mean that God was directing my feet? I was still pondering the question an hour or so later when I said goodbye to the crew of the only ship I had visited that morning, and strolled down the gangplank on to the quay.

My pack was still half-empty, for as ill-luck would have it, most of the vessels moored along the Frome that day were carrying fish; a cargo of dried cod, or stockfish as the locals call it, from Iceland, and from Ireland two more of salted herrings. I had, however, managed to find one merchantman with a lading of caps, combs, silks and suchlike, but the Master was a cautious fellow, prepared to sell only a very few of his employer’s goods for fear of being found out and losing his position. I sighed. I should be forced to go to the market after all and pay higher prices, which meant that my profit would be less.

I walked back the way I had come. When I reached the Frome Gate, I saw that only a solitary Sheriff’s Officer now remained on guard outside Imelda Bracegirdle’s cottage. On impulse, I went across and spoke to him.

‘Do you know who killed her?’ I asked.

The man, red-haired with bright blue eyes, slowly shook his head.

‘Nor never will, I don’t suppose. A chance thief, hoping to find some secret store of money, is as good a bet as a person with a grudge against her.’

The house was like my mother-in-law’s, one-roomed, one-storeyed with a single door and window facing on to the track which ran past it. I said, ‘No one forced his way in. Neither door nor window is broken. Therefore, whoever killed her was known to Mistress Bracegirdle. She must have invited her murderer inside.’

The man’s face assumed a look which boded me no good. ‘You think yourself a clever sod, and no mistake. Why don’t you just push off and mind your own business?’

‘There’s no need for that,’ I protested in an injured voice. ‘I’m only trying to be helpful; making you free of my observations.’ A thought struck me. ‘Do you know what’s going to happen to the cottage?’

The Sheriff’s Officer eyed me with distaste, not without good reason.

‘You don’t miss an opportunity, do you?’ he sneered. ‘And Mistress Bracegirdle not yet laid to rest in her grave.’

‘I don’t ask for myself,’ I assured him hastily, ‘but for an impoverished widow and her little son who have just returned to Bristol after seven years in Hereford…’

Before I could explain further, the guard interrupted me, his blue eyes suddenly widening with pleasure.

‘Adela Woodward! Is that who you mean? She married a Hereford man – I forget his name. Is it her? Is she back at last, then?’

‘Adela Juett,’ I said, ‘cousin in some degree or another to my mother-in-law, Margaret Walker. Yes, I believe her name was Woodward before her marriage.’

‘Well!’ The round face beneath the red hair beamed with delight. ‘Tell her Richard Manifold was asking after her. She’ll remember me, I don’t doubt.’

I promised most earnestly to pass on his message, and then returned to the subject of the empty cottage without any further resentment on the part of my companion.

‘Best go to the Priory and ask,’ he advised, adding, ‘they’ve carried the body there already.’

At these words, I hesitated, not hurrying away as Richard Manifold seemed to expect.

‘In that case,’ I said persuasively, ‘might I just go in for a moment or two and look around?’

I could see from his expression that he was about to warn me off, but then he recollected that I was to be the bearer and interpreter of his good wishes to Adela Juett, and thought better of it.

‘Very well,’ he grudgingly agreed, ‘but only for a minute. Leave the door ajar and if you hear me whistle, come straight out. It’ll mean someone’s coming. Though why you want to look inside beats me. There’s nothing to see. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is.’

I thanked him and, after glancing round to make sure that I was not observed by any passer-by, I pushed open the door and went inside.

*   *   *

My informant was right: there was nothing to see beyond the normal paraphernalia of everyday living. The rushes on the floor were several days old, but not yet in urgent need of replacement. When the fire was lit, the smoke rose straight up through a hole in the roof, which, like most of those in Bristol, was tiled with slates. The cottage walls were made of wood and plaster. A bed, covered with a quilt of faded and badly rubbed amber velvet, occupied one wall of the room and appeared not to have been slept in. A stool, a table, a chair and a corner cupboard which held the dead woman’s few possessions, made up the remainder of the furniture, except for a carved wooden chest standing beneath the window. This latter, on inspection, proved to be disappointingly empty, but the pot suspended from the crane arm, over the burnt-out ashes on the hearth, was still half-full of what smelled like mutton stew, a crust of congealed fat covering the surface. A clean wooden bowl and spoon were laid out on the table. There seemed to have been no disturbance of any kind, no struggle or scuffle, confirming me in my belief that Imelda Bracegirdle had known her attacker and had felt in no danger from him or her. My guess, therefore, was that she had been strangled suddenly, from behind, with no prior warning.

I said as much to Richard Manifold when I rejoined him outside, but he shrugged and said no doubt his Sergeant had already noted all these things and that they would be included in his report to the Sheriff. As for himself, he held by his opinion that Mistress Bracegirdle had been killed by a thief who was after her money.

‘For you must know,’ he added, ‘that the gossip along the Mead is that she had a secret hoard of gold hidden somewhere in the cottage.’

‘Then why didn’t the murderer turn the room upside down to look for it?’

But Richard Manifold had his answer ready. ‘Maybe it wasn’t difficult to find. Maybe she kept it in that chest under the window.’

‘And how did the killer get in without forcing an entrance?’

Again, he was ready for me. ‘Mistress Bracegirdle had gone to bed and forgotten to bolt the door…’

‘She hadn’t gone to bed. The bed hasn’t been slept in. Moreover, her supper is still in the pot over the fire, uneaten. Not even tasted. The spoon and bowl on the table are clean.’

‘Very well! She hadn’t gone to bed.’ My companion was desperately trying to control his temper. ‘She was still sitting over the fire but had forgotten to lock the door. Our murderer crept in, strangled her and took the money from the chest. It would be the first place to look, now wouldn’t it? And if he found it there, there’d be no need to go ransacking the cottage.’

He hadn’t convinced me, but I had to admit that his version of events was plausible enough. It was known that some thieves tried the latches of houses at night on the offchance that a few doors might be left unbolted. I recollected seeing our own latch being lifted on one occasion, when I happened to wake up in the middle of the night. (I scared my mother-in-law half to death by leaping out of bed, yelling at the top of my voice, in order to frighten away the would-be intruder.) So I sighed and conceded the argument.

‘You’re probably right. I’ll be off to the Priory then, to see about the cottage.’

Richard Manifold nodded smugly. ‘You do that. Ask for Brother Elmer. And in future, stick to the thing you’re good at. Peddling.’

I gritted my teeth, but made no answer.

*   *   *

The Priory of Saint James had been founded as a cell of Tewkesbury Abbey, but at some time in the distant past, an agreement had been reached between the then Abbot and the local people that the nave should be maintained by the parishioners and used for parochial purposes. This morning it had been taken over by the Sheriff and his men in order to hold a brief, preliminary inquest into Imelda Bracegirdle’s murder. I wondered whether or not to go in and make them free of my thoughts on the subject. Then I told myself not to be a fool, and went instead in search of Brother Elmer.

The January morning was less overcast than it had been earlier, the threat of rain and sleet receding, but it was still extremely cold and the trees of the orchard stood like skeletons against the skyline. I found Brother Elmer at last, after enquiries at both the brewery and the bakehouse directed me thither; he was closeted with Father Prior, and so I was able to make my request on Adela’s behalf to the highest authority. I was promised that the matter would be raised at the following day’s Chapter meeting, and with that I had to be content. There would also be, as Brother Elmer pointed out to me, other equally deserving cases to be considered, but the claim of Adela Juett would be borne in mind.

‘Do you have any idea by whom, or why, Mistress Bracegirdle was murdered?’ I asked as I turned to go.

‘Oh, a chance thief, undoubtedly,’ replied Brother Elmer, ‘who took advantage of an unbolted door. The Sheriff is convinced of it.’ He glanced for confirmation at Father Prior, who inclined his venerable head. ‘There were always stories that Imelda had a secret hoard of money, though alas, poor soul, I think it most unlikely. But a thief, abroad after dark and who had heard the rumours, finding her door unlocked could have thought it worth the risk, and a sudden evil impulse prompted him to kill her. Or perhaps a man desperate for money, to repay an urgent debt.’

I knew now where Richard Manifold got his version of events, for it seemed to be the Sheriff’s version, too. I was half-inclined to pay this worthy a visit and tell him about the scream heard by Adela Juett, with the added information that it had still been only dusk at the time. But what good would it do? The Sheriff already seemed to have decided what had happened, and Adela would not thank me for dragging her into the clutches of the law. Besides, what proof did I have that the scream had been uttered by Imelda Bracegirdle? Neither the Porter nor I could confirm Adela’s story. I decided therefore to go about my business and not interfere. With a sigh of relief, I hitched up my pack and bade Father Prior and Brother Elmer good-day.

*   *   *

It was nearly suppertime when I returned to the Frome Gate, and my pack was once again almost empty.

On leaving the Priory, I had decided to visit those remote homesteads and dwellings on the heights above the city, and had walked as far as the great gorge cut between the rocks by the River Avon as it ebbs and flows between Bristol and that narrow sea which divides us Westcountrymen from the wilder shores of Wales. I had done well, parting with such wares as I had for a purseful of money, and I hoped that my mother-in-law would be pleased; for I should need all the goodwill I could muster when she discovered that I had done my best to obtain the tenancy of Imelda Bracegirdle’s cottage for Adela, and so thwart her plans for keeping us both beneath the same roof. I felt a little guilty when I thought of my daughter, for Elizabeth was certainly enjoying Nicholas’s company, but she had not yet had sufficient time to grow used to it, and would no doubt soon recover from his loss.

As I entered the Frome Gate, I glanced back towards the empty cottage, where it now stood shuttered and silent. Richard Manifold had vanished, relieved of his guard, and there was no longer anyone or anything to single it out from its neighbours. Adela could make herself and her son comfortable there, I reflected, provided that what had happened did not give her a distaste for the place. But I did not think that likely. She was a sensible woman, not easily given to panic, and I sent up a short prayer that the Prior and his monks would favour her claim above the others.

Shops were beginning to close for the night, stall- and booth-holders locking their goods away until morning. The central drain was choked with meat and fish offal, although not so much as in the summer months, and the stench was correspondingly less. I was looking forward to my supper, for it was some hours since I had last eaten; a collop of salted bacon between two slices of black bread given me by an elderly woman to whom I had sold some needles. I recollected that Adela was to do the cooking today and wondered what she would put on the table.

As I pushed open the door of my mother-in-law’s cottage, a warm, savoury smell stole out to greet me, making my mouth water. But I was also aware that the room was even more crowded than when I had left it early that morning. A woman was seated in our only good chair, a man standing behind her, drumming his fingers impatiently against its back.

My mother-in-law said with relief, ‘Ah! Here he is at last. Roger, Master and Mistress Burnett have come especially to see you.’