The Tintern Treasure (26 page)

His wife answered before he had a chance to reply. ‘Everything was all over the place,' she shrilled indignantly. ‘You never saw such a mess. Cupboards emptied! Drawers emptied! Stuff strewn everywhere. Coffers –'

‘But what was actually taken?' I insisted, stemming her flow of words without compunction.

There was a silence, broken finally by Henry Callowhill, who said slowly, ‘Well, now that I think about it . . . nothing. At least . . . nothing of any value or one of us would have discovered its absence by now.' He frowned. ‘How very odd!'

‘Very odd indeed,' his wife corroborated. She turned to the children. ‘Are any of you aware of anything missing?'

They shook their heads and suddenly the elder boy saw the funny side of things.

‘Whoever heard of robbery where nothing was stolen?' He started to laugh and his siblings joined in.

I waited for their merriment to subside before turning to Master Callowhill once more.

‘Lawyer Heathersett – or, rather, his clerk – tells the same tale. The place ransacked but, so far as can be ascertained, nothing taken. It would be interesting to know if Alderman Roper has found anything missing.'

‘You think this may be of some importance, Master Chapman?' The wine merchant regarded me enquiringly.

‘Master Callowhill,' I said earnestly, ‘has it not occurred to you that these break-ins and attempted break-ins have all been at the houses of people who were at Tintern? Yours, the lawyer's, Master Foliot's, mine and now at the home of poor Peter Noakes.'

My host looked startled. ‘Sweet Jesu,' he breathed. ‘You're right. And that must mean . . .'

I nodded. ‘That someone thinks Peter Noakes did discover something and that one of us, knowingly or unknowingly, may well have whatever it is in our possession.'

The elder Callowhill boy, a pleasant, fresh-faced lad whose name I knew to be Martin, objected. ‘But would robberies have been attempted at all your houses? I mean, if someone who was at Tintern Abbey is the instigator of the break-ins . . .'

‘One could be faked,' I pointed out gently, and he let out a long, low whistle.

His mother frowned disapprovingly and glanced towards her husband. But the wine merchant issued no reprimand: he was busy wrestling with thoughts of his own.

He addressed me. ‘You're thinking that if young Noakes did discover something, he might have planted it on one of us?'

‘Yes, in our baggage. You may remember that he ran back into the infirmary before escaping.'

Master Callowhill rose to his feet. ‘Let's put this theory of yours to the test. I shall send one of the maids to Redcliffe immediately to enquire of Alderman Roper if anything is actually missing. If the answer is “no”, I think that will prove your point.'

‘Sir, it's pouring with rain,' I protested. ‘Send later in the day if you must.'

‘Pooh!' My host rejected this argument with a wave of his hand. ‘A drop of rain doesn't hurt anyone.' And he left the room.

When he returned a moment or two later, it was to say that a girl had been despatched and would not be many minutes. Meantime, would I have more ale?

I accepted, although silently cursing this unlooked-for delay. It meant that the morning would be well advanced before I began my walk to Keynsham. But at least there was a chance that the rain might have eased off by then.

The conversation flagged due to the fact that Henry Callowhill seemed temporarily withdrawn, staring unseeingly ahead of him and occupied by his own thoughts. Then, suddenly, he burst out with, ‘No, no! I cannot believe that either Lawyer Heathersett or my good friend Gilbert Foliot would go to such lengths as to organize robberies in order to discover if young Noakes had hidden anything in our baggage. And who else is there? It's utterly preposterous. For one thing, they wouldn't know how to set about it. For another, they would only have to ask us. I repeat, the notion is ridiculous. Geoffrey, after all, is a man of the law himself. And Gilbert is one of my most respected friends. He has even offered to admit me to the Fraternity of St Mary Bellhouse. Only last week, he did the boys and me the honour of showing us all over St Peter's Church. Is that not so, lads?'

Both boys nodded and Martin added eagerly, ‘Did you know, Master Chapman, that St Peter's is built on the foundations of the old Saxon church? There is still a portion of the original crypt underneath the present bell tower.'

I smiled at his enthusiasm. He was obviously a boy with a thirst for knowledge. ‘And did you know,' I asked him, remembering some of Brother Hilarion's more subversive teaching, ‘that the Saxon term for a Norman was Orc? A term of abuse, of course. Or that our Saxon forefathers called the great battle near Hastings the Battle for Middle Earth? Middle earth being where we live, between Heaven and Hell.'

Henry Callowhill gave a loud cough, an indication that he considered the discussion had gone far enough. We were all English nowadays. Memories of the old, divisive times were not to be encouraged.

Luckily, as a rather heavy silence had descended, the young kitchen girl made her appearance, wet and out of breath. She bobbed a curtsey to her master and mistress.

‘Please sir, ma'am, the alderman says as how he can't rightly find anything missing, but he's sure there must be summat as'll be discovered later.'

She made another curtsey and withdrew, hopefully to get warm and dry. My host pulled down the corners of his mouth.

‘It seems as if your theory could be the correct one, Roger. Well, as I have said, it can't possibly be one of us. So who else could it be?'

I was not prepared to answer this and got to my feet. ‘Master Callowhill, I'm afraid I must bid you good-day. I've my living to earn and have determined to walk as far as Keynsham today. Don't refine too much on anything I've said. I could be wrong in my assumptions. It's probably no more than a gang of bravos working the Bristol streets. The Watch will soon have their measure and clap them behind bars.'

He looked unconvinced and when he accompanied me to the front door – a mark of respect he would never have accorded me in the past and yet another indication of my increased standing in the community, however undeserved – he said in a low voice, ‘You don't really believe that.'

‘I don't know what I believe,' I told him. The rumours of a royal spy having been discovered in the town, or of a treasonable plot being hatched, seemed not to have reached him so I decided to say nothing further. But as he was a man of education and learning I asked him if he had any idea what might have been happening in the year thirteen twenty-six. ‘The year mentioned in those account books found in the abbot's secret hiding place.'

But he was unable to help me. Nor, when they were applied to, were either of his sons. There was a limit to their knowledge.

I thanked them and set out once more, heading for the Redcliffe Gate.

The rain had ceased by the time I had walked a mile or so beyond the gate and a thin autumnal sun was trying to penetrate the clouds. The wayside shrines, dedicated to various saints, but mostly to the Virgin, glowed here in all the freshness of a new coat of paint, or showed there the battered, weather-beaten face of neglect. Yet none was truly neglected; even the most dilapidated boasted its posy of flowers or, now that November was almost half done, an offering of leaves and berries. I reflected how much the Virgin was beloved in this country. English names and places – marigold and Lady's smock, Mary's Mead and Ladygrove – all testified to the fact. Her image was everywhere, in gold and silver, alabaster and marble, and every statue studded with a plethora of gems. Poems abounded in her praise and Mary was the most common girl's name in the English language . . .

My ruminations were interrupted by the sound of cart-wheels just behind me, and the next moment, the cart itself had pulled up alongside, a handsome brute of a shire horse harnessed between the shafts. Seated on the box beside the carter was my acquaintance of the previous day, the cobbler's wife from Keynsham, Mistress Shoesmith.

‘I thought it were you, young man,' she said. ‘There's not many of your height about. I'd like to thank 'ee again for your kindness of yesterday.' She added, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘I decided to go home earlier than intended. My sister and I had a few words. We ain't that fond o' one another, but I feel I've got to visit her from time to time. She's my only kith and kin. Apart from my Jacob, that is.' She eyed me speculatively. ‘Where're you bound?'

‘Keynsham,' I said, ‘to sell my wares.'

She at once turned to the carter sitting stolidly beside her and poked him in the ribs. ‘Give him a lift, Joseph Sibley,' she ordered. ‘I'll pay you. There's room enough if I squeeze up a bit. Or he can sit in the back on one o' them crates.' She turned to me. ‘There's only candles in 'em.'

The carter, a man I knew vaguely by sight, having seen him on various occasions in the company of Jack Nym, grunted assent and shifted obligingly to the edge of the box. Mistress Shoesmith followed suit and patted the narrow space thus left. I heaved my pack and cudgel into the cart on top of the crates of candles and climbed aboard. There wasn't much room and, to her obvious delight, I was forced to put an arm around my benefactress's broad waist to prevent myself from toppling off.

‘Eh, lad,' she gurgled, ‘this takes me back to my girlhood. I haven't had a cuddle with a good-looking man since I married my Jacob.' She grew serious. ‘Are you visiting your friend Sir Lionel Despenser again?'

The carter snorted with laughter, evidently taking this for a joke.

I let him think it. And in a way he was right. The knight, I was sure, only treated me with civility because Gilbert Foliot had warned him that it would be circumspect to do so. ‘No,' I answered cheerfully. ‘Just hoping to make some money for my wife and children. I shall spend tonight at the abbey and return home again tomorrow.'

‘You'll do no such thing,' Mistress Shoesmith said robustly. ‘You'll spend the night with Jacob and me. What's your name, lad?'

‘He's called Roger Chapman,' the carter put in before I could reply. ‘And you want to be careful of 'im, Missus. They do say there's more to 'im than meets the eye.'

I sighed, but didn't argue the point. It would have been of no use, anyway, so deeply entrenched now was this belief that I was an agent of some sort – although of what sort exactly no one was prepared to say – of the king.

‘Take no notice of the fool,' I told my companion as she turned a somewhat bewildered face towards me. ‘He's jesting.'

The carter gave another snort but, thankfully, seemed disinclined to argue the matter. Instead, he asked, ‘Not got that dog o' yourn with you, then? Jack Nym reckons 'e's an 'oly terror. Chases anything on two legs or four.'

‘You don't want to believe everything Jack says,' I snapped, irked by this criticism of my favourite. I could see by the carter's face that he was getting ready to make a running joke of Jack's numerous anecdotes about his difficulties with Hercules during our journey to London earlier in the year, so I said quickly, ‘Sir Lionel told me that he had recently lost a favourite dog. It was an animal he was most attached to, so he had him buried in a vacant plot of land close to the manor chapel.'

Mistress Shoesmith looked puzzled. ‘I don't know why he should say that. Not unless you misunderstood what it was he was telling you, my dear. That there grave belongs to one of the manor servants who died sudden-like. One of the kitchen hands my Jacob were told when he took some mended boots and shoes up to the manor. Sir Lionel's chaplain had just finished the burying of him. There weren't nothing said about any dog.'

‘Perhaps . . . Perhaps I did misunderstand him,' I said slowly. But I sat staring before me like a man in a dream, a suspicion forming and growing in my mind until it became almost a certainty. ‘When was this?' I asked. ‘Can you remember, mistress?'

My companion pursed her lips. ‘Well . . . Not all that long ago. A week, maybe.'

‘About the time that Walter Gurney disappeared?'

She looked at me for a long moment, twisting her head round to stare at me in surprise. Then she burst out laughing. ‘Go on with you! It wouldn't be him! He didn't work in the kitchens. He were Sir Lionel's head groom. Sir Lionel would've said if it'd been him. Very upset he were about Master Gurney's disappearance. No, no, lad! Put that notion right out of your head.'

‘You still haven't answered my question,' I said.

‘What question was that?'

‘Was the death of this man, this kitchen hand so-say, about the same time as Walter Gurney's disappearance?'

There was an uneasy silence. ‘Well . . . Yes, it was,' she admitted at last. ‘The day before. Or maybe the day after.' Mistress Shoesmith thought about this then shook her head decidedly. ‘No. It don't make sense. If Groom Gurney had died why would Sir Lionel not say so? And why'd he tell you he'd buried a dog?'

Why indeed? Unless he was afraid I might notice the newly turned grave and connect it to Walter Gurney's sudden disappearance. But why not simply tell me, if he felt he had to mention it at all, what he had told everyone else? Because he was afraid of rousing my suspicions? Because he thought that I knew more than I did about something? Maybe, if he believed everything that Gilbert Foliot had hinted about me. But what was it that he thought I knew?

Perhaps it was true that he and the goldsmith were at the heart of a conspiracy to raise money for Henry Tudor and perhaps the latter had been hoping to find something of value at Tintern. But that begged the question as to why, suddenly, after so many years, he had thought there might be treasure hidden in the secret hiding place in the former abbot's lodgings.

Once again it seemed to me that the missing link in the chain might be Walter Gurney who, on hearing that Sir Lionel Despenser of Keynsham in Somerset was in need of a groom had not hesitated, but left his home and previous employment and set off to offer his services to a man whom, as far as anyone knew, he had never met before. Had it been simply to avoid his obligations to Jane Spicer? Or had there been another motive? He had, at any rate, according to Mistress Shoesmith, boasted of a connection somewhere in the past between the Despensers and the Gurneys. But what that was, and whether or not it had any significance, I was unable to decide. Was it the real reason for his disappearance before I could speak to him?