and leave you, with Roger’s help, to get on with your investigation.’ He gave me a sly wink, so I knew that he was being deliberately provocative. ‘Have you a suspect in your eye? Rather like looking for a tree in a forest, I should imagine.’ He crossed to the door, where he paused and glanced back. ‘What about that stranger we saw with Master Fairbrother yesterday morning? You know who I mean, Roger. You and Adela were with me. He and Jasper were arguing.’
Richard turned a frowning look in my direction, but I ignored him.
‘He can’t be the murderer, John. Sergeant Manifold and I have worked out that Master Fairbrother probably wasn’t killed until around ten o’clock last night. By that time, our Breton friend had left the city. Cicely Ford and I both saw him much earlier, walking up Saint Michael’s Hill, past the boundary stone and striding out on the road towards the down.’
‘He might have returned to the city,’ the baker argued.
‘I doubt it. He was carrying his pack and cloak.’
John Overbecks shrugged. ‘That’s no proof. He might have intended to leave, but, for some reason or another, changed his mind and came back. How long before curfew was it?’
Reluctantly, I admitted that it had lacked some time to the closing of the city gates.
‘Well, there you are, then.’
Here Richard Manifold broke in angrily. ‘Will one of you tell me who it is you’re talking about? This may be vital evidence, God save the mark!’
‘Roger will tell you. I have to get back to my shop,’ the baker said, and disappeared through the open doorway and down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.
I was left to face the irate sergeant, so I told my tale as briefly as I could. Indeed, there wasn’t much to tell, although I did remember to include my third sighting of the stranger in Broad Street during the afternoon.
‘Coming out of Robin Avenel’s house, you say?’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about Richard Manifold’s question that intrigued me. Also, he had started to bite his nails, a sure sign, in him, of perturbation. ‘Well, well! Who’d have guessed it?’
But when I asked him to speak more plainly, he clammed up and said it was nothing: he had merely been thinking aloud.
‘You’re certain that this man was a Breton?’ he asked, as we descended the stairs together. ‘Is the ship he arrived on still moored in Saint Nicholas Backs?’
‘In answer to your first question, I’m almost certain. As for the ship, I don’t know.’
A little crowd of people had once again gathered outside the bakery, but Richard dispersed them with a few curt words and, using the key he had found hanging on a nail on the kitchen wall, locked the street door behind us.
‘Walk down to Saint Nicholas Backs with me,’ he invited, ‘and see if you can spot this Breton merchantman.’
But it had gone, sailing down the Avon on the morning tide, no doubt, and in its berth was a Portuguese ship, perfuming the air with a cargo of exotic spices.
Richard swore, long and satisfyingly, before turning on me. ‘I wish you’d told me all this yesterday,’ he said savagely.
I assumed a wounded expression. ‘How did I know it was of any importance? In fact, I still don’t know that. The man can’t be the murderer if we’re right about the time of death . . .’
‘I’m willing to wager my last groat that he’s the killer,’ Richard interrupted with such ill-founded assurance that it took my breath away. Rendered speechless, all I could muster was a sort of outraged croak, which my companion mistook for encouragement to continue with his crack-brained theory. ‘Overbecks is right! After you and Mistress Ford saw him on Saint Michael’s Hill, the stranger changed his mind and returned to the city before the gates were closed for the night.’
‘Why?’ I managed. ‘For what reason?’
‘Unfinished business with Jasper Fairbrother. John Overbecks said that the two men were
Richard turned a frowning look in my direction, but I ignored him.
‘He can’t be the murderer, John. Sergeant Manifold and I have worked out that Master Fairbrother probably wasn’t killed until around ten o’clock last night. By that time, our Breton friend had left the city. Cicely Ford and I both saw him much earlier, walking up Saint Michael’s Hill, past the boundary stone and striding out on the road towards the down.’
‘He might have returned to the city,’ the baker argued.
‘I doubt it. He was carrying his pack and cloak.’
John Overbecks shrugged. ‘That’s no proof. He might have intended to leave, but, for some reason or another, changed his mind and came back. How long before curfew was it?’
Reluctantly, I admitted that it had lacked some time to the closing of the city gates.
‘Well, there you are, then.’
Here Richard Manifold broke in angrily. ‘Will one of you tell me who it is you’re talking about? This may be vital evidence, God save the mark!’
‘Roger will tell you. I have to get back to my shop,’ the baker said, and disappeared through the open doorway and down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him.
I was left to face the irate sergeant, so I told my tale as briefly as I could. Indeed, there wasn’t much to tell, although I did remember to include my third sighting of the stranger in Broad Street during the afternoon.
‘Coming out of Robin Avenel’s house, you say?’ There was an air of suppressed excitement about Richard Manifold’s question that intrigued me. Also, he had started to bite his nails, a sure sign, in him, of perturbation. ‘Well, well! Who’d have guessed it?’
But when I asked him to speak more plainly, he clammed up and said it was nothing: he had merely been thinking aloud.
‘You’re certain that this man was a Breton?’ he asked, as we descended the stairs together. ‘Is the ship he arrived on still moored in Saint Nicholas Backs?’
‘In answer to your first question, I’m almost certain. As for the ship, I don’t know.’
A little crowd of people had once again gathered outside the bakery, but Richard dispersed them with a few curt words and, using the key he had found hanging on a nail on the kitchen wall, locked the street door behind us.
‘Walk down to Saint Nicholas Backs with me,’ he invited, ‘and see if you can spot this Breton merchantman.’
But it had gone, sailing down the Avon on the morning tide, no doubt, and in its berth was a Portuguese ship, perfuming the air with a cargo of exotic spices.
Richard swore, long and satisfyingly, before turning on me. ‘I wish you’d told me all this yesterday,’ he said savagely.
I assumed a wounded expression. ‘How did I know it was of any importance? In fact, I still don’t know that. The man can’t be the murderer if we’re right about the time of death . . .’
‘I’m willing to wager my last groat that he’s the killer,’ Richard interrupted with such ill-founded assurance that it took my breath away. Rendered speechless, all I could muster was a sort of outraged croak, which my companion mistook for encouragement to continue with his crack-brained theory. ‘Overbecks is right! After you and Mistress Ford saw him on Saint Michael’s Hill, the stranger changed his mind and returned to the city before the gates were closed for the night.’
‘Why?’ I managed. ‘For what reason?’
‘Unfinished business with Jasper Fairbrother. John Overbecks said that the two men were
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