on the cheek, grazing her with my unshaven chin, and went to fetch water from the conduit by Saint John’s Arch, muttering and grumbling under my breath as usual.
The mounds of yesterday’s refuse were already being scavenged by the neighbourhood’s dogs, who scattered what they could not eat far and wide across the open ground. As I staggered back to the cottage with our largest pitcher full to overflowing, I noticed with mounting irritation that a piece of cloth had wrapped itself around the toe of one boot and would not be shaken off. When I had emptied the pitcher’s contents into our water barrel, and before I paid a second visit to the conduit, I stooped and removed the offending rubbish.
At first glance it seemed to be nothing more than a long strip of grimy rag, and I was about to throw it away, when a glimmer of gold caught my eye. Closer inspection revealed the rag to be a scarf of fine silk gauze, woven with an intricate pattern of gold and silver thread, not the sort of pretty trifle any of the women living in Lewin’s Meadow would be likely to wear.
Adela, bustling about getting breakfast, requested me, with unnecessary asperity I thought, to finish filling the water barrel before supplies in the conduit ran low. This was apt to happen during the summer months, when the springs on the heights above Bristol – whose streams filled the Carmelite Friars’ great water cistern, from where the water was piped across the Frome Bridge to the conduit – began to dry up.
‘What is that disgusting thing you’re so interested in?’ she demanded irritably.
I held it up. ‘A silk gauze scarf, laced with gold and silver thread. I found it wound around my boot. It must have been dropped by someone. But who, in this neighbourhood, would own such a thing?’
Adela came closer and inspected it.
‘Oh, I know who that belongs to,’ she said. ‘I recognize it. Jane Overbecks was wearing it when she called here yesterday morning. She must have lost it when you chased her away.’
I hotly refuted the accusation. ‘I did not chase her away!’ But I could well believe that the scarf belonged to Mistress Overbecks. It was just such a piece of frippery as an elderly man of fifty or so, with more money than sense, would lavish on an adored young wife.
‘Give it to me,’ Adela said. ‘I’ll wash it and return it to her next time I pass the bakery. Roger, will you hurry up, please! Margaret is coming to dinner and to spend the rest of the day with us. Don’t forget you’ll have to share a mattress with Nicholas tonight. Elizabeth must come in with Margaret and myself.’ I must have looked bewildered, for she added impatiently, ‘You surely haven’t forgotten that we’re guests of Cicely Ford at Vespers this evening! Today is the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalen. Roger! You’re not listening to me. Will you please pay attention.’
She was wrong. I was listening, but with only half an ear. I was staring fixedly at one end of the scarf, where a dry, brownish stain disfigured one corner. I rubbed it tentatively and some tiny, brownish-red flakes crumbled into the palm of my hand. It was dried blood, I was in no doubt about that. But whose? And how did it come to be on Jane Overbecks’s scarf?
‘Roger! The water!’ my wife exclaimed forcefully. She glanced through the open doorway. ‘There are dozens of people streaming through the Frome Gate with jugs and pitchers. I want that water barrel filled before breakfast.’ She did not actually add, ‘Or there won’t be any breakfast,’ but the threat was implicit in her tone of voice.
But once I had filled the barrel, after four or five more trips, I was at liberty to return to my inspection of the scarf. It was definitely blood. I mentioned the fact to Adela.
‘What has that to say to anything?’ she asked, stirring oatmeal into the pot of boiling water over the fire. She paused, wiping the sweat from her forehead. ‘You’re not suggesting it has
The mounds of yesterday’s refuse were already being scavenged by the neighbourhood’s dogs, who scattered what they could not eat far and wide across the open ground. As I staggered back to the cottage with our largest pitcher full to overflowing, I noticed with mounting irritation that a piece of cloth had wrapped itself around the toe of one boot and would not be shaken off. When I had emptied the pitcher’s contents into our water barrel, and before I paid a second visit to the conduit, I stooped and removed the offending rubbish.
At first glance it seemed to be nothing more than a long strip of grimy rag, and I was about to throw it away, when a glimmer of gold caught my eye. Closer inspection revealed the rag to be a scarf of fine silk gauze, woven with an intricate pattern of gold and silver thread, not the sort of pretty trifle any of the women living in Lewin’s Meadow would be likely to wear.
Adela, bustling about getting breakfast, requested me, with unnecessary asperity I thought, to finish filling the water barrel before supplies in the conduit ran low. This was apt to happen during the summer months, when the springs on the heights above Bristol – whose streams filled the Carmelite Friars’ great water cistern, from where the water was piped across the Frome Bridge to the conduit – began to dry up.
‘What is that disgusting thing you’re so interested in?’ she demanded irritably.
I held it up. ‘A silk gauze scarf, laced with gold and silver thread. I found it wound around my boot. It must have been dropped by someone. But who, in this neighbourhood, would own such a thing?’
Adela came closer and inspected it.
‘Oh, I know who that belongs to,’ she said. ‘I recognize it. Jane Overbecks was wearing it when she called here yesterday morning. She must have lost it when you chased her away.’
I hotly refuted the accusation. ‘I did not chase her away!’ But I could well believe that the scarf belonged to Mistress Overbecks. It was just such a piece of frippery as an elderly man of fifty or so, with more money than sense, would lavish on an adored young wife.
‘Give it to me,’ Adela said. ‘I’ll wash it and return it to her next time I pass the bakery. Roger, will you hurry up, please! Margaret is coming to dinner and to spend the rest of the day with us. Don’t forget you’ll have to share a mattress with Nicholas tonight. Elizabeth must come in with Margaret and myself.’ I must have looked bewildered, for she added impatiently, ‘You surely haven’t forgotten that we’re guests of Cicely Ford at Vespers this evening! Today is the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalen. Roger! You’re not listening to me. Will you please pay attention.’
She was wrong. I was listening, but with only half an ear. I was staring fixedly at one end of the scarf, where a dry, brownish stain disfigured one corner. I rubbed it tentatively and some tiny, brownish-red flakes crumbled into the palm of my hand. It was dried blood, I was in no doubt about that. But whose? And how did it come to be on Jane Overbecks’s scarf?
‘Roger! The water!’ my wife exclaimed forcefully. She glanced through the open doorway. ‘There are dozens of people streaming through the Frome Gate with jugs and pitchers. I want that water barrel filled before breakfast.’ She did not actually add, ‘Or there won’t be any breakfast,’ but the threat was implicit in her tone of voice.
But once I had filled the barrel, after four or five more trips, I was at liberty to return to my inspection of the scarf. It was definitely blood. I mentioned the fact to Adela.
‘What has that to say to anything?’ she asked, stirring oatmeal into the pot of boiling water over the fire. She paused, wiping the sweat from her forehead. ‘You’re not suggesting it has
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