[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth by Kate Sedley

dark, ahnost black hair, which contrasted with his very pale skin. Surely, I had seen him somewhere recently; or, if not him, someone very like. He turned his head a little, searching the crowd, so that I was able to see him fuller faced, and at once the softly bowed upper lip told me who he was. Had not the shepherd's wife informed me that Matthew Wardroper was the spitting image of his mother? Perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, but certainly this young man brought Lady Wardroper vividly to mind. Moreover, whom else but his own kinsman would Lionel Arrowsmith trust with a secret mission? So, I thought, taking another draught of Rybole and vaguely aware of Philip babbling on in my right ear, I was back at Matthew Wardroper. The wheel had spun full circle; and if I had entertained any lingering doubt that God's finger was in this particular pie it had now vanished. I accepted defeat as gracefully as possible, and all at once I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
    I watched Matthew Wardroper edge his way towards the corner bench and noted the questioning, almost agonized looks which the other two men bent upon him. Nor did I miss his despairing shake of the head as he sank down beside Timothy Plummer, who shuffled up to make room for him. Lionel Arrowsmith stared at his cousin in consternation, but unfortunately, just at that moment, Philip reclaimed my wandering attention.
    'You ain't bin listening to a thing I've said, 'ave you?' he demanded accusingly. 'You bin watching them three over in that corner. No good denyin' it, 'cos I seen you. What's so fascinatin' about 'em?'
    As neither Timothy Plummer nor Lionel Arrowsmith nor young Matthew Wardroper was this evening wearing the duke's livery I could not claim that as a point of interest and was obliged to answer feebly, 'Nothing. I just like looking at people.'
    Happily, Philip accepted this explanation.
    'Ah well, there ain't no more interestin' folk to be found anywhere in the country, I reck'n, than in London, and you don' come 'ere that often. You're forgiven. 'Ow about another beaker each o' Rybole?'
    I realized that it was my turn to pay and thrust some coins into his willing hand, whereupon Philip disappeared again to find Jeanne's cousin, rather than wait to waylay one of the harassed and over-worked pot-boys. As soon as he had gone I turned once more to study the group in the corner. Even had the noise in the ale-room not been deafening it would have been impossible for me to overhear the slightest snatch of their conversation: I was too far away. But the set of their faces told me that all was not well; and when, after some minutes, Matthew Wardroper rose to his feet and again quit the tavern, I concluded that Thaddeus Morgan had failed to keep the appointment he had made.
    I emptied my second beaker more slowly than the first, partly to do greater justice to the unrivalled savour of its contents, partly in an attempt to honour my promise to Jeanne that I would not let Philip arrive home drunk, but most of all because I wanted to wait for Matthew Wardroper's return. During Philip's absence I had shifted my position, so that I could both face him and keep my eyes on Timothy Plummer's table, giving as my reason that I had been sitting in a draught. I was thus able to talk and watch at the same time, but as it was at least another half-hour before Matthew Wardroper came back I had difficulty in making my wine last. Philip, indeed, had finished his long since and was set on having a third, an intention it took all my ingenuity to prevent. I was just forcibly restraining him by a hand on his arm when young Wardroper slipped in with a party of latecomers. I could tell at once, by the grim set of his mouth and the sag of his shoulders, that he had had no luck. Thaddeus Morgan had failed to keep the appointment. Timothy Plummer and Lionel Arrowsmith had no hesitation in reaching the same conclusion, a fact made manifest by the look on