Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (31 page)

The Jingler
lifted the lid of the chest. Empty!

“That
must be a disappointment to ye, Jingler.“The lid fell with a crash at the
sound of Jugg’s voice. The Jingler turned and saw Jugg standing just inside the
doorway with a pistol in his hand.

“Jugg!”

“Hands
in the air, Jingler. And stay where y’are.” The Jingler acquiesced,
fuming. He knew at that distance it was likely that a shot would be fatal. Jugg
would make sure of that.

“Jack
told me that ye wouldn’t be here, the lying dog.”

“He
didn’t lie. That’s what I told him. That’s what I wanted him to believe.”
Jugg gestured with the pistol and the Jingler moved further into the room and
away from Jugg. Jugg took a couple of steps towards him. The two men kept their
eyes on one another. The Jingler’s mind was racing, taking in everything,
searching for opportunities; something, anything, that he might grasp and throw
at Jugg, something to blind him temporarily; a piece of furniture to hurl
against him. There was the table; it was a solid thing, not just a trestle -
but the timing had to be right. How could he contrive it?

“I
wouldn’t try any tricks,” said Jugg. “Reckon I can shoot ye before ye
manage it. I’m not sure I want to shoot ye, Jingler. But I might. Accidents
happen.”

“Why
don’t ye, then? I might do the same to
you
in similar
circumstances.” The Jingler’s voice was jeering.

“Well,”
said Jugg, as though he was considering the matter in all seriousness, “I
do owe ye something, Jingler. You played yer part well, after all …”

“Part?
What part?” said the Jingler. What was Jugg talking about? And why didn’t
he just get on with shooting him, if that was what he intended to do? Mind,
even Jugg would have some explaining to do if he did that. And Jugg had never
shown any signs of enjoying the company of constables or justices. Might be
able to carry it off though, with that sanctimonious air of his. The Jingler
could just imagine Jugg being questioned by the constable. “Aye,
constable, caught him red-handed in the act, the villain; with the consequences
that y’see before you … either him or me, it was …” And perhaps no-one
would question why a sexton might have a pistol, primed, at the ready …

The Jingler
was struck by the sudden thought that perhaps the pistol was not primed. Perhaps
this was Jugg’s bluff.

“Y’really
don’t know, do you?” said Jugg, slightly wonderingly. “Well, it’s of
no consequence now. But y’were very useful, for a time, to some friends of
mine, regarding the Grasset horse. Thought we’d carried it off, right up until
the day, near enough …” The Jingler stayed quiet, but his face must have
betrayed something, because Jugg continued, “No-one could have done it
better than you. Jingler. Put the prancer out of the match, without anyone
realising anyone had a hand in it, as if nature had done it. If all had gone as
it should, that is …”

Light was
beginning to dawn in the Jingler’s mind. Jugg had made a coney out of him, used
him as a verser, a game player, for another plan. He’d
wanted
the
Jingler to harm the horse in some way. If suspicion had fallen on anyone, it
would have fallen on the Jingler, not Jugg. Another thought suddenly came to
the Jingler.

“Did
you send word to Grasset - and Paston?” he said. There was something here
that he had been wondering about, ever since the sudden arrival of George and
Richard at the inn yard. “Or - did you intercept the letter?”

Jugg looked
genuinely confused and irritated. “What’re ye talking about? What
letter?” he said. “I told you, don’t try any tricks.”

The Jingler
was thinking, hard. When he asked the Frater to write to the undersheriff, he
had told him to make sure that the finger of suspicion was pointed at both Jugg
and
the cunning-woman. But nothing had happened to Jugg. He had just
carried on as though
nothing
had changed. No-one had questioned him - or
the cunning-woman either? The Jingler’s mind started racing again. It might be
coincidence that Grasset and Paston had arrived so suddenly on the inn yard,
before the two prime suspects were taken up, or it might not. He hadn’t seen
what the Frater had written, of course. The Jingler couldn’t read, not
properly. Make out a few words here and there when needed. What was going on?
More to the point - what use could he make of it this instant?

“Grasset
got word of your plans. How did that come about?” bluffed the Jingler.
Jugg stared at him, with a new uncertainty in his expression. “Somebody
went tittiwell on yer friends,” continued the Jingler with more
confidence. “Somebody went tattle-telling. Who was that, eh? Who’s around
ye that ye can’t trust … ?” That was the way to break ‘em, he thought.
Once suspicion was in Jugg’s mind, it would go take it off a-wandering …
watch the eyes …

The instant
Jugg wavered, the Jingler was upon him, grappling like a demon for the pistol.
He didn’t want to shoot Jugg; just prevent him from shooting
him
; or
point the pistol out of the door and discharge the shot. With the pistol spent,
he knew that he could overcome Jugg in a fist fight - and there was always the
knife.

Jugg was
strong. His arms were surprisingly long and wiry and he stretched one hand, the
hand with the pistol, as far back as he could, whilst the other first pushed at
the Jingler’s face and then gripped his throat. The Jingler, with tears of pain
starting in his eyes despite himself, tried to ignore the gripping hand as he
used both his to reach for the pistol. With one he managed to grip Jugg’s wrist
and hold the hand steady. Then he balled the other into a fist, ready to smash
it into Jugg’s face.

“Ooof!”
Jugg’s knee came up towards the Jingler’s groin just as the Jingler’s fist met
his nose. Jugg was knocked back across the table and the Jingler, bent over him
and gasping in agony, tried to get control of the pistol. As he was bringing it
round towards the door, Jugg lifted his head up and grabbed for the Jingler’s
throat again. Afterwards, the Jingler was never sure whose finger it was pulled
the trigger. The powder in the pan exploded and the Jingler yelped with pain as
the muzzle flashed sparks. Jugg fell back with a dull thud onto the top of the
table and did not move again. The Jingler, holding his burnt hand in his good
one, stood upright drawing gasping breath after gasping breath. Fragments of
burned paper and wadding floated down over the still body of Jugg. Blood began
to seep across the table. The Jingler, feeling that he would never get enough
air into his lungs again, imagined that he could hear the first drops falling
onto the floor …then becoming a trickle …

“Jingler
- what …” The Frater’s face was white with fear. The room stank of
explosion and burning. “Ye’ve killed ‘im!”

“What’re
you doing here?”

“I
heard the shot. I heard it from the church, Jingler!”

“Bing
a waste, Jack,” advised the Jingler, curtly.

“Aye,
I will,” said the Frater in a scared voice, getting ready to follow the
Jingler’s instructions, meaning leave, now. “I’ll go now, Jingler. But
ye’d better bing a waste as well!”

“Aye -
but first - wait for me by the old yew - where the wall drops down on the other
side. If ye see anyone, hold ‘em till I get away!”

No sooner
was the Frater out of the door than the Jingler began to ransack the room.
Where was it - where was it - it had to be somewhere. The Jingler turned
reluctantly to the body lying across the table. He didn’t want to touch Jugg,
but if his purse was on him, he would have to … shuddering, he ran his hands
over Jugg’s trunk - nothing - then, with a flash of inspiration, he peered
under the table.

There it
was, large and bulging, nailed to the underside. The Jingler grabbed it and
pulled it away with a slight tearing sound. No coins fell out and he stowed it
carefully inside his jerkin. Then he picked up the pistol and ran.

* * * * *

It had been
taken for granted that Sir John would carry on receiving Grasset hospitality
for as long as he needed it. No-one had spoken openly about it, but it seemed
to suit them all very well. For Anne, it was like old times, because the
relationship between the two houses had been very cordial when the children
were young. Then, as they were growing, Catholic plots and threats to the
safety of the Queen’s life and the execution of the Queen of Scots, the Queen’s
cousin, had brought an atmosphere of suspicion that had affected nearly
everyone they knew. When Anne thought about it, though, the final breakdown had
come with Lucy’s death.

Anne missed
Lucy’s company. They had both lost children, sons, as babes in arms and had
been there to comfort each other like sisters. Lucy had gone on to bear Sir
John two sons and two daughters whilst Anne had daughters only. But Anne still
lived for which she gave thanks. Her belief did not accommodate prayers for the
dead, but she thought fondly of Lucy’s memory and that, she thought, was as
good as a prayer. She felt sorry for Sir John. What had just happened had
robbed her of a daughter, but it had also robbed him of a son. And how foolish
it all was, really, that it had come to this.

Secretly,
whilst she was worried about Amabilis, she was not entirely unhappy with the
idea of this match. Philip Widderis was a good lad. In fact, he was such a
dutiful son that Anne was quite surprised at what he had done. If she thought
about that too much, however, it would bring thoughts of Lissy’s part in all of
this. There was no doubt that Lissy was determined, even headstrong on
occasions. No-one knew that better than her mother - and like all mothers, she
thought that Lissy’s father had sometimes been too indulgent with the children.
But what was done, was done; and now the best should be made of it. The best,
as far as Anne was concerned, was to ensure that they were married as soon as
possible. At times, she even allowed her thoughts to stray ahead to a future
where the Grasset and Widderis estates were united. In her mind’s eye, she saw
little children with red-gold hair and blue eyes - or perhaps green ones, like
Philip - running through the garden at Marfield Hall, or riding over from
Calness … best not think too much about that, presently.

It helped
that she could occupy herself with hospitality. She had made sure that a room
was prepared for Sir John with all the comforts he might need. As usual, the
menfolk had gathered in Richard’s study and she was about to advise them to
ready themselves to dine. As she went into the room, she saw that Sir George
was not there and was grateful, as ever, for all the efforts he had made to
find which way the runaways had gone. Riders had been sent out to send word and
now there was just the waiting … Waiting …

John
Widderis rose to his feet when she came in. “Thank thee for thy kindness,
Anne,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed.

Anne
smiled. “‘Tis naught, John; well, indeed it is a pleasure to have you stay
with us again.” She suddenly felt awkward and wondered if it had been the
right thing to say. Richard came to her support.

“So it
is, Jack, though - the circumstances are somewhat - unexpected.” Richard
poured a glass of wine for their guest and then looked enquiringly at his wife,
who shook her head and then, shrugging, said, “Yes, I will then.” She
took her drink and sat down. The men raised their glasses to her.

“I
must thank you for stalling my horses, as well as myself,” said Jack
Widderis, with humour.

Anne
countered his humour with mild irony. “One or two more is nothing to my
husband.” The resulting laughter warmed the atmosphere slightly.

“I
feel for your - other - guest,” said Widderis.

“Yes,”
said Richard, “‘tis a pity that we could not match our horses fully, for
George’s sake at least.”

Anne wished
that Lissy were there, if only to say her usual “Horses - again!” She
decided to say nothing herself, though for a moment she had to bite back some
words. Finally, she satisfied herself by remarking, with only slight coolness
in her tone, “I imagine that there was no small amount of gold wagered on
this match.”

“I
imagine so,” said Richard. He went to pour his wife some more wine but
Anne shook her head and rose to her feet.

“We
dine within the hour,” she said, firmly, curtseying to them. If she did
not lay down the law about this, they would stay for hours, talking about
horses while the wine went down and the food cooled on the table.