The Green Man Read Free Page A

daughter’s description of ‘a funny little man’, whom she had a vague memory of having seen before, made me think at once of Timothy Plummer, Spymaster General for (at different times) both King Edward and his brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester. His various appearances in my life had never boded me any good, and I feared that this one would prove to be no exception.
    â€˜You drinking, Roger?’ the landlord called out as he passed, pushing his way through the ever-increasing press of bodies.
    Whoever else lost money in times of famine and economic crisis, it was rarely the alehouses; at least not those in the towns and cities. They provided comfort of a kind and a temporary forgetfulness of men’s problems. I was in the wrong trade, but then, I had always known that. But I liked the freedom it gave me, the sense of being in charge of my own destiny, answerable to no man but myself. The previous year, I had briefly given up that independence to work for, and be paid by, my neighbour, Alderman Foster, now coming to the end of his term as Mayor; but when the job was finished, I had vowed to myself never to work at somebody else’s behest again.
    â€˜Another beaker of the same?’ the landlord persisted. He hated the waste of space non-drinking customers took up on the stools and benches.
    I shook my head resolutely and stood up. Before I had taken two steps, another man, intent on drowning his sorrows, had slipped into my seat.
    Once outside the door, in the lee of All Saints’ Church, I paused to breathe in the cool late afternoon breezes. There was a hint of rain in the air and a chill that, although not untypical of early May, was nevertheless far more pronounced than was customary, even for that unreliable month. I fought down the urge to turn and run – anywhere so long as it was away from Small Street and the man who was waiting there for me.
    Slowly, reluctantly, I forced myself to face the right direction.
    I admonished myself angrily not to be so stupid; to stop behaving like a child or an imbecile. After all, I wasn’t even sure that the ‘strange little man’ really was Timothy Plummer. He might simply be someone who, having heard of my reputation as a solver of mysteries, had one of his own which needed investigation. And that, of course, would explain the gifts of meat as payment in advance for my services. After all, there was nothing more acceptable, or more of a bribe, in these dark and miserable times than something to fill an empty stomach.
    I gave a deep sigh of relief. Of course that was it! I was allowing my imagination to run riot. And the longer I thought about things, the greater my folly in giving way to nervous fancies seemed to be.
    If it were true, as the mummer had assured us it was, that King Edward and his brother were planning a summer invasion of Scotland, Timothy Plummer would be with one or the other of them, as indispensable as always. (Well, he liked to think so.) There would be absolutely no reason for him to be in the west country looking for me. It was true that I had been called upon, once or twice, to dabble my fingers in royal concerns, and had, on one occasion, gone to France in the wake of an invading army, but there had been a reason for that. I had already been engaged in an investigation that had left me little choice in the matter. But I had had nothing to do with Prince Richard or any member of his family for nearly two years. Surely, therefore, I was perfectly safe, and was letting myself fall prey to unfounded and childish fancies.
    My mood lightened, and I was suddenly able to look forward to a supper of roast meat with an anticipation unmarred by ridiculous doubts and fears. The evening air all at once seemed less chilly, the clouds overhead less threatening. There was a spring in my step as I walked down Small Street, and I was even humming – in my own peculiarly tuneless fashion – a somewhat disreputable song