There was a steady trickle of wealthy customers interested in sampling the newly landed wines. Even the sudden deluge of rain had not stemmed the flow. They all wanted ‘first refusal’ for their cellars. This was a part of the business that Emma excelled at and savoured. Being able to produce a blend of wines to suit the customer’s palate and loosen the pouch strings. It had been a profitable morning. Ned was below in the cellar arranging deliveries from the previous day’s sales.
“Peaceful morning, Mistress. Good to be back to normal!” he called up once.
“So it seems,” Emma answered without looking up. She meant it; the words warmed her more than the small brazier at her feet.
The trickle had soon slowed to the stage where she was beginning to feel bored. Not one customer in the last turn of the hour-glass. With nothing better to do, she sighed and pulled out the large ledger to make a start on the previous season’s tallies. There were always discrepancies and that niggled at her constantly like a wound refusing to heal completely.
She turned a page in the account book. The ink was brown with age, her own hand neat and certain. Her eye drifted down the column. One tun spoiled by saltwater… She frowned. Curious; there was another, and another, spaced at odd intervals. She flipped further back – fewer entries. Further forward – more. Each month brought another tun “spoilt,” and yet the totals of hogsheads sold climbed instead of falling. She tapped her quill against her lip. “Miraculous,” she murmured, half amused. “Our very own loaves and fishes.”
The thought nagged at her. But before it could root itself, the latch clattered and a gust of cold crisp air swept through the shop, blowing parchments off the desk and upending quills and ink.
“Saints alive, Emma Fenwick, you’ll freeze yourself to parchment over there!”
“Shut the door, woman!” she answered, hastily pouring blotting sand over the spilled ink, knowing full well that she was already too late.
Margery finally wrestled the door closed, cutting off the cold damp wind.
She stood in the doorway, her cheeks bright from the wind, her sodden madder-red gown, with rivulets of water streaming onto the drab boards. A fur-lined hood framed her laughing face.
Emma blinked, caught between pleasure and a faint pang she could not name. Even amidst the sudden downpour, Margery’s clothes still exuded colours, the warmth – all the things she had long denied herself. She pressed the ledger closed. She straightened her parchments, moved the quill and ink to one side, pushing from her mind the wasted entries that would need redoing.
Margery looked troubled, the bright smile forced, not natural.
“What ails you, Margery? Is there something amiss?”
Margery looked around the shop, before answering. “Come upstairs… please. Susan is sure to have a roaring fire, and I am wet through, and perished!”
They climbed the stairs to the hall, the fire in the hearth burning well. Margery made straight for it.
“Sweet mercy, I cannot feel my toes.” She stretched her feet towards the heat, wiggling them inside her sodden shoes.
Emma settled beside her. The morning had been good – customers trickling in to sample the new wines, the shop feeling ordinary again for the first time in days. She had been deep in the ledger when Margery burst through the door, sodden and windblown, her madder red cloak streaming water onto the boards. But there had been no jest, no bright complaint about the weather. Just a quiet, almost pleading “Come upstairs.”
Looking at her now, she could see some spirit returning. Steam began to rise from Margery’s damp wool, the warmth slowly seeping back into frozen limbs.
The kitchen door creaked and Susan appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I thought I heard you come in. Mistress Chester looks half-dead with cold.”
“I feel it,” Margery said.
Susan clicked her tongue. “And those shoes – sodden through. Get them off. You should know better.”
She didn’t move, only groaned at the thought of bending down to frozen feet.
“Lord give me strength.” Susan knelt before Margery, tugging at the wet leather. “Sit still. You’re worse than a child.”
“My fingers won’t work,” Margery protested weakly.
“Then it’s a good thing mine do.” Susan wrestled the shoe free and set to work on the other.
Susan gathered the sodden shoes and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with two linen-wrapped stones warm from the hearth. She slid one beneath Margery’s stockinged feet.
“There now. Keep your toes on those and let the fire do the rest.” She straightened, hands on hips. “Your stockings will dry well enough where they are.”
“Bless you, Susan.”
“Save your blessings. I’ve broth on the boil. A bowl each with some rye bread and cheese?”
Margery’s face brightened. “Bless you, Susan, yes. My gut is frozen solid from that wind. This is the last time I will believe that old crone Goodwife Mawde who told me ‘No rain today Mistress, no rain.’ And palm outstretched for payment!”
“I have no sympathy for you, Mistress Margery. Foretelling is against our Lord… and a sin.”
Turning to Emma, “And you, Mistress Emma? Will you take a bowl too?”
“Just a small bowl for me, thank you.”
Susan nodded and retreated to the kitchen. They heard the clatter of bowls, the scrape of the ladle, and soon she returned bearing a wooden tray. She set it down on the bench between them – two steaming bowls, a wedge of hard cheese, and thick slices of dark rye bread.
“Get that inside you now. I’ll leave you be.”
“Thank you, Susan.”
The kitchen door closed softly behind her.
Margery cupped her bowl, letting the warmth soak into her palms before taking a long sip. She tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it, chewing slowly, her eyes on the flames.
Emma watched her. Something was wrong. Margery was never this quiet.
“You have something on your mind.”
Margery set down her bowl. “I do. Something very important.”
Emma waited.
“Thom’s wife came to see the dyers this morning.”
“His wife? Why?”
“Because the dyers sent for her. They’ve been asking her to intervene on Thom’s behalf.”
Emma frowned. “The dyers? But they were the ones who… “
“I know.” Margery reached into her purse and drew out three small coins. She held them in her open palm. “They returned the farthings, Emma. All three of them.”
Emma stared at the coins as if they were serpents. “They gave back the money!”
“Every last one.”
“But they earned those honestly. They gave us the name.”
“Aye, they did.” Margery placed the coins on the bench between them. “And now they want nothing to do with it. They believe Thom might not be the murderer. They are so troubled by it, they would not keep the reward.”
Emma could not take her eyes from the farthings. Dyers giving up money honestly received – it was against nature. Against everything she knew of the world.
“This cannot be,” she said quietly. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Neither have I. But there you see it.” Margery held her gaze. “They want everything back to normal. They believe Thom to be innocent.”
“But… but they are the ones who gave us the name!”
“Aye, they did, and no mistake. But… I think it possible that they did so to punish him and not consider the consequences…. Then, but now…”
Emma picked up one of the farthings, turning it over in her fingers. “Wait. Ned heard that Thom threatened Edmund. Threatened to kill him with a knife and… “
” I know.” Margery’s voice dropped. “But…” Margery paused, almost afraid to utter the words. “What if he is innocent? It troubles me.”
The fire crackled. The broth cooled in their bowls, steam rose from the stockings and hems.
Emma stared at the three small coins. An hour ago she had been the pride of the ward. People had nodded to her in the strete, spoken her name with respect. She had solved it. She had brought justice. And now…
The emptiness opened in the pit of her stomach, cold and spreading. If Thom was innocent, then she had sent an innocent man to the dungeon. She had stood before her neighbours and named him. She had been so certain. So proud.
And now what? Go back to those same neighbours and say she was wrong? That the widow Fenwick, who had meddled where she had no business, had condemned the wrong man?
She could not breathe properly. The warmth of the fire seemed very far away.
“But Margery,” she said at last, “what has it to do with us? It is now in the hands of the coroner. They must go to the coroner. Not us.”
Margery looked at her steadily. “Are you saying that you won’t help? That you won’t even listen to them?”
“Tell me… why will Thom not speak? Why does he stay silent? That is a sure sign of guilt.”
“Or of fear.”
“Margery, listen to yourself. If fear, then he would speak. Fear of death – what greater fear is there? He has no one to vouch for him, that is his fear…” Emma shook her head firmly. “No. My mind is set. He must speak for himself.”
“I hear you Emma, I really do.” Margery reached across and touched her arm. “I am asking you as my closest friend.”
This time, the silence was long and drawn-out. Margery tried to break it and speak some more, but was stopped by a short hand motion from her friend. Emma was torn… She dreaded opening it all up again, but the pain on Margery’s face was too much for her
“We will have help from no one – what will your husband say?”
This twist confused Margery
“I… I… I never thought. Oh, don’t know.” There was real frustration on her friend’s face. “But I do know that I can’t sleep not knowing. I need to speak to his wife, to hear why. Why is he so silent?”
“If… If he is innocent, the strain will be… terrible. We must stay together, because I cannot do it alone, do you understand Margery. We will have to search again for the real murderer – Coroner Bale won’t… and neither will anyone else… “
“Margery, I need to think on it, and you do too. Talk to your family, if you have a mind – there will not be any going back. I must also speak with father.”
It was past dusk, the curfew bell had since tolled, but they had yet to hear the Greyfriars’ Compline bell to end the day. It was that time between awake and sleep, time to sit and ponder, reflect on the day, plan for the morrow – before retiring.
In the reflected glow of the fire in the hearth, Master Richard had prime position at the table. The heat of the fire directly on him and a high‑backed chair protecting him from draughts. Emma had a similar position with Ned and Susan sitting on a bench beside them, hands stretched, leaning in to the heat.
“Master?”
“Yes, Ned, what is it?”
“I notice that none from Lord Berkeley’s estates have called recently.”
“Have they not…?”
“It is unusual, master. Should we… worry?”
“Yes, Ned. You are right to bring it to my attention. Daughter, see how your actions affected our trade. Our most loyal customer is… still reluctant to trade.”
Emma lifted her head. “Father, I did what…”
But he was already speaking over her.
“The Berkeley estate deals with Master Chester to sell their wool, does he not?”
“I am not certain… but I think so. Yes. Why?”
“Tomorrow, speak with Mistress Chester. Find out if Lord Berkeley has been to town recently, or will be soon. We need to assert ourselves again. Especially now that we have brought the murderer to justice.”
“Yes, Father. Could we wait a day or so, Mistress Margery and I are not…”
“Did you not hear me? We must act quickly and restore our trade lest others take advantage. Tomorrow, it should be.”
“As you wish, I will seek her in the morning.” Her voice was steady, but her hands tightened in her lap.
Her father looked at her, frowning.
“Are you ill, Emma?”
“No, Father. Maybe tired. I should probably retire.”
“Before you do. Now that we are again in good standing, we must engage with as many merchants and valued customers as possible. Let no opportunity be missed. Others will try to take advantage; we must redouble our efforts. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Let everyone know that it was we who uncloaked the killer. We saved the ward and… and then they will forget… anyway, they will forget other things.”
Emma was weary of this conversation. She wished the fire could be her blanket, her protection, just for this evening. She wanted to forget the world outside.
“Master, may I?”
“Yes, Susan, what is it?”
“I heard at the stalls that Thomas the Claw is faring badly in the dungeons.”
“He deserves all he gets, Susan. And more.”
“What I heard,” Susan continued, “he was dragged to the coroner, bloodied, bruised, teeth missing. A pitiful sight, is what I heard.”
“Why would the coroner treat him so? Why? Is he so angry?” Emma asked, horrified.
“No, not that. What I hear… he refuses to say when asked. He refuses to say anything.”
“No one deserves to be beaten,” Emma murmured. She had not meant to speak aloud.
Ned turned, surprised. “After what he did?”
Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. She had no argument that would not sound foolish or soft‑headed.
Susan continued, “not a single word. He will not confess… Allhe says is ‘innocent’, but they all say that, don’t they?”
“Are there any to speak for him, say where he was?” Emma asked, her voice too quick, too hopeful. She prayed none of them noticed.
“I don’t know about that. There must not be, otherwise they would speak by now. He beat his wife, poor woman, daily. Now he gets some for himself.”
Emma excused herself and went up the stairs towards her chamber. She looked back, realising that none had noticed her departure.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 