Brother Cadfael 04: St. Peter's Fair

never quite knew why he turned his head away, and hoisted a wide shoulder between himself and Ivo Corbiere's men. He had nothing against either of them, but he did not want to be recognised and condoled with, or congratulated on his release, or in any way, sympathetic or not, have public attention called to him. He kept his shoulder hunched between, and was glad to have the room so full of people, and most of them strangers.
    "Fairs are good business," remarked Wat, returning to his place and plumping down on the bench with a sigh of pleasure, "but I wish we could spread them round the rest of the year. My feet are growing no younger, and I've hardly been off them an hour in all, the last three days. What was it we were saying?"
    "I was trying to describe for you the fellow who reported me as threatening revenge," said Philip. "Cast a look over yonder now, and you'll see the very man. The two in leather who came in together - the elder of the two."
    Wat let his sharp eyes rove, and surveyed Turstan Fowler with apparent disinterest, but very shrewdly. "Slouching and hangdog, was he? Smart as a new coat now." His gaze returned to Philip's face. "That's the man? I remember him well enough. I seldom forget a man's face, but his name and condition I've no way of knowing."
    "He can't have looked quite so trim that evening," said Philip, "seeing he owned to being well soused. He was lost to the world two hours later, by his own tale."
    "And he said he got it all here?" Wat's eyes had narrowed thoughtfully.
    "So he said. 'Where I got my skinful' is what he said."
    "Well, let me tell you something interesting, friend ..." Wat leaned confidentially across the table. "Now I see him, I know how I saw him the last time, for if you'll credit me, he looked much as he looks now. And what's more, now I know of the connection he had with you and your affairs, I can recall small things that happened that night, things I never gave a thought to before, and neither would you have done. He was in here twice that evening, or rather, he was in the doorway once, before he came over the threshold later. In that doorway he stood, and looked round him, a matter of ten minutes or so after you came in. I made nothing of it that he gave you a measuring sort of look, for well he might, you were in full cry then. But look at you he did, and weighed you up, and went away again. And the next we saw of him, it might be half an hour later, he came in and bought a measure of ale, and a big flask of strong geneva liquor, and sat supping his ale quietly, and eyeing you from time to time - as again well he might, it was about then you were greenish and going suspicious quiet. But do you know when he drank up and left, Philip, lad? The minute after you made for the door in a hurry. And his flask under his arm, unopened. Drunk? Him? He was stone cold sober when he went out of here."
    "But he took the juniper liquor with him," pointed out Philip, reasonably. "He was drunk enough two hours later, there were several of them to swear to that. They had to carry him back to the abbey on a trestle-board."
    "And how much of the juniper spirit did they find remaining? Did they ever mention that? Did they find the flask at all?"
    "I never heard mention of it," owned Philip, startled and doubtful. "Brother Cadfael was there, I could ask him. But why?"
    Wat laid a kindly if patronising hand on his shoulder. "Lad, it's easy to see you never went beyond wine or ale, and if you'll heed me you'll leave the strong stuff to strong stomachs. I said a large flask, and large I meant. There was a quart of geneva spirits in that bottle! If any man drank that dry in two hours, it wouldn't be dead drunk they'd be carrying him away, it would be plain dead. Or if he did live to tell of it, it wouldn't be the next day, nor for several after. Sober as the sheriff himself was that fellow when he went out of here on your heels, and why he should want to lie about it is more than I can say, but lie about it he did, it seems. Now you tell me why a man should go to some pains to convict himself of a debauch he never even had, and get himself slung into a cell for recompense. Unless," added Wat, considering the problem with lively interest, "it was to get himself out of something worse."
    The elder potboy, a freckled lad born and bred in the Foregate, came by with a cluster of empties in either hand, and paused to nudge Wat in the ribs with an elbow, and lean to his ear.
    "Do you know who you