The Christmas Wassail (20 page)

‘There were three of them,' I said. ‘There was a son called Miles.'

‘So there was.' The chandler drained his beaker. ‘Bit of a braggart and a swaggerer, he were.'

‘In what way?'

‘Always boasting he was going to do better for himself than work himself to death on a bit o'barren land that was only fit for pigs.'

‘And did he?' James asked.

‘Did he what?'

‘Better himself.'

The chandler shrugged. ‘I dunno. The whole family disappeared from hereabouts sudden-like about four years ago. No, I tell a lie. It were three years since. T'were the year Thomas Lloyd and John Jay set sail to find the Isle of Brazil and were lost at sea for so many weeks everyone thought they were drowned.'

‘Has anything ever been heard or seen of them since?' James wanted to know. ‘The Deakins, I mean.'

The chandler shook his head. ‘I wouldn't know, master. Not by me, they haven't, but you'd need to ask around the manor. I'm only up this way once a month. At the time, the story was that the old couple had been turned out on account of something that feckless Miles had done, although no one knew for certain what. It was said that that Sir George Marvell – him that used to live in that great house near Ghyston Cliff – was behind it.' The man's eyes narrowed suddenly and he leant forward, peering more closely at James. ‘Here! I recognize you, don't I? You're one of 'em. The Marvells. You're one of the two young lads I used to see about when I called at the house. Wax candles only your housekeeper bought. Nothing but the best for Sir George and his family.'

James smiled uncomfortably. ‘I'm his grandson.'

The chandler looked resentful. ‘Living down in Bristol now, I'm told. Leaving that great place to rot and moulder. Cost me half my takings in this part o'the world when you lot moved away.' He called for another beaker of ale, then went on: ‘Rumour says people have been seen of late in and around that house.'

‘What do you mean?' James asked sharply.

‘Just what I say. Mind you, it's only what I've been told by customers. I've not noticed anything, myself. But then, I'm not here that often, am I? And in any case, I don't go that far up nowadays.'

‘What sort of people have been seen there?'

Our fellow traveller received his fresh beaker of ale from the landlord and took several gulps before replying.

‘Don't know. But there's talk of people and lights having been seen in and around the house only recently. Within the past few days. Some folk are beginning to say the place is haunted. Or else it's being used by smugglers or slavers for their own wicked purposes.'

I laughed at that. ‘Smugglers and slavers aren't going to use anywhere this high up,' I protested. ‘Who's going to bring goods either up or down Ghyston Cliff? It's absurd.'

‘All right! All right!' the chandler said pacifically. ‘No call to get heated about it. I'm only telling you what people have been saying. It may all be moonshine. Still, don't alter the fact that it's a wicked shame to let a house like that just fall to pieces. If Sir George don't want to live there himself, why not let his son and daughter-in-law live there?'

‘Because he likes to have his family under his thumb,' James said bitterly.

‘I've heard that.' The chandler finished his second drink and got to his feet. ‘Well, this won't do. Must be about my business. Nice to have talked to you, masters.' He pulled on his hat, wrapped his thick frieze coat around him and disappeared out of the door. We heard his handcart rattling over the uneven pathway.

I looked at James. ‘Do you think we should investigate these rumours that people have been seen around, or near, your grandfather's house?'

He grunted. ‘I think we must. It'll turn out to be a mare's nest, I daresay, but we ought to satisfy ourselves that no one's broken in. Although it would serve the old man right if someone had. I'm afraid it will be filthy and infested with rats.' He regarded my old and darned clothes critically. ‘But I don't suppose you'll mind that too much.'

I smiled. Adela had urged me to wear one of my decent suits of clothes, but I could see no reason to do so for an expedition such as this.

We left the manor behind, riding even higher up to where the track branched off to the right, going towards Westbury. Instead, we veered left on to rougher ground, past the remains of the ancient hill-fort which local legends reckon was built before the time of the Conqueror by either the Saracens or the Jews. (All nonsense, of course. What did folk imagine a bunch of Saracens were doing in the West Country? And the Jews had come in William's wake.) Others say the fort was built by a giant named Ghyst in the time of the two great giants, Vincent and Goram, who had hewed the gorge through the living rock. Be that as it may, passing the place has always given me a tingle down the spine – an eerie feeling, as of something evil. That day the sensation was even stronger as I looked at the circle of large, upright stones and the smaller ones scattered among them. A vision of human sacrifice flitted into my mind and refused to go away.

The Marvell house – or Ghyston House, as James informed me it had always been known – stood on the flat plateau at the very summit of the high ground before it began to slope away again towards the mouth of the River Avon and the open sea. In the wintry afternoon light it looked forbidding, surrounded by leafless trees and dripping bushes which were starting to run riot for want of pruning. Paths were becoming overgrown with yellowing grass pushing through cracks in the paving stones, while everywhere there was a stench of rotting vegetation. A bleak, lonely and inhospitable place it must have been, I thought, even when the family were living there.

As though he could read my thoughts, James said, ‘Miserable heap, ain't it? Cold all the year round, even in the height of summer. I can't tell you how happy we all were three months ago when Grandfather decided to move down to Bristol.'

‘Can you get inside?' I asked.

He grinned. ‘I don't have a key, if that's what you mean. But there's a window at the back with a loose shutter belonging to the bakehouse. Bart and I used to use it for getting in and out unseen. Just follow this path round …'

I interrupted him, gripping his arm. ‘There's no need,' I hissed. ‘Look! The door's open.'

And just as I spoke, a gust of wind caught the heavy, nail-studded leaf, swinging it on its hinges.

W
e looked at one another, a fearful speculation in our eyes. Then James said firmly, ‘It must have been forced. Only my grandfather has a key.'

But the door had not been forced. There was no splintered wood, just a slight creaking as it swung again on its hinges. I began very much to wish that I had brought my cudgel with me, inconvenient as it would have been on horseback. Instinctively I fingered the knife at my belt, but recalled uneasily that when I had cut my meat with it at dinner, it had been blunt. I had meant to sharpen it before I left home, but in my anxiety to get away, I had forgotten. Fortunately, my companion, being a gentleman, was wearing a poniard – one of those fancy daggers with an elaborate, gem-studded hilt and a slim, but lethal, blade.

We exchanged another look and James took a deep breath. ‘We must tether the horses and go in,' he said.

I nodded.

A minute or so later, the cobs' reins safely wound around the lower branches of a convenient tree, we mounted the low step outside the door, which I pushed open with a cautious hand. Then we both started back with a startled yell as something swooped towards us out of the darkness with a great beating of wings and a long, ululating cry before flying twice around the hall and away out of the door in the direction of the gorge.

‘God's flesh!' breathed James, supporting himself against one of the door jambs. ‘What was that?'

‘Only an owl,' I gasped, trying to laugh but not quite managing it. ‘We must have disturbed its slumbers.'

James steadied himself with an effort. ‘Sweet Virgin, is that all? I thought it was the Devil himself come to greet us.' He forced himself upright and glanced at the front of the house. ‘You know, it's only eleven or twelve weeks ago that I was living here, but for some reason today it feels like a different place. There's something malignant about it that I never noticed before.'

‘That's because it's been empty for all this time. Without its furniture it echoes, and there are no welcoming lights.' I squared my shoulders. ‘Come on! Let's go in. Standing here quaking at the knees won't help us.' And I resolutely pushed the door open once again.

Our boots striking the stone flags sounded unnaturally loud in our ears, and a drift of dried leaves, blown around the floor in the draught from the door, was like the pattering of ghostly feet. Moreover, as James had predicted, we could also hear the scurry-ing of rats as they headed for their holes and safety.

The house was built on the old pattern, with the great entrance hall soaring up into the roof and the rafters high above our heads. At the far end was a dais, while a series of doors pierced the walls to left and right of us, leading to other rooms and the staircases rising to different levels.

James shivered. ‘There's a strange odour,' he whispered, his voice shaking a little as he spoke. ‘Can you smell it?'

‘It's only the mustiness of the house, where it's been shut up,' I said. ‘Do you think anybody's here? Sir George, perhaps? You did say he's the only person who has a key and the door was unlocked.'

‘What in God's name would he be doing here?' James snapped. ‘In a cold, dark house with no furniture? Don't be a fool, man!'

I didn't take offence, recognizing his irritability for what it was. The place, in spite of so recently being his home, was making him feel as scared as I was. He was right; there was an unpleasant odour that didn't come simply from neglect and decay. There was something evil in the air. I, too, shivered.

I nodded at the first door on our left. ‘What's through there?'

‘My grandfather used that as his private room. His and Patience's bedchamber is immediately above it, reached by some spiral stairs set against one wall. The next door opens on to the main staircase which leads up to the women's solar and, above that again, my parents' former bedchamber and mine. The third door on this side is the entrance to the kitchens, pantry, buttery, bakery and so on. Over there' – he nodded to the doors on our right – ‘is firstly the main parlour with Bart's bedchamber up above; the second is the door to the counting-house and the last one leads to the servants' quarters, on all levels. You can get to the brewery and the laundry that way, too.'

While he had been talking my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and it was when another gust of wind caught the door, blowing it wide again, that what I had thought to be a pool of shadow at the foot of the dais, at the far end of the hall, suddenly assumed the form of a body. I drew a sharp breath.

‘What is it?' James demanded.

I didn't answer directly. ‘Is there any chance of finding a candle, or a lantern, or a light of any sort in here?' I asked. ‘And, of course, we'll need a tinderbox.'

‘Why? What do you want them for?' His voice was becoming shrill. He heard it himself and made a deliberate effort to control his mounting fear. ‘I'll go and look in the counting-house,' he said. ‘Something may have got left behind.'

He returned within a very few minutes with two lighted candles, each in its candlestick, one held in either hand.

‘We're in luck,' he said, adding a little shakily, ‘Or if it's not luck, then someone has been here recently. As well as the candles and tinderbox, there are also a couple of lanterns.' He handed me one of the candles. ‘Now tell me what this is about.'

‘It may be nothing at all,' I answered, trying to sound reassuring. ‘But I thought I saw something lying at the foot of the dais.' I moved forward as I spoke, holding my candle aloft. The flame made the shadows leap and race up the walls, assuming grotesque shapes.

‘There is something there,' James breathed, pushing past me and also raising his candle. The next moment he gave a horrified, gurgling cry and staggered back, almost falling over me, his free hand pressed to his mouth. ‘G-God in heaven,' he stuttered. ‘What … What have they done to him?' His knees sagged and he fell to the floor, rocking himself backwards and forwards and making a dreadful keening sound as he did so.

Almost afraid to look, I stepped to the sprawled shape on the floor, raising my candle even higher …

Sir George Marvell was lying on his back, his throat black with congealed blood where it had been cut from ear to ear, his eyes wide and staring. Or at least, they would have been had the eyeballs not been gouged from their sockets. Had that been all, it would have been more than enough, but his upper clothes had been ripped from his body to expose his chest and into his right breast someone had carved the word ‘DIE'.

I don't know how long I stood there, transfixed by this gruesome sight. I was vaguely aware of James getting to his feet and rushing to the door. Then I heard him vomiting outside. My brain seemed to have ceased to function. All I could think of was that however unpleasant a man Sir George had been, he had not deserved to be treated like this.

James's voice jerked me back to reality. He must have re-entered the hall without my being conscious of it.

‘Why …?' He tried to control the tremble in his voice. ‘Why would someone want to mutilate Grandfather like that? Why … Why have they carved “DIE” into his chest? What he must have suffered …'

I shook my head. ‘If it's any comfort to you, he was dead before that happened.'

‘How can you possibly know?'

‘There's very little blood,' I pointed out. ‘Only a bead or two. That means his heart had stopped beating when that was done to him. Otherwise, there would have been far more blood all over his breast. I suspect the same goes for his eyes.'