The Christmas Wassail (22 page)

She could see that I was in earnest and made an effort to overcome her repulsion. Picking up the knife again, she advanced towards me as I lay down once more. Even then, she hesitated.

‘Go on,' I urged. ‘How would you do it?'

Adela took a deep breath. ‘As he – the killer – did, I suppose.' And holding the knife point downwards in the air, she drew an imaginary letter D above my right breast, a letter I following the line of my breastbone and an E over my left breast. Then she tossed the knife back on the table and burst into tears.

‘It's too horrible to think of,' she sobbed. But I knew she wasn't picturing Sir George Marvell as the victim. She was seeing me.

Hurriedly, I got to my feet and folded her in my arms. ‘My love, forgive me! Forgive me! I shouldn't have made you do it.' I wiped her eyes tenderly with the edge of my sleeve.

When she was quieter, she asked, ‘Did it do any good? Did it tell you anything you wanted to know?'

‘Yes.' We sat down, side by side, on the stools and, still with one arm about her, I poured her some more ale from the jug on the table. ‘You see, you assumed, as I think anyone would have assumed who only knew the facts without having seen the body, that that was what the murderer had done. You spaced out the letters right across my chest.'

‘And it wasn't like that?'

‘No. All three were crowded on to the right breast, close together.'

‘So?'

‘So … So perhaps it was just the beginning of another, longer word which was never finished.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because the killer, or killers – and I feel certain there must have been more than one – were disturbed before they could finish. There was a knife flung down on the floor, half-hidden by the body, and …' My voice tailed off as I remembered the mutilated hand with one of the fingers partially cut through.

I caught my breath. Suddenly I felt certain that the murderers had indeed been interrupted before they could complete their ghoulish work. And I felt equally certain that I knew the name of the man who had disturbed them. None other than Briant of Dungarvon.

T
he more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I was right.

Briant had left Marsh Street to make his way to Rownham Ferry where, he had been informed, the Clontarf had dropped anchor. Avoiding the Watch, which was a fairly simple matter as you could hear them coming a mile off, he had made for one of the gaps in the city wall, probably the one nearest the Frome Gate. Once across the Frome Bridge, he would have taken the westward path which skirts Brandon Hill and leads eventually to the ferry. But somewhere, during the early part of his walk, he must have seen the familiar figure of Sir George Marvell ahead of him, climbing one of the hills that lead to the summit of the downs.

I could imagine how intrigued he must have been; how curious to know where the knight was going and why. It might even have crossed his mind to renege on his promise not to harm Sir George. He hated him and bore him a lasting grudge which he had nursed for many years. And here was Fate throwing the man in his way on a dark night when he was flouting the law of curfew and when it might be expected that some robber or footpad would find him easy prey. His murderer would never be found – nor, for that matter, diligently sought – and Briant himself would never be suspected. He could return to Bristol whenever he pleased and continue his calling,

But, if my theory were correct, curiosity must have got the better of any murderous impulse. So, keeping a discreet distance, Briant had followed his quarry all the way to the Marvell house perched high above Ghyston Cliff, only to bear witness to Sir George's gruesome murder. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. Briant had watched as the knight had unlocked the door, but then started in surprise as two figures – I was by now convinced that there must have been two – rose from the concealing bushes on either side to follow him in. He must have heard the victim's yells for help as he was set on and then the awful silence that succeeded them. Perhaps Briant had waited several minutes while he debated whether to enter and find out what was going on or to take himself off and let discretion be the better part of valour. It was, caution must have whispered, the wisest course.

But in the end, an overwhelming desire to know what had happened to his enemy, to know that justice had finally caught up with Sir George, prompted him to go in. And the scene which met his eyes must have horrified even him: the sprawled, half-naked, mutilated body, the gouged-out eyes, one murderer with a knife scoring something into the bare flesh while the other sawed at the fingers of the knight's right hand. Did Briant let out an involuntary gasp or shout out in protest? He must surely have revealed his presence in some way for one man dropped both knife and hand to rise up in pursuit of the unwelcome intruder, while the other also left his handiwork to join in the chase. Did the pair catch Briant and throw him over the cliff into the river below to silence him? Or did he lose his way in the darkness and blunder over the edge himself? That, I felt, was something I might never know. But one thing was certain, for whatever reason, the murderers had not gone back to finish what they had begun. Maybe a sudden revulsion had seized them, or maybe the shock of being observed had warned them to get out while the going was good …

‘Roger! Roger, are you all right?' Adela's concerned voice brought me back to reality with a jolt to find that I was still seated at the kitchen table, my arm around her shoulders. ‘You were miles away,' she accused me.

‘I'm sorry, sweetheart,' I said, giving her a squeeze. ‘I – I was working something out.'

‘Bricks without straw again?' She sounded sceptical.

‘No!' I was indignant. But then honesty forced me to admit, ‘Perhaps.'

She laughed and freed herself from my embrace. ‘I must clear away the dishes and then give the children their morning lessons.' She picked up Luke and took a clean, dry loincloth from the washing basket. ‘But first, I must see to our foster-son. He's soaking. What will you do this morning? Will the sheriff want to see you, do you think?'

The words had hardly left her mouth when there was a brisk knocking on the outer door. There was no doubt it was made by someone in authority. Our friends and neighbours would never knock so loudly.

It was Richard Manifold, come to escort me to the sheriff's office and barely able to restrain himself from asking a hundred and one questions as we walked the short distance to the Councillors' Hall between the Tolzey and All Saints' Church. There was a strange atmosphere abroad in the city. All the Christmas cheer of the past few days seemed to have evaporated, leaving the populace at large tense and frightened. Rumours of the state of Sir George's body had already got out and were being wildly exaggerated. Evisceration, beheading, a limbless torso were, Richard told me, just some of the stories circulating in the town. He glanced sideways at me, obviously hoping to draw me out, but I didn't respond. I was too busy deciding what, if anything, I should mention of my own theories, and it didn't take me long to decide to say nothing. I would stick to the facts of what had happened and that was all.

James Marvell, still looking very pale, was already with the sheriff when I arrived and I was called upon to do little more than confirm his story. As to why we had visited the old house at Clifton, the sheriff accepted without demur James's explanation that he had gone there on a sudden impulse to check that no one had broken in during the weeks it had been standing empty, and that he had asked me to accompany him.

‘Master Chapman's a good, strong companion to have in a fight,' he added, ‘although neither he nor I really expected to find anything amiss.'

Of Miles Deakin, he made no mention, so, when it came my turn to be questioned, I followed suit. I agreed with everything James had said and we were both soon dismissed. Once outside the Councillors' Hall, the young man took my arm and led me into the Green Lattis.

There was a sudden awkward hush as we entered. All eyes were on my companion and several people made as though to rise and offer some sort of condolences. But without exception, each one thought better of it and sank back on to his stool, averting his gaze.

James grinned wryly at me. ‘Grandfather wasn't popular. People would like to feel sorry for me, but they can't. I'm sure most folk think of his death as a good riddance. They're shocked and horrified at the manner of his murder, of course, and perhaps a little frightened, but in general, they're glad he's gone.' I murmured a half-hearted protest, but my companion shook his head. ‘There's no need to feel embarrassed. He wasn't a nice man, although there were times – rare, I admit – when I felt a sort of fondness for him.' He added in a burst of confidence, ‘I don't know how my own grandmother felt about him, but Patience had certainly grown to hate him. I can't say I blame her. He treated her abominably. My father may be the only person alive who had any rag of affection left for him.'

The pot boy arrived, took our order and departed.

‘What about Alderman Trefusis?' I asked. ‘Sir George seems to have had one friend there, at least.'

James grimaced. ‘I've been thinking about that. It was a very odd friendship because I would have sworn that they didn't really like one another. But they seemed bound together by the fact that they had both soldiered in France. Both had fought under Talbot of Shrewsbury and Grandfather had been knighted in the field. Yet neither ever talked about that time. If ever I enquired about their exploits, Grandfather would shut me up.'

‘Modesty?' I suggested as our beakers of ale were placed before us.

James snorted. ‘Neither of them was what I'd call a modest man. But what worries me is that they both met their end in a similar way. Both had their throats cut and it's my belief that if you hadn't interrupted the attack on Robert Trefusis, the same mutilations would have been perpetrated on his dead body.'

I sipped my ale. ‘That thought had occurred to me.'

My companion nodded. ‘I had an idea it might have done. And as far as I can see, the link between them is this Miles Deakin. Trefusis was the one who informed Grandfather of what was going on with Deakin and Great-Aunt Drusilla. And he did try to say the name before he died.'

‘I've been giving that some thought,' I said. ‘Also the word cut into Sir George's chest.' And I explained my concern about the letters being cramped together on the knight's right breast. I went on: ‘Just as I believe the alderman's “Dee” was only half a word, I think the same might apply to “DIE”. How do we know how Miles Deakin spells his name? It could be D-e-e-k-i-n or D-e-a-k-i-n—'

‘Or even D-i-e-k-i-n,' James interrupted eagerly. ‘Yes, you're right. We have to find him.'

‘You didn't mention anything about him to the sheriff.'

‘No. His Honour will be even more desperate now, after Grandfather's murder, to find a scapegoat. If the man were discovered, he wouldn't stand a chance. I want to satisfy myself of his guilt before I hand him over to the authorities. Are you willing to ride up to Clifton with me again?'

‘Today?'

To my relief, he shook his head. ‘No, I must stay with the family for a while. The funeral has to be arranged and the will obtained from Lawyer Heathersett.' He finished his ale and rose. ‘I'll let you know. It may not be until after Twelfth Night, when Christmas is finally over.'

This arrangement suited me very well as I had plans for visiting Clifton by myself to do a little investigating of my own. Consequently, once dinner was over, I pulled on my boots, took my cudgel from its corner and said that I needed to go for a walk, if only to clear my head.

Adela looked pointedly at my pack, but I said quickly, ‘People won't be buying again yet awhile. Not until the twelve days are over.'

‘Then you can take Hercules with you,' she said. ‘He needs to stretch his legs.'

Elizabeth put her head around the kitchen door. ‘Grandmother and her friends are at the top of the street,' she informed me. ‘I've just seen them from the attic window.'

Of course they were! The only wonder was that they hadn't arrived earlier. They must only just have learned that I was involved in the discovery of Sir George's body and were hastening to get the story so that they could lord it over their friends as having the only true account. Silently, Adela handed me the dog's rope collar and lead, but I didn't stop to put them on him. Snatching Hercules up in my arms, I hurriedly quit the house, turning sharp left in the direction of Bell Lane and feigning deafness to the frantic shouts of ‘Roger!' which pursued me until I disappeared from the good dames' view. I felt a stab of pity for Adela, who would bear the brunt of their frustration and vexation.

A watery sun was struggling to appear from behind the clouds and there was a nip in the air, dispersing the chill dampness of the past few days. As I climbed towards Clifton, thankful to be on my own two feet again instead of in the saddle, I felt reinvigorated, glad to be by myself once more, unencumbered by other people. I filled my lungs with fresh air while Hercules ran about chasing imaginary rabbits, fell into streams and sniffed and barked at everything that moved, his tail wagging like a pennant in the breeze.

By midday, we had reached the summit and in a very short space of time, were standing outside the Marvell house not far from the edge of Ghyston Cliff. I wondered suddenly if the door were still open or if someone had managed to close and secure it the previous day. But I need not have worried. As I tentatively pushed it, it swung inwards with the same creaking of its hinges.

At once, Hercules drew back, shivering and whining. For a moment, I was afraid someone might be in there and gripped my cudgel tighter; but then I realized that it was the lingering smell of death that was disturbing the dog. I picked him up and held him in my arms. He whimpered again, but the trembling ceased.