The Christmas Wassail (8 page)

‘And her relationship with Sir George?'

‘It was always distant, and she took very little interest either when he was widowed or when he married again. My guess is that she never really forgave him for being born. But there was no open animosity until three years ago when a handsome young cockerel of about your own age came on the scene and laid siege to her.'

‘My age?' I demanded incredulously. I was thirty-one.

‘Your age,' Margaret confirmed. ‘Drusilla was by then, even by her own calculations, at least eighty-two and should have known better, but madness set in. Whether or not her brain had softened because of her great age is a matter for speculation, but suddenly she announced she was getting married.'

Adela frowned. ‘I heard nothing of this.'

Margaret chuckled. ‘Hardly surprising, my love. It was all over before the gossip had time to spread to this side of the river. Once Sir George got wind of what was happening, he descended in Jehovian wrath from Clifton and the young man was gone in a cloud of dust. No one knows if he was bought off or simply succumbed to good, old-fashioned threats, but either way he disappeared and has never been seen again. What he had managed to wheedle out of the old lady before he was so summarily dismissed is anybody's guess, but those few who had contact with him described him as a knowing one, so no doubt he didn't depart empty-handed.'

‘And Dame Drusilla blames her brother for this destruction of her plans?'

‘Blames him!' Margaret almost choked over her beaker. ‘Blames him? Word is that she threatened to kill him with her own two hands when she discovered what he had done. She hasn't spoken to him since, but if necessary addresses him through a third party. And when she found out, after her neighbour, an elderly, childless bachelor, died, that Sir George had bought the house and was moving in next door to her, it was reported that she actually foamed at the mouth and fell down in a fit. It's probably an exaggeration – but not much of one.'

‘Why did he do it?' Adela asked, laying aside the mended gown and removing her foot from the cradle's rocker as Luke was now fast asleep. ‘He must have known that his sister wouldn't thank him for it.'

Margaret shrugged. ‘Of course he knew. But she is eighty-five now and bound to be getting senile. His conscience may have pricked him. Perhaps he felt she needed caring for. And after the affair of three years ago, maybe he thought he should keep a closer eye on her in case madness seized her again. After all, Sir George has young Bartholomew to provide for as well as Cyprian. He won't want Drusilla's fortune falling into anyone's hands but his own.' She leant back in her chair – the one usually occupied by Adela, opposite my own – and regarded me shrewdly through half-closed eyes. ‘You've suddenly gone broody, Roger. Something's bothering you. What is it? What do you know?'

‘Know? Why, nothing,' I denied hastily.

But she wasn't fooled. ‘There's something going on in that head of yours,' she accused me. After a few moments' silence, she added with a sigh, ‘But you're not going to tell me, are you?'

‘I was just mulling over what you've been telling us,' I protested feebly. ‘An interesting story.'

She glanced at Adela, looking for support, but my wife was almost asleep, her head fallen forward on her breast, worn out by the exigencies of the morning and lulled by the warmth and the intoxicating effects of the ‘lamb's wool'.

I leant back in my own chair and smiled sleepily at Margaret. ‘I know nothing,' I lied, closing my eyes.

She didn't believe me.

She knew me too well.

A
fter supper – another rich meal, but one which the children especially had been almost too tired to enjoy – I escorted Margaret home to Redcliffe.

Although it was growing dark and the curfew bell had sounded, there were plenty of revellers still abroad in the streets, quite a few wearing the animal and bird masks brought out of cupboards and attics at this season of the year, and not necessarily for festive purposes. Some of the more stupid or malicious youths thought it great fun to lurk in the shadows of overhanging houses and street corners in order to jump out on unsuspecting passers-by, giving them the fright of their lives. The previous Christmas, at least two little old ladies, returning home unattended from supping with their families, had been reduced to hysterics by such antics. This year, on the orders of the sheriff, the numbers of the Watch had been increased, but I was taking no chances. My former mother-in-law was a strong-minded woman and not easily frightened, but she accepted my company without demur and even seemed glad of it.

We encountered no trouble, in spite of seeing a number of masked figures, but then at thirty-one I was an even more impressive figure than I had been at eighteen. Then, it was true, I had had youth on my side, but if I was somewhat slower on my feet than I used to be, I now had weight as well as height – as my womenfolk were never tired of pointing out to me, my girth had increased – and I still swung a pretty cudgel. This was an impressive weapon, half as tall as I was and weighted with lead at one end.

I saw Margaret safely into her cottage by St Thomas's Church, kissed her a dutiful goodnight and issued strict instructions that she must open the door to no one during the hours of darkness. Then I waited outside until I heard her shoot the top and bottom bolts into their wards. Satisfied that I had done my duty, I turned to retrace my steps before deciding on a sudden impulse to walk down St Thomas's Street to Redcliffe Street and so, by way of one of the little alleys, out on to Redcliffe Wharf.

It was a cold night, frosty, and the stars rode clear and high in a cloudless sky. There was a three-quarter moon and the shadows from the houses were deep and black, lying like ink stains across the cobbles. I grasped my cudgel a little more tightly, aware of a sudden silence as the walls of the buildings of the alley cut off all sound …

But not quite all. A frenzied cry of ‘Help! Murder!' sent me running on to the wharf as fast as my legs would carry me. I paused to look around.

Then I saw it, a dark shape huddled at the foot of one of the cranes. I reached it just as the door of a neighbouring house opened cautiously and lantern light spilled out across the cobbles. A voice quavered, ‘What is it? What's happening? Is someone hurt?'

I knelt down and turned the dark shape over. ‘It's a man,' I said. ‘I think he's been stabbed.' I felt for his pulse. ‘He's still alive, but only just. Quick! Come and help me. We must get him under cover, out of the cold. Is this your house?' And I indicated the tall, three-storey building behind the man who was now proceeding with even more caution towards me.

‘No,' was the reply. ‘It belongs to Sir George Marvell. I'm his steward.'

‘Then go quickly and tell Sir George what's happened.' The light from the lantern fell across the victim's face as the steward stooped to take a closer look. ‘God's toenails!' I exclaimed, startled. ‘Hurry, man! Go! This is a friend of your master's, Alderman Trefusis.'

By the time I had staggered into the house with my burden, laying him down in front of the fire in the great hall and then gone back for my cudgel – which I had, out of necessity, been forced to drop – not only the knight himself but also his wife and daughter-in-law, both sons and grandson had also come running from other parts of the house and were gathered about the dying man. For there was no doubt in my mind that he would not last many minutes. Indeed, the only surprise was that he had survived the attack at all, for a bloody gash marked his throat almost from ear to ear.

‘Robert!' Sir George was kneeling with his friend's head in his lap. ‘Who did this to you? Did you recognize whoever it was?' He turned furiously on his wife, who was having a fit of hysterics. ‘Hold your noise, woman,' he bawled, ‘or I'll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Bart, see to your mother! Knock her unconscious if need be.' He bent once more over his friend. ‘Robert!' His tone was urgent. ‘Do you know who did this?'

His voice seemed momentarily to penetrate the other's failing senses. The dying man struggled violently against the encroaching darkness.

‘Dee …' he began. But that was as far as he got. The death rattle sounded in his throat, his eyes rolled up under his lids and the grizzled head fell back against the other's chest. The alderman and occasional deputy sheriff was dead.

Sir George looked up at me. ‘Did you see anyone?' His voice was harsh.

I shook my head. ‘No one. The wharf was deserted but for myself.'

The knight's lips pinched together in a thin, straight line. His expression became even grimmer. ‘Well, there's no help for it. I suppose we'll have to send for that idiot, Richard Manifold.'

But it was not Richard who arrived some short time later; his fellow sergeant, Thomas Merryweather, came instead, attended by his two corporals. Merryweather I knew only by sight, having had almost nothing to do with him in the past, but he had always struck me as a plodder, thorough but slow. I had heard people refer to him as dim-witted, but I doubted this, or he would not have remained in his post. Nevertheless, he was not quick on the uptake.

‘Footpads, no doubt of it,' he said ponderously, looking down at the dead man. ‘Christmas,' he added, as though that explained everything.

Sir George made a choking sound deep in his throat. ‘Footpads!' he snarled. ‘You cross-eyed, ale-swilling numbskull! Can't you see he's still wearing all his rings and a sapphire pin in his hat? And that his purse is still attached to his belt? What manner of footpads would leave such pickings, you dolt?'

Sergeant Merryweather appeared unperturbed by this mode of address. Indeed, if anything, he seemed used to it.

‘This gentleman' – he indicated me – ‘disturbed the robbers before they had time to finish their work. They were baulked, that's what they were. Baulked.'

‘Nonsense!' Had there not been ladies present, I felt certain the knight would have used a much stronger word. He turned on me. ‘How long was it, Chapman' – I was going to get no title from him – ‘before you reached the alderman after hearing his cry?'

‘Not long,' I answered. ‘I was halfway along Bear Alley when I heard him shout. As you know, Bear Alley is one of the shorter turnings between Redcliffe Street and the wharf. Moreover, I ran. I would estimate thirty seconds or so, no more. But the quayside was deserted. There was no sign of any attacker.'

The sergeant nodded his sandy head. ‘That's what I said. They were baulked.'

The knight let out a roar that sent Lady Marvell off into another bout of hysterics. Bartholomew patted her ineffectually on the shoulder.

Sir George ignored his wife and vented his spleen on Tom Merryweather. ‘You dunderhead! Footpads wouldn't have run off like that, before they had cause to. They would still have been kneeling over the body, trying to rob it. But they weren't. In the very short time it had taken the chapman here to run from Bear Alley on to the wharf, whoever did this heinous deed had disappeared. Now that would suggest to anybody but a fool like you that the murder was his – or their – main object, not robbery. This must be reported immediately to the sheriff. Christmas Day or no Christmas Day, I demand that he be brought here at once!'

I thought his argument a sound one. I had almost reached the same conclusion myself. Lady Marvell's sobs had abated again, so I ventured to raise my voice.

‘There is also the fact, Sergeant, that when Sir George asked Alderman Trefusis if he had recognized his assailant, or assailants, he uttered what sounded like the name Dee.'

Sergeant Merryweather frowned heavily. ‘This is the first time such a circumstance has been mentioned. How am I to do my job if vital information is being withheld from me? Dee, you say? And known to the alderman? That puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. Not,' he added slowly, ‘that I know of that name in the city, and I pride myself on being acquainted with most families within these walls.'

To my astonishment, Sir George, instead of corroborating my story, hastened to refute it.

‘The alderman mentioned no name,' he snapped, glaring at me. ‘It was simply a noise he made as he lay dying. I doubt if he was even aware of my question. He was too far gone. A moment later, he was dead.'

I was about to appeal for support to the others who had been present, when I realized that the knight knew perfectly well what his friend had said, but that for some reason or another he did not want it repeated. Moreover, he was frightened. There was something in the rigidity of his stance, the way in which his hands were clenched by his sides, the fixed look on his face that spoke to me of fear. Why the name Dee should provoke this reaction, I had no idea, but I was positive it was so.

‘Maybe I was mistaken,' I muttered.

The sergeant was pardonably incensed. ‘Well, which is it?' he demanded irritably. ‘Did the deceased mention a name or no?'

‘No,' Sir George said, and with an emphasis that brooked no argument. ‘He died without saying anything. But that doesn't alter the fact that he was deliberately murdered in cold blood. I want no more talk of footpads. I want the sheriff fetched before another hour has passed. That's an order. See that it's obeyed.'

Suddenly it was easy to see that he had once been a soldier, in charge of other men. He had an indisputable air of authority and command. But if I was impressed, Sergeant Merryweather stolidly refused to be so.

He removed his hat and scratched his head vigorously before replacing it again. ‘What was the alderman doing, I wonder, out alone on the wharf, in the dark with no attendant?'

I thought for a moment that Sir George would explode with frustration. Instead, he spoke very slowly and carefully, as if dealing with a more than usually stupid child.