The Christmas Wassail

TEN

No one else wanted to see the mummers, so Adam and I went by ourselves. After four days, audiences were inevitably growing thinner and we were able to get close to the cart which doubled as a stage and which already stood, awaiting the players, in the outer ward of the castle. To my son’s delight the painted curtain, slung between its poles, indicated that the day’s performance was to be his favourite play, St George and the Dragon. Indeed, we were so conspicuously close to the edge of the cart that when young Tobias Warrener made his entrance as St George, he singled Adam out for special attention, pretending to be astonished at seeing him in the audience yet again. Heads were turned and smiles exchanged to see the child jumping up and down with self-importance.

I can’t pretend that I paid much heed to what was going on. My thoughts were preoccupied by my recent conversation with Richard Manifold and his description of the Marvell family’s reaction to Sir George’s disappearance. He had described Patience Marvell as having an almost triumphant air about her, and for the first time I began to wonder whether the transaction she had tried to make with Briant of Dungarvon had not been, as I had naturally assumed, to remove either her stepson or step-grandson, but her husband. Perhaps, to begin with, she had revealed neither her own nor Sir George’s names, and it was only when, finally, the Irishman had discovered their identities, that he had refused Patience’s commission because he suddenly saw his opportunity to avenge Padraic Kinsale himself.

But why would Patience wish to rid herself of her husband? Well, not all marriages were happy and hers might be unhappier than most. Perhaps, too, she knew for a fact that Sir George had left his entire fortune to his son from his second marriage, or even simply to herself, cutting out both Cyprian and James. If this were the case and if she were not fond of her husband, why wait until he died to get her hands on his money? The move from Clifton to Redcliffe, with its proximity to ‘Little Ireland’, had offered her the opportunity she had needed.

But what of Briant of Dungarvon? He had promised that he would not pursue his vendetta against Sir George, and Humility Dyson had assured me that the Irishman was a man of his word. Set against that, however, was the fact that he was a slave trader and a criminal, even if his trade was blinked at by authority on both sides of the Irish Sea. Could he have changed his mind? After all, when I came to think of it, he had only given me his word that he would not kill Sir George. He had said nothing about abducting him and carrying him off to Ireland. Money was money when all was said and done. Perhaps he had contacted Lady Marvell and renewed their understanding. Perhaps he, and not this Miles Deakin, was the man in the bird mask seen by Dame Drusilla standing outside her brother’s house …

I pulled myself up short. I was making far too many assumptions and most of them, as usual, without proof. I had no reason to think that Patience Marvell was unhappy in her marriage, except that Sir George was a bad-tempered man, generally disliked. It was true that the little I had seen of them together had implied no great affection on either side, but that didn’t mean the lady wished to be rid of her husband. On the other hand, she had wished to be rid of somebody and had been prepared to pay for their removal, arguing with a cold and calculating nature, lacking the more feminine virtues such as tenderness and compassion. But this begged the question: who had murdered Alderman Trefusis? And why? I found it hard to believe that the crime had no connection to subsequent events. And yet, there again, I could be entirely wrong …

‘Father!’ I became aware that Adam was tugging at my sleeve, his face anxiously upturned to mine. ‘You’re not clapping or shouting. The mumming’s over. Didn’t you enjoy it?’

I realized with a start that the people all around me were waving their greasy hats in the air or stamping their feet or both, and that the mummers were lined up on the stage, taking their bows.

‘You didn’t even laugh at the Doctor,’ my son added reproachfully. ‘It was Master Chorley and he was ever so funny. Is your belly feeling queer again?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s it,’ I agreed, becoming aware that someone was tapping me on the shoulder.

‘Master Chapman,’ said Tabitha Warrener, still in her guise as the Turkish Knight, ‘will you and your son condescend to pay us a visit and drink a beaker of Christmas ale with us? We’d all take it kindly if you would.’

I hesitated a moment before accepting the invitation, but then decided Adela would not be expecting us home for a while, and it might seem churlish to refuse.

‘Thank you,’ I smiled. ‘But if you will forgive me, I’ll forgo the ale. I drank too much ‘lamb’s wool’ last night and have been paying for it ever since.’

The old woman looked disappointed, but then laughed. ‘A common enough problem this time of year.’ She smiled at Adam. ‘And did you enjoy the play, young master?’

He nodded, round-eyed and suddenly tongue-tied.

We followed Tabitha into the inner ward and across to the building against the orchard wall, where the rest of the mummers were changing out of their costumes and folding them away into the property chests. I thought Dorcas seemed a little better than she had done two days earlier, but she still looked rather pale and tended to cling to her husband for comfort.

Ned Chorley handed me a beaker of ale which I refused, once again making my excuses. Like Tabitha, he looked disappointed, but accepted my refusal with resignation, merely remarking that illness was a hazard of the season and putting the beaker back on the table.

‘Arthur can drink it when he comes in.’

Just at that moment, the door of the outbuilding opened and a head came round the corner; a head wearing a bird mask with a big hooked beak. I heard Adam draw in his breath and felt him jump.

Ned and Tabitha spoke almost together.

‘You’ve found it, Arthur!’

‘Where was it?’

Arthur Monkton removed the mask and placed it carefully on the table.

‘When I went out to drive the “stage” into the inner ward, it was just sitting there as if it had never gone missing.’

Ned chuckled. ‘Someone from the castle borrowed it, I reckon, to go wassailing last night. Someone without a mask of his own and without the money to buy or hire one.’ He picked the thing up and turned it around in his hands. ‘I’m glad whoever it was had the grace to return it, though. It’s one of our best masks, Master Chapman, and when Toby here came to wear it last night, it was missing. We thought someone had stolen it. Never expected to see it again. But here it is, safe and sound. There’s honest people in the world, after all.’

‘I’d hardly call taking something without permission honest,’ I objected. ‘As a matter of fact, Adam’s been describing someone wearing a mask just like this, wassailing in our house last night.’

‘Did he see who it was?’ Tabitha wanted to know.

‘I’m afraid not. Whoever it was didn’t remove it.’ Adam would have spoken but I managed to catch his eye and gave my head a little shake. I hoped none of the others noticed. My suspicions of poison I preferred to keep to myself.

‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ said Ned Chorley comfortably. He poured Arthur Monkton a fresh beaker of ale and I noticed how deftly he managed with his left hand. No doubt he had had years of practise, for the stumps of the two missing fingers on his right looked old and shrivelled, as though they had been lost a long time before. All the same, it was noticeable that he was not naturally left-handed: I had observed on Sunday that he often started to do things with his right hand before recollecting his disability.

After a while longer, I said that Adam and I must be going as I had promised Sergeant Manifold I would help in the continuing search for Sir George Marvell while daylight lasted, and that it would soon be dusk.

‘No news of the poor gentleman yet, then?’ asked Tabitha, pouring herself more ale.

‘No.’ I took hold of my son’s hand. ‘And after today I understand that they’re giving up the search. The general belief is that he must have fallen in either the Frome or the Avon and drowned. Although why he left his home during the hours of darkness without telling any of his family where he was going and why is still a mystery.’

The five of them nodded solemnly, then crowded round to wish us goodbye and thank me again for our hospitality on Sunday.

‘Will you be coming to see us perform again before we leave?’ Tabitha wanted to know, bending down to give Adam a smacking kiss on one of his rosy cheeks.

‘How long are you staying?’ I asked.

‘Until Twelfth Night.’ Ned Chorley patted Adam’s head. ‘We’ll do Saint George and the Dragon once more for you before we go.’

‘You’ll be glad to get into winter quarters,’ I suggested as Adam and I moved towards the door.

Tabitha grunted her assent. ‘Especially with Dorcas getting near her time. Let us know, Master Chapman, if anything is heard of the knight.’

Promising faithfully to do so, we took our leave. I walked Adam home before setting out once more, grasping my cudgel firmly in one hand. Heavy-bellied clouds were gathering overhead, pregnant with rain or even, maybe, snow. I had no idea where to find Richard, but that didn’t worry me. I had my own goal in mind and, ten minutes later, had crossed the bridge into Redcliffe, making directly for the home of the Marvell family.

Somewhat to my surprise, I was admitted by the steward without hesitation and conducted to a handsome room on the first floor with two fine embrasured windows that looked out on to the river. All the family seemed to be gathered there, Patience Marvell seated in a carved armchair next to a roaring fire which flamed and sparked up the chimney without, so far as I could tell, giving out much warmth. Cyprian’s wife, Joanna, was on the opposite side of the hearth in just such another chair, while Cyprian himself stood with his back to the blaze, warming his buttocks in time-honoured fashion. The young men occupied the two window seats, both looking sulky and bored and trying to ignore one another’s presence.

‘I don’t see why we should be expected to help look for Father,’ Bartholomew, the slightly younger one, was saying as I entered. His tone was aggrieved. ‘He doesn’t care two fucks what happens to us.’

Lady Marvell let out a scandalized cry. ‘I’ve told you about using such disgraceful language, Barty! You wouldn’t dare say such things if your father were here.’

‘But he isn’t here,’ her graceless son pointed out. ‘And maybe,’ he added, his face brightening, ‘he’ll never be here again.’

Cyprian moved at that, striding across the room with his ponderous tread to smack his half-brother around the ears. ‘You disrespectful little cur!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s a great pity you were ever born.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said James, grinning. ‘If, that is, he is Grandfather’s son, which I very much doubt.’

It was hardly to be expected that Lady Marvell would let this remark pass unchallenged and she was on her feet immediately, demanding that Cyprian force his son to apologize for the slur on her good name. It was at this point that Cyprian noticed me standing just inside the door and roared at them all to be silent. He hastened forward to greet me.

‘Master Chapman, is it not? Have you brought us news of my father? Has Sergeant Manifold or Sergeant Merryweather sent you?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Was there a flicker of relief on Patience Marvell’s face? ‘I’m here to beg some information from you.’

There was a short silence before the older man cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Ask us what you like, if you think it will help find my father.’

James slid off his window seat and lounged over to the fire, standing behind his mother’s chair and dropping one hand protectively on Joanna’s shoulder. Not to be outdone, Bartholomew followed suit, taking up his stance beside Patience.

I addressed my question to Cyprian as temporary head of the household, although I thought it more likely that if anyone had an answer it would be one of the women.

‘Master Marvell, I’ve been told that some three or so years ago a young man — or, at least, a man of about my age — wanted to marry Dame Drusilla.’

I got no further in face of an outburst of laughter from James. ‘A man of your age wanted to marry Great-Aunt Drusilla! What nonsense is this?’

Bartholomew sniggered.

‘Be quiet, the pair of you!’ Cyprian commanded. ‘It happens to be true, although I was not aware that the story was common knowledge.’ An unbecoming flush spread over his homely features.

‘True?’ demanded his son incredulously. ‘Why did I never hear of it?’

‘We were living in Clifton then. There was no reason why you should be told. In fact, the fewer people who knew, the better. The man was a scoundrel and after one thing only: Aunt Drusilla’s money. Fortunately, Robert Trefusis found out about it and had the good sense to inform Father of what was going on. Father soon put a stop to the affair, as you may well imagine.’

‘Put a stop to it?’ James grinned broadly. ‘You don’t mean the old lady was encouraging this bully-boy?’

‘She intended to marry him,’ Cyprian replied tersely.

‘Well, well!’ James’s eyes were alight with merriment. ‘Who’d have thought the old girl had so much spunk in her?’

Bartholomew sniggered again. For a moment, nephew and uncle were at one.

‘What did Grandfather do?’ the former wanted to know. ‘Pay the young puppy to go away?’

‘I believe he took his horsewhip to him.’ Cyprian took a deep breath, adding after a moment, ‘I’m afraid he half-killed him.’ He turned back to me. ‘Master Chapman, I hope you have a good reason for resurrecting this very painful episode in my family’s past?’

‘I wondered, sir, if you, or someone else, can recollect the name of the man in question and where he came from.’

Everyone turned to stare at me. ‘Is it important?’ Cyprian asked, echoing Margaret Walker’s words of the previous day.

I gave him the same answer. ‘It might be.’

Joanna Marvell, who seemed quicker-witted than the others, asked, ‘Do you think this man had something to do with Alderman Trefusis’s murder? That he might have harmed Sir George?’

‘God’s toenails!’ Bartholomew swore, and this time was not reproved by his mother. In fact, Patience’s expression was, I thought, a peculiar one. A barely suppressed smirk lifted the corners of her rather thin lips as though, in her opinion, I was making a fool of myself; as though she could tell us all the truth if she chose to. I felt more than ever convinced that the person she had wanted Briant to abduct was her husband, and that in spite of Briant’s subsequent refusal, she now thought he had changed his mind and carried Sir George off to Ireland. She was probably waiting, a little nervously, for him to reappear and claim his money.

The rest of them, however, were all exclaiming, expressing either doubts about my theory or hailing it as a possible answer to the mystery.

‘Can you remember either the young man’s name or where he came from?’ I repeated, cutting across this babel.

Cyprian Marvell shook his head and looked enquiringly at the two women. ‘Joanna? Stepmother? Can either of you recall his name? As to where he came from, I believe …’ He paused, obviously searching his memory, then nodded decisively. ‘I feel sure he came from Clifton way.’

‘You’re right,’ his wife agreed. ‘I think his parents rented one of those smallholdings belonging to the manor.’ She sucked in her breath sharply. ‘And now I come to think of it, I seem to remember your father saying that he had used his influence with the lord to get them turned off his land.’

If this were true, it was food for thought indeed. ‘Do you recall the name of the family, Mistress Marvell?’ I pressed.

‘Try to recollect, my dear,’ Cyprian encouraged her. ‘Your memory is so much better than mine.’

I could barely restrain myself from giving her a hint, but I managed to keep a still tongue in my head. At last, however, after what seemed an age, Joanna nodded briskly.

‘Yes, I can remember Father-in-law saying that the family’s name was Deakin and that the son was called Miles.’

Cyprian slapped his thigh. ‘You’re right, my love. Now you mention it I, too, recall that that was the fellow’s name. Miles Deakin! Do you remember, Stepmother?’

‘Yes,’ Patience said slowly. ‘I do recollect now that that was his name. But why is Master Chapman so sure that this man has anything to do with your father’s disappearance?’

‘Lady Marvell,’ I said, ‘I am not sure. Far from it. But the last word Alderman Trefusis uttered before he died was the name Dee. Now, no one seems to know of anyone so called, and it occurred to me that perhaps it was only the beginning of another name altogether.’

‘Deakin!’ exclaimed James. He regarded me shrewdly. ‘You already knew the name, Master Chapman. Someone else has mentioned it to you. Admit it. You just wanted my parents’ and grandmother’s confirmation.’

‘I’ve told you not to call me by that name, James,’ Patience stormed at him, before I could answer. ‘I am not your grandmother.’

He grinned insolently. ‘Step-Grandmother, then.’

‘Be quiet, boy,’ his father snapped. He turned once again to me. ‘What made you think of this man?’

‘It was just a thought, sir,’ I answered cagily. ‘My wife’s cousin, Mistress Walker, had told me the story of Dame Drusilla’s quarrel with her brother; the reason for the enmity between them. And her friend, Goody Simnel, told me the young man’s name.’ Here, Lady Marvell gave a snort and muttered something about ‘Redcliffe gossips’. I continued as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘When I heard that it was Deakin, the thought crossed my mind that maybe that was what Alderman Trefusis had been trying to say. If he had recognized Miles Deakin, it’s possible he was trying to warn Sir George.’

Cyprian Marvell was looking as excited as a man of his phlegmatic temperament could do. ‘You’ve informed the authorities of your suspicions, of course?’

‘Not yet. I have no proof whatsoever to implicate this Miles Deakin, but now that you and Mistress Marvell’ — I nodded at Joanna — ‘have confirmed his name I think I should put the suggestion to Sergeant Manifold.’

‘You must! You must!’ Cyprian was emphatic. ‘Indeed, I shall make my own enquiries regarding this Miles Deakin. Do you have any other reason, apart from his name, to believe he might be the alderman’s murderer? The man who, possibly, has abducted my father?’

‘In all truthfulness, no. Dame Drusilla did mention to me, however, when I called on her yesterday, that, the previous afternoon, she had noticed a man in a bird mask staring up at this house. That same night, Sir George vanished. But who the person was there’s no means of telling, nor if he had anything to do with your father’s disappearance. At this season of the year, the wearing of masks is commonplace. All the same, I have never liked coincidences.’

‘Nor I.’ Cyprian Marvell stood for a moment chewing his bottom lip, then held out his hand. ‘Master Chapman, I congratulate you. You seem to have discovered more — and made more use of that discovery — than Sergeants Manifold and Merryweather put together. I’ve heard of you, of course, and your reputation for solving mysteries. I know that you are close to the Duke of … I–I mean, the king.’ I made protesting noises, but they were, as always nowadays, discounted. ‘If there is anything else any of us can do to aid your enquiries …’

‘There is one thing,’ I said. ‘Dame Drusilla was unable to inform me if the man in the mask called at this house. Can your steward or any of your servants tell me if that was so?’

James was immediately despatched to fetch the steward and, while we waited, I noticed that Patience Marvell was regarding me with a warier eye than she had done hitherto. If I knew so much, what else did I know? I returned her gaze blandly.

The steward, when he arrived, assured me that he was unaware of any caller at the house on Childermass Day.

‘Sunday, was it not, sir? No, I cannot recall anyone coming to the house. The master and family went to church, but otherwise there was very little activity. You must remember that yourself, Master Cyprian. A very quiet day.’

‘And none of the other servants can recall anyone coming to the door?’ I asked.

‘No, sir.’

Cyprian nodded dismissal and the steward withdrew.

‘Could someone be lying?’ asked Joanna.

Her husband shook his head. ‘I see no good reason why they should.’

But if no one had called to leave a note or a message for Sir George, then he had not left the house in response to any summons. The man seen by Dame Drusilla might not have had anything to do with his vanishing. Then, just as I was about to take my leave, another idea struck me.

‘Can anyone remember if Sir George left the house at all on Sunday afternoon?’

There was a general shaking of heads, except for Bartholomew, who said, ‘Father did go out after dinner. I saw him from my bedchamber window. I don’t know how long he was gone because I didn’t see him come back. He was home in time for supper, although he might have returned well before then. Why do you ask?’

‘Because it occurs to me that the man in the mask could have waylaid Sir George and delivered his message, either spoken or written, in person. And now you tell me that your father did go out, I think this may well be what happened. Provided, of course,’ I added with a sigh, ‘Master Bird Mask has anything to do with the matter.’

I could see that Cyprian, his wife and the two young men were very much inclined to regard the mystery as solved as soon as Miles Deakin could be found and questioned. What Patience Marvell’s thoughts were was more difficult to fathom.

‘You’ll go to Master Sheriff or one of the sergeants now, tonight?’ Cyprian asked urgently, shaking my hand as if I were an equal.

‘Not yet,’ I said and glanced towards the windows. Outside, the sky had darkened as the short December day drew to its close, and the leaded glass panes — a sure sign of money — showed nothing now except the reflected flames of the candles lit by the steward before he left the room. When Cyprian would have voiced a protest, I said, ‘I should prefer to consider this idea a little longer, sir. I need to convince myself that it’s justified before I drag a man’s name in the mud or put him in peril of the hangman’s noose.’ I didn’t add that I guessed Richard Manifold and Tom Merryweather, desperate for a suspect for Alderman Trefusis’s murder, would embrace my theory all too eagerly, even if they deeply resented my interference.

The older man would have demurred, but his son came unexpectedly to my aid. ‘Master Chapman’s right, Father,’ he said quietly. ‘In fact, before a word is said to anyone in authority about this Miles Deakin, an effort should be made to find him and at least discover if he could possibly be the culprit. And if he can positively prove his innocence, then nothing regarding him need be mentioned. You say his parents had a smallholding rented from the lord of Clifton Manor?’

‘But remember I told you,’ his mother reminded him, ‘that I believe your grandfather used his influence to get them evicted. It’s no good looking there. The man is probably somewhere in the city, disguised.’

‘Nevertheless,’ James argued, ‘Clifton seems to me to be the place to start. Someone there might be able to tell us what became of the family.’ He looked across at me. ‘Master Chapman, would you care to accompany me to Clifton tomorrow morning? Together, we might discover something.’

The honest answer was, ‘No,’ but I could see what was in his mind. As a Marvell, as Sir George’s grandson, as a resident since birth of that now abandoned house on the heights above Bristol, he could probably command answers from people I should hesitate to question. Besides, I was growing to quite like James, in contrast to Bartholomew, whom I felt to be a whining, sulky mother’s boy.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll meet you at the High Cross after breakfast and we’ll walk up to Clifton together,’

‘Walk?’ he asked with an incredulous laugh. ‘Walk? My dear man-’

He got no further. The door burst open and the steward appeared, his face the colour of old parchment.

‘Master Cyprian,’ he said, his voice trembling so much that he found it hard to get the words out, ‘come quickly! Sergeant Manifold’s below. They’ve just fished a body out of the River Avon.’