The Christmas Wassail

THIRTEEN

The 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.

I made my way to the counting-house where James had found the candles. He had also mentioned lanterns and, sure enough, there were two with horned panes ranged with the candlesticks along one wall. Dust lay thick everywhere and, without furniture, the room echoed eerily, like the sound of the tide in an underwater cave. I put Hercules down, found the tinderbox and lit both lanterns. With one in either hand, I then proceeded to search the hall.

I knew what I was looking for and found it before very many minutes had passed. The knight’s hat, cloak, gloves, his belt and pouch, together with the shirt and tunic ripped from his upper body, had been thrown into a corner beside the dais, concealed from view by the shadows. Yesterday, everyone had been too shocked and horrified by the discovery of Sir George’s mutilated body to think about his missing clothes, but before long somebody — Cyprian, perhaps — would remember them and either come in person or send someone else to find them.

I sat down on the floor, my back against the edge of the platform, the lanterns and Hercules beside me, and opened the pouch, a strong affair of ribbed leather looped on to the belt. At first, to my great disappointment, I thought it was empty, but then I realized that the silk lining was torn and a scrap of paper had got between it and the leather. Carefully, with fingers that shook a little, I prised it free, unfolding it and spreading it out flat on the floor.

It was a piece of rag paper about three inches square, but there was writing on it, so I moved both lanterns closer and tried to make out its message. The ink was of poor quality, probably blackberry juice mixed with blood, and the writing difficult to read. The letters were shaky and badly formed, but not illegible: the sender had been taught to write, although not well and not fluently. Still, it was more than many folk could do.

Within a few minutes I had worked out what it said.

Must see you. The old house. After midnight. Tonight. Alyson.

That was all. But it had been enough to bring Sir George hurrying up to Clifton on a bitter winter’s night at the end of December. The note smacked of a secret tryst, and having learned from Briant of the knight’s past infidelity, it seemed the most likely answer. But who was Alyson? That was something I had to find out. I put the note back in the pouch and, together with the rest of the clothes, returned it to the corner where I had found it. Then I restored the lanterns and tinderbox to the counting-house, having first blown out the flames, called to Hercules and considered what to do next.

The cliff path leading to St Vincent’s chapel and the neighbouring hermitage was as perilous as ever. It was nearly three years since I had last traversed it and, during that time, it seemed to have become even narrower and more overgrown with vegetation. The rope railing had, in at least two places, come adrift from the cliff face to which it was attached and, with Hercules tucked under one arm, I trod as cautiously as possible. Nevertheless, I could still hear the rattle of pebbles and dirt as a little more of the pathway slipped into the gorge below.

The hermit, who lived in the cave next door to the tiny chapel and who was seated on the ground hunched over a fire of smoking twigs, glanced up as I entered. His manner was belligerent and I remembered him as a miserable fellow with a seeming grudge against his fellow men, particularly those who disturbed his meditations. But I had forgotten his antipathy towards dogs.

‘Get that mongrel cur out of here,’ he snapped.

Hercules growled and bared his teeth.

‘Why?’ I sneered. ‘Are you afraid he’ll foul your cave? He stays here with me. That path’s not safe.’

The man smoothed down the few strands of hair that covered his bald pate and blinked his watery eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet.

‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here before. And that animal.’

‘You’ve a good memory,’ I applauded him. ‘It’s nearly three years ago. The year of the war with Scotland. Back then, I was looking for a woman named Emilia Virgoe. Now, I’m trying to find someone called Alyson. I don’t know her other name.’

I half-expected him to shrug his shoulders and say that, in that case, he could do nothing to assist me. Instead, ‘Oh, I know it all right!’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘It’s Carpenter! Alyson Carpenter! A little whore, if ever there was one.’

‘She’s young, then?’

The hermit curled his lip. ‘She ain’t seen more’n fifteen, maybe sixteen, summers, I reckon.’ He paused to cough as the smoke caught the back of his throat, and the spittle dribbled down the front of his frayed and stained brown robe. ‘Good, God-fearing parents,’ he went on, ‘but what sins they’ve committed to have a trollop like her for a daughter, the saints alone know. She’s the scandal of Clifton. Anything in breeches she’s after. Her poor father’s beaten her black and blue, but it does no good. She’s after anything that’s got two legs and a prick in between.’

I’m no prude, far from it, but all the same, it jolted me to hear a holy man speak so bluntly.

‘What about Sir George Marvell?’ I asked. ‘A man old enough to be her grandfather at the very least. Even her great-grandfather, maybe. Would she have fancied him?’

‘I’ve told you!’ he exclaimed irritably. ‘That girl would chase anything with two-’

‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘But Sir George? Would he have encouraged her advances?’

‘That randy old goat couldn’t keep his hands off anything in skirts. What his poor wives must have put up with, I can only guess. One of the girls he was fucking was murdered, but that was years ago.’ The hermit’s watery eyes gleamed with a cruel satisfaction. ‘And now he’s been murdered himself. Most gruesomely, too, if all I’ve been told is true.’ His yellow teeth were bared in a sudden, unaccustomed smile. ‘Did young Alyson have something to do with it?’

‘No, no!’ I disclaimed hastily and realized that it was time I took my leave. I backed out of the cave. ‘This Alyson Carpenter, does she live on the manor?’

‘Goram Lane. Last cottage in the row nearest the cliff edge. But-’

Thanking him hurriedly, I transferred the dog to my other arm and beat a retreat up the cliff path as fast as possible, clinging to the rope railing with my free hand for very life. One false step and Hercules and I would have hurtled to our deaths below.

Goram Lane was simply a single row of one-storey cottages right on the edge of Clifton Manor, each with a plot of ground at the back which would support a few vegetables and perhaps either a goat or a pig. Such animals as I glimpsed looked sufficiently well fed, but none of them fat enough to support a family. The men who lived here were workers on the manor estate. My guess was that Alyson’s father followed the trade which his name implied and, at this time of day, would be away from home. I walked to the last cottage in the row, the one nearest the cliff edge, and knocked on the door.

A plain-looking woman with a harassed expression answered it. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m a poor traveller, mistress,’ I lied, ‘and I’ve had no dinner today.’ My stomach was fairly bursting with one of Adela’s stews, but I did my best to look hungry. ‘Could you spare me a beaker of ale and a slice of bread and cheese?’

She looked uncertain, eyeing me up and down with some misgivings. The reason for this was immediately apparent when the door was pushed wider and a young girl joined her.

This, I knew at once, could be no one but young Alyson. She was, as the hermit had told me, no more than sixteen years of age. A tangle of soft brown curls was confined beneath a three-cornered kerchief, while a pair of bold blue eyes appraised me from head to foot. She evidently liked what she saw, for she held the door wider still and gestured me inside. The older woman made a protesting noise, but was plainly unable to control her daughter. She had a faintly surprised air about her, like a duck who has given birth to a swan, and I suspected Alyson could twist her mother around her finger. It was clearly left to the father to try to control their headstrong offspring.

‘We can give you bread and cheese and ale, can’t we, Mother? Come in.’

I nodded towards a wooden bench pushed up against the outside wall. ‘I’ll have it here if you don’t mind, mistress, if you’ll bring it out to me, and perhaps some water for the dog.’

‘Won’t you be too cold?’

‘Hercules and I like it out of doors,’ I said, blatantly ignoring the dog’s attempts to enter the cottage.

Alyson giggled. ‘I won’t be long,’ she promised.

She was as good as her word and before five minutes had passed came out with a tray on which reposed a huge hunk of rye bread, a slab of goat’s milk cheese, a brimming beaker of ale and a bowl of water. She had wrapped herself in a thick cloak which, despite the winter chill, she allowed to fall open to reveal the trim figure beneath.

As she placed the bowl of water on the ground for Hercules, she glanced up at me with a provocative smile.

‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you?’

‘Wh-What?’ I stammered.

She straightened up. ‘Asked to have the food out here, so that you could talk to me alone.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘But I’m not sure why. I’d like to think it’s because you want to kiss me, but somehow I don’t think it is.’

She was as shrewd as she was pretty and far too old for her years. No man would ever get the better of her. I decided there and then that deception was no use: only complete frankness would do.

‘I wouldn’t mind kissing you,’ I admitted, ‘but no, you’re right. I want to talk to you about Sir George Marvell.’ Her eyes widened and she caught her breath. ‘Mistress Alyson, were you …? I mean, did you …? What I’m asking is …’

‘I know what you’re asking,’ she said, suddenly serious. ‘Is it true what everyone’s saying about his murder? That whoever did it had cut him up?’

‘Not exactly,’ I hedged. ‘Someone … Well, never mind that. Mistress, did you write him a note asking him to meet you at the old Marvell house four nights ago? The night of Childermass Day?’

She gasped and some of the colour left her cheeks. ‘No! No, of course I didn’t! Why would I? I–I may have granted him a favour now and then in the old days, but it never meant anything.’ She must have noticed my expression and made haste to excuse herself. ‘He was quite handsome still and vigorous for his age. Besides, he gave me very nice presents: a necklace and a bracelet which I have hidden where my parents won’t find them. I’ll sell them one day when I’m ready to run away. But since he went down to live in Bristol, I’ve not even thought about him until now. Who says I wrote to him? What note?’

I explained as briefly as I could what I had found. Alyson was aghast and vehemently denied all responsibility for the letter.

‘I didn’t write it, I swear! You must believe me!’ She was no longer a precocious little minx, but a frightened child. I put an arm about her.

‘It’s all right. I do believe you,’ I said.

But it suddenly occurred to me that others might not. What James Marvell had said about Miles Deakin could equally well apply to this girl. Law officers, desperate to solve the murders of two prominent citizens, might seize on any clue to lead them to the murderer. Yet surely not even two blockheads like Jack Gload and Peter Littleman could imagine that this frail child could cut throats and mutilate a body without help. No, I was being foolish. Nevertheless, it might be safer to destroy the note before anyone else could find it. I must return to the house and do so. It would be removing what could be vital evidence, but I had done worse things than that in the past. I wasn’t going to let it worry me.

I told Alyson what I intended doing and she gave a shudder of relief.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she gasped and put up her mouth to be kissed.

I laughed and obliged, but in a brotherly way. She pouted, already regaining her self-assurance, and tried to kiss me again. I gently turned her head aside.

‘Do you recall a young lad who lived in these parts called Miles Deakin?’ I asked.

Alyson tossed her curls. ‘Oh, him!’ she exclaimed dismis-sively. ‘He was a fool, he was. I don’t suppose he could read or write. I’m not sure, mind. But why would anyone have taught him? He was always boasting how one day he would marry a rich wife. He thought he was so handsome that he’d only have to crook his little finger to get one. Why do you want to know?’

‘Have you any idea what happened to him and his parents? They don’t live on the manor any more, do they? Do you happen to know where they went?’

‘No. Why should I? They meant nothing to me.’ Her face clouded and she laid an urgent hand on my arm. ‘You will go back to the house, won’t you, and destroy that note? You promised.’

I laid aside the tray, the bread and cheese uneaten, although I had drunk the ale. ‘I’m going now,’ I said and whistled up Hercules, who had wandered off on some business of his own.

I think she would have detained me further, but she suddenly breathed, ‘My father’s coming,’ and, picking up the tray, vanished indoors.

At the end of Goram Lane, I passed a worried-looking man carrying a basket of carpenter’s tools. He appeared careworn and, thinking of his daughter, I decided he had every right to be.

The Marvell house was still silent and unoccupied. No one had as yet arrived from Bristol to investigate further.

I pushed open the door and Hercules and I went in.