The Christmas Wassail (25 page)

He frowned. ‘And your little son definitely saw someone put something in your drink during the Saint Thomas Becket's Day wassail? You believe him?'

‘Why shouldn't I? I had already suspected poisoning myself, my sickness was so violent.'

‘But why? Why should anyone wish to kill you?'

I shrugged. ‘You may be aware that I have a certain reputation for solving mysteries.' This was no time for false modesty. ‘Perhaps whoever it was is afraid that I'm getting too close.'

‘And who is that?'

‘The man in the bird mask, obviously. The same man who was seen outside your and Dame Drusilla's houses the afternoon before your grandfather disappeared. The man who must have given him the bogus note from Alyson Carpenter that sent him hurrying up to Clifton in the middle of the night.'

James chewed a thumbnail. ‘Which could, of course, have been Miles Deakin,' he murmured.

‘Quite so. You say you know where he can be found?'

‘Might be found. I've been talking to one of my great-aunt's maids who, if I read the situation aright, was enjoying the young man's favours at the same time that he was paying court to Drusilla herself.'

I pulled down the corners of my mouth. ‘An enterprising fellow, making sure of a good lay once he was married to Mistress Marvell.'

James looked sour. ‘So I think. I begin to sympathize with my grandfather's view of the matter.'

‘And this girl knows where he might be?'

‘Yes. She thinks, although, mark you, she isn't sure, that he and his parents went into Gloucestershire, to his mother's sister, who lives near Nibley Green.'

I nodded. ‘I know the place. There was a battle there some thirteen years ago. I remember it being talked of when I was a novice at Glastonbury Abbey. I think the village still bears some of the scars.'

My companion grunted. ‘It was between the Berkeleys and the Talbots, I believe, to settle some private grudge. I've heard people mention it.' He hesitated. ‘I was wondering,' he said eventually, ‘if you would be willing to go to Nibley to see if you can ferret out any information concerning the Deakin family.' He gave a deprecating shrug and indicated his mourning. ‘I can hardly leave my father just at this present. So much work has devolved upon him, and Bart is worse than useless. Patience also, and although I hesitate to own it, my mother is little better. Do you think you could see your way to doing me this favour?'

‘No,' I answered brusquely. ‘To Nibley and back would take the better part of four days and my wife and family would very reasonably be angry at my absence on Twelfth Night Eve. What with the wassailing and the first-footing it's the most important day of the festivities. I'm sorry, Master Marvell, but I must decline. I'll go after Twelfth Night. I have to be on my travels then, in any case. I shall need to be hawking my wares or the family purse will be empty. I can easily journey that way and call at Nibley Green and North Nibley in the course of my work.'

He leant forward eagerly. ‘I'll hire a horse for you again from the Bell Lane stables. On horseback, you could get there and back easily in two, maybe two-and-a-half days.'

‘Is the matter so urgent? Don't forget that enquiries are still being made by the sheriff and his men and will continue to be, despite the season. Indeed, now might be the time to inform them of our suspicions of this Miles Deakin and leave them to do whatever they think fit.'

James bit his lip, then shook his head decisively. ‘No, for the reasons I gave you before. The sheriff was with my father and myself this morning and, as you may imagine, he is being pressed by the mayor and aldermen for an arrest. Two prominent citizens murdered most barbarically! Miles Deakin wouldn't stand a chance.'

‘He would stand his trial the same as anybody else.'

‘And have you never known an innocent man condemned?'

I said nothing. I couldn't deny it. I wondered if he knew the story of Robert Herepath, who had been hanged for the murder of a man who wasn't even dead, and my involvement in it. ‘Very well,' I conceded after a few moments. ‘But as I told you, I'll not go until next week. After Twelfth Night.'

‘I repeat, I'll pay for a horse if you'll go tomorrow.'

‘Why? A few days can make no difference.'

‘I can't really explain.' His gaze shifted and he stared into the heart of the fire. ‘If the murderer is this Miles Deakin, I want to know. He has a simple, straightforward motive. Revenge.' He shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I'm concerned about my father. Something is worrying him. He denies it most emphatically. Too emphatically. But there is something on his mind which is troub-ling him. If it is at all possible, I should like the killer found for his sake.'

‘You're sure you're not imagining this? Your grandfather's murder, the brutal nature of it, must have shaken you all.'

He raised his eyes to mine. ‘No, I'm not imagining it. I know my father too well.'

‘Has it occurred to you,' I asked after a moment or two, ‘that this Miles Deakin might not be capable of writing his name? In a man's flesh or anywhere else.'

He glanced up, startled. ‘No,' he said slowly. ‘I hadn't thought of that. You're right, of course. It's quite possible that he couldn't.'

‘Moreover,' I went on, ‘I'm still convinced that it took two people to commit both murders. Mind you, that doesn't necessarily rule out the fact that it could be Deakin. He might have had an accomplice.'

‘And he might be able to write his name.'

‘D-I-E-K-I-N.'

‘Yes. There are many ways of spelling a name. Grandfather spelt ours several different ways. You said yourself that you thought the despoiling of the body was interrupted.'

‘I still think it possible.' I said nothing about Briant of Dungarvon. That was my secret and would remain so.

‘Look,' James urged, leaning forward once again in his chair, ‘we have to find this Miles Deakin and make up our minds if we think he could be the killer. And the sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned. I tell you, Master Chapman, I truly am concerned about my father. There is definitely something bothering him. For his peace of mind, if it is this Deakin fellow, I want him caught. If, on the other hand, it turns out that he could not possibly be the guilty man, then we must think again.'

‘And you have no idea what it might be that is worrying Master Marvell?'

He shook his head.

‘Have you asked him?'

‘Certainly. But he denies that there is anything wrong. He insists that I'm imagining it. But I'm not.'

‘Has any other member of your family noticed anything?'

He shook his head. ‘They think his depression is due to the circumstances of my grandfather's death.'

‘But that's not your opinion?'

‘Partly. Naturally it is. But I also believe that Father knows something about Grandfather's past which may do the old man discredit. Maybe, in a moment of honesty, Grandfather confided some secret to him.' He broke off, shrugging. ‘And then again, perhaps it is just my imagination.'

‘Let me get this clear,' I said. ‘You're hoping that this young man, this Miles Deakin, will turn out to be Sir George's killer for the very good reason that he has a simple, understandable motive. As you said yourself, revenge. Revenge for his beating at your grandfather's hands and revenge for his parents' loss of livelihood. Am I right?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you also think that such an outcome would relieve your father's mind of whatever it is you fancy is bothering him?'

‘Yes,' he said again.

I sighed. ‘Very well. Hire me a horse from the Bell Lane stables and I'll set off first thing tomorrow morning. But if I find that the Deakin family has moved on further north than Nibley Green, I'm not going after them. I intend to be home for Twelfth Night Eve come what may. Is that understood?'

James got to his feet and wrung my hand in gratitude. ‘Thank you, Master Chapman. I shan't forget this. If ever I can do you a good turn, just let me know. The horse will be waiting for you in the stables tomorrow morning from first light. Once again, I thank you most sincerely.'

I grimaced. ‘You wouldn't care to come and explain things to my wife, I suppose? She is not going to be pleased.'

Adela, however, when I told her over supper, appeared more resigned than angry, merely remarking that she had always known how it would be. ‘For the fact is, Roger, that from the moment I heard the news of Sir George's murder, I knew you would be unable to keep out of it; that you would be poking and prying about, if only to annoy poor Richard.'

I protested at this calumny as well as I could through a mouthful of apple dumpling, much to the amusement of the children, who were convulsed with laughter.

‘You're like the dog!' shouted Adam. ‘You're like the dog when he tried to bark with his mouth full of sosinges.'

This remark was kindly translated for me by Elizabeth, who explained that Margaret Walker had taken her, Nicholas and Adam to see the mummers that afternoon; a farcical comedy about the Sultan of Morocco and his dog, Ali, whose job it was to bark every time his master was in danger, but who also had a passion for sausages which he stole from the Sultan's kitchens.

‘And he couldn't bark,' Adam reiterated, banging his spoon in ecstasy on the table, ‘'cause his mouth was full up with sosinges.'

‘The dog was played by Master Chorley,' my daughter added. ‘You can always tell it's him by his missing fingers.'

‘And Mistress Tabitha was the Cook and Tobias was the Sultan,' my stepson said, passing his plate for a second helping of dumpling. ‘Master Monkton wasn't there today. I expect he'd drunk too much and was having a rest.'

This idea made us all laugh, and the subject of the mummers and their plays lasted us very well until bedtime. Adela insisted we all retired together.

‘For thanks to your foolhardiness,' she told me, ‘in agreeing to this jaunt, you've a tiring few days ahead of you.'

I
n the chill, grey dawn of the following morning, just as the wintry sun rose like a smoking orb over the city rooftops, I approached the Bell Lane stables. I strode out freely, unencumbered by my pack, it having been agreed between Adela and myself that I would simply ride to Nibley Green, make my enquiries and return immediately whatever the outcome. I would waste no time trying to sell my wares, but make all haste home in time for Twelfth Night Eve, my daughter having added her voice to her stepmother's in demanding my presence for this culmination of the Christmas festivities.

Adam, too, had added his mite. ‘If you don't come home you'll be a Bad Man and I shan't love you any more.'

It was small wonder, I reflected, that friends and acquaintances regarded me as too lenient a father. Most of the men I knew ruled the roost in their own households. I never seemed to have mastered the art.

As I neared the recently opened gates of the stable yard, I saw a recognizable figure approaching from the opposite direction, emerging into Bell Lane from the narrow alleyway leading from the castle. I touched my cap and called out, ‘Good morning, Mistress Warrener. You're abroad early.'

Tabitha was dressed very much as she always was when not performing. The same wide strip of faded cloth was tied around her head, wisps of grey hair escaping from beneath it. The nondescript skirt was kilted about her knees revealing a pair of strong, manly-looking legs in woollen hose and two large feet in wooden clogs. A thick shawl draped around her broad shoulders was her only concession to the biting cold and her raw, red hands were deformed with chilblains.

She nodded as soon as she realized who it was had hailed her and bade me, ‘Good day.'

I followed her into the stables, where she was greeted by the head stable man.

‘Master Monkton saddled you with the task of visiting the horses today, then?' He grinned as he uttered the word ‘saddled', proud of what he considered to be a witticism. (He was a simple man, easily pleased.)

Tabitha grunted, not seeing the joke. ‘Arthur's hurt his hand,' she said. ‘He needs some salve, so I'll trouble you for an apothecary's direction as soon as I've looked at the animals. They're going on all right, I suppose? There's no need for this daily visit as far as I can see, but Arthur insists on doing it. I don't know if he told you, but we'll be leaving on Twelfth Night. We're giving our last performance on Twelfth Night Eve, then we'll join in the first-footing and the wassailing round the castle orchard before getting underway first thing next morning. I'll settle up with you the previous day. Mind you render your account to me as I'm the only one of 'em as can read and write.'

The stable man nodded. ‘Don't fret yourself, Mother. Master Monkton's explained everything to me already. What's he done to his hand?' Before Tabitha could reply, however, he turned to me. ‘Your mount's ready and paid for, Roger. I've given you that same brown cob as last time.' He grinned broadly. ‘He shouldn't prove too much for you, but if he does, my advice would be get off and let him ride you instead. It'll probably be quicker.'

The stable boys were sniggering fit to burst their laces. I gave my most long-suffering smile, but resisted the temptation of a riposte. (This was just as well, as it happened, as I was unable to think of one.) Instead, I addressed Tabitha Warrener.

‘You're off, then, next Tuesday, mistress? We shall miss you.'

She twitched a straw from one of the mangers and began to chew on it. ‘Aye, we're off,' she agreed. ‘It's Sweetwater Manor and winter quarters for us before the worst of the weather sets in. And Dorcas is getting near her time.' She bit off the end of the straw and spat it out. ‘Before you go, are they true, all these rumours about the knight that's been murdered? That the body was mutilated by someone carving letters into his chest?'