The Christmas Wassail (29 page)

Dick slowly shook his head. ‘No,' he said.

I saw Jenny throw me a curious glance, but it would never occur to Dick to ask me why I wanted to know. He was not interested enough to pry into other people's affairs. He had never had an enquiring mind.

‘You're quite certain?'

He smiled his sweet, unworldly smile. ‘Certain, Master Chapman. He's a good master, but he doesn't have much to say.'

Jenny laughed. ‘It's you who doesn't have much to say to Master Cleghorn, more like,' she chided him. I saw her eyeing my cloak. ‘That new, Roger?'

I explained about Margaret's gift and she grimaced.

‘Master Adelard must be giving her plenty of weaving to do. Mind you,' she added generously, ‘Margaret was always clever with her fingers. She's one o'the best spinners in Redcliffe.'

I finished my ale and stood up. ‘I must be going, Jenny. It's getting dark. Thank you for the ale. Mind you lock up after me and don't answer the door to anyone until Burl and Jack get back.'

‘No, I won't. No one's been taken for these dreadful murders yet, I suppose?' I shook my head, but as I moved towards the door, she left stirring the pot and came to see me out. ‘Roger,' she said diffidently, ‘what … what are you doing with your old cloak?'

I hesitated. ‘If you want it for Burl, Jenny, you know he wouldn't take it. Not from me. Anyone else, perhaps, but not me.'

She flushed painfully. ‘No, I know that, Roger. We've had words about it many times these past few years. He knows envy's a sin, but somehow or other he can't seem to rid himself of it. But I wasn't asking for Burl. It's Dick.' She glanced sideways at her son, but he had returned to his catechism and wasn't listening. ‘His winter cloak's as good as worn out. I wouldn't ask, but …' Her voice tailed away and she looked as if she might burst into tears.

I stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘Jenny,' I said, ‘it's Dick's. And I shall be jealous every time I see him wearing it. You know how I hate new clothes.' She smiled mistily at me. ‘Adela will be at the market in the morning. I'll give it to her to bring to you there. Now, lock the door behind me. There's evil abroad in the streets this Christmas. I'll see you tomorrow at the wassailing.'

T
he Eve of Twelfth Night, or the Eve of Epiphany, whichever you prefer to call it, dawned with clear skies and the sparkle of frost on rooftops and the rays of a thin winter sunlight piercing the clouds. The children were up betimes, excited by the prospect of their last visit to see the mummers, of being allowed to stay up late to go wassailing with the adults and, Nicholas and Elizabeth in particular, at being king and queen of the feast. Usually this was not known until the Twelfth Night cake was cut, when the man who found the bean in his slice was named the king and the lady who discovered the pea in hers the queen. Adela, however, had cheated this year by allowing the two older children to push the pea and bean into the cake after it was baked.

Adam had protested loudly to begin with, but a promise that he should be king of the feast the following year had pacified him with surprising ease. In spite of all that had been going on around him, he, at least, had enjoyed his Christmas, the ignorance and self-absorption of childhood protecting him like a magic cloak. The climax of this, the penultimate of the twelve days of Christmas, was to be his visit to the castle for the mummers' final performance. And it was to be his favourite play, St George and the Dragon.

When I had returned home the previous afternoon, I had told Adela of my visit to Burl's cottage, although not the reason for it, and of my promise to Jenny that Dick should have my old grey cloak. This had met with her full approval and so, when she set out for the Tolzey that morning, it was folded up in her basket, ready to give to her friend.

The children, including Luke in his box on wheels, and Hercules had gone with her and I was attending to the Yule log, thanking heaven that tomorrow I could finally let it go out, when there was a knock on the street door. Wiping my grimy hands down the sides of my jerkin and cursing under my breath, I opened it to find James Marvell standing outside.

‘Master Marvell,' I murmured politely, struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice, ‘what can I do for you?'

He gave a faint smile. ‘I've disturbed you,' he said, making it obvious that I had been unsuccessful at hiding my feelings. I made a feeble protest, which he ignored, and continued, ‘I thought I should tell you that my father had a secret visitor last night, and now seems more depressed and downhearted than ever.'

‘You'd better come in,' I invited and led the way into the kitchen. My hands were black from the Yule log ashes and I knew I dare not risk entering the parlour in such a condition. I had too healthy a respect for Adela's temper if she found filthy fingermarks in this holy of holies.

I poured myself a bowl of water from the water barrel and, with the help of a piece of rough grey soap, began to scrub them clean. My uninvited guest sat down on a stool and watched me curiously. (I assumed that in the Marvell household a servant would have been summoned to provide the soap and water.)

‘You say this visitor of Master Cyprian's was secret. So how do you know about him?'

James put his elbows on the table and propped his chin in his hands.

‘I couldn't sleep,' he said. ‘All that's happened in the past two weeks kept going round and round in my head; thoughts of Grandfather's mutilated body, the death of Alderman Trefusis, Father's growing depression, as if he knows something the rest of us don't. I ate and drank my All-night, hoping that a full belly would help me sleep, but it didn't. In fact, it had the opposite effect. It made me even more restless and full of energy. In the end, I got up, took my candle and started to go downstairs. I'd descended one flight and reached the head of the staircase that leads down into the hall when I heard a knock on the street door. I remember thinking how stupid it was of anyone to call at such an hour when the servants would all be in bed – I'd heard the Watch cry two of the clock some little while before – and also that in the present circumstances no one was going to risk opening a door at that time in the morning, when to my utter astonishment Father came out of his private room, candle in hand, and did just that.'

‘Opened the door, you mean?'

‘Yes. He didn't hesitate and was plainly expecting someone. I quickly extinguished my own candle and drew back into the shadows, waiting to see what happened and to rush down to his assistance if it should prove necessary.'

‘But it didn't?'

‘No.' There was a pause. ‘He simply let the person in and they both disappeared into his room.'

‘So?' I demanded impatiently, wiping my hands dry on the piece of sacking we kept for that purpose. ‘Did you recognize the latecomer?' My excitement was mounting. I was finding it hard to breathe.

‘It was a man,' he said at last, ‘but I couldn't see his face. He was wearing one of those head masks that people wear at Christmas. A dog's head.'

A dog's head mask! Someone had talked recently of such a thing, but I was unable to remember who or when or where. I cudgelled my brains, but to no avail. What was even more infuriating was the vague recollection that I had had this same feeling even earlier. When whoever it was had mentioned the dog mask, I had experienced a jolt of recognition, a sensation that I had heard the phrase before. And I was certain it was not all that long ago.

James must have seen something in my face for he asked eagerly, ‘Does it mean anything to you, Master Chapman?'

I shook my head. There was no point in raising hopes that I might not be able to fulfil.

‘Have you asked your father about his visitor?' I queried.

‘Yes. He flew into a rage, which is very unlike him – he is normally the most unemotional of men – and told me to mind my own business. “It's nothing to do with you!” he said. And then added, “You're better off not knowing.” Naturally, I couldn't accept that, especially not when he looked so haggard, and told him so. He had calmed down a little by then – he cannot sustain anger for very long – but still refused to say more. I would, however, have continued to press him, but just at that moment Bart came looking for me on some pretext or another. I forget what and it doesn't really matter. He was just snooping. That twitchy nose of his had told him that something was up; that Father and I were having a private conversation, and he had come to find out what was going on. I think, for once, Father was relieved to see him, said he wanted to talk to him about the will and marched him off to his private sanctum, so I came to see you to find out if you had any ideas to offer.'

I perched on the edge of the table, frowning. ‘Last night,' I said, ‘or early this morning as it really was, when your father and his visitor went into his private room, was all quiet? Did you hear raised voices at any time?'

‘No. Not once. And I stole downstairs and listened at the door for several minutes. There was a low, sustained murmur, but that was all.'

‘Do you think money changed hands?'

James shrugged. ‘That I'm unable to say. But I know for a fact that Father keeps a locked casket in the cupboard because I've seen it. Whether or not it contains money I've no idea. It used to be Grandfather's room, but since his death Father has taken it over, now that he's head of the household.'

He looked at me hopefully, as if expecting me to come up with some sudden and brilliant insight as to the identity of the unknown guest, but I was obliged to disappoint him. No flash of inspiration illumined my somewhat clogged and dull early morning mind. In fact, if the truth were told, I was growing weary of the whole unpleasant business and wanted nothing more than to forget it and enjoy what was left to me of Christmas. Tomorrow, with the Mass celebrating the coming of the three wise men to the stable in Bethlehem and the showing to them of the Christ Child – the Epiphany – the days of celebration would be over. Life would return to its normal, humdrum course until the next feast day. The twelve days would be gone and I should have spent them searching for a sadistic killer. No doubt Richard Manifold felt the same way, but that, after all, was his job.

Some of these thoughts must have conveyed themselves to James Marvell, for he rose abruptly from his stool, saying, ‘I'm sorry to have troubled you, Master Chapman. I realize that there is nothing either of us can do without knowing Dog Head's identity, but I needed to tell someone and you are the only person I could think of. I cannot talk to either my mother or Patience or Bartholomew, and if my father refuses to confide in me—' He broke off looking lost, then went on: ‘I hate to see him look so unhappy. He's a good man who has had much to vex him in his life.' He took a deep breath. ‘I have a feeling that this business must touch the family honour. Father has always been proud of our name.'

As he moved towards the kitchen door, I asked, ‘Do you think Master Marvell's unknown visitor might have been Miles Deakin?'

He paused, his hand on the latch. ‘The thought has occurred to me, I must admit. The knowledge that Baker Cleghorn thinks he saw the man in Bristol not so long ago makes me feel sure the rogue is indeed hiding somewhere in the city and is threatening to make known his affair with Great-Aunt Drusilla. Father would find that hard to stomach and may well be paying him to keep his mouth shut.'

I considered this for a moment, but almost immediately dismissed the theory.

‘Master Marvell looks to me to be a sensible man,' I said. ‘He must know that the story is common knowledge already in the town, among certain members of the population, at least. I heard the tale from my former mother-in-law and her cronies, one of whom supplied me with Miles's name. The fact that no one mentions the story to your father doesn't necessarily mean ignorance on the part of the general populace – only that they have too much respect for him to do so. And I don't suppose anyone would have dared to throw it in your grandfather‘s face.'

That brought a momentary smile to his lips, but then he frowned. ‘So what are you saying to me? That if the unknown visitor was Miles Deakin, he must have a stronger hold over Father than anything we already know of?'

‘I'm saying that Master Marvell is surely too practical a man to pay good money to suppress a story he must realize is common currency. So, yes, I suppose if his visitor was Miles Deakin then the rogue must have some other hold over your father.' I unhooked my leg from the corner of the kitchen table and stood upright. ‘But this is all pure speculation. The sad truth is that we know nothing definite. After twelve days and two murders we are just as far from the truth as we were at the beginning. Perhaps it's time we shared our suspicions concerning Miles Deakin with the proper authorities. Let the sheriff and his men find him – if, that is, he is to be found.'

But James would still not permit it. His scruples forbade his great-aunt's former suitor being thrown to the wolves, as he put it, until we had more proof of his guilt than we had at present. I thought him overscrupulous, but when he had gone, I decided he was right. My own desire to be free of the whole unhappy business was clouding my judgement.

I tried to forget about it for the rest of the day and, to a large extent, succeeded. When dinner was over, we had our own cake-cutting ceremony. Nicholas and Elizabeth were duly crowned with trailing wreaths of greenery as king and queen of the feast after finding the pea and the bean in their slices carefully given to them by Adela.

‘Cheat! Cheat!' cried Adam, but without any real rancour. He was too excited by the prospect of going to see the mummers' last performance that afternoon and of being allowed, for the very first time, to take part in the wassailing that evening. On previous occasions he had been regarded as too young and had been looked after by Margaret Walker who, this year, would come to take care of Luke. Our son was puffed up with self-importance at no longer being the baby of the family.