‘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.
FIVE
After 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.