‘Footpads, no doubt of it,’ he said ponderously, looking down at the dead man. ‘Christmas,’ he added, as though that explained everything.
Sir George made a choking sound deep in his throat. ‘Footpads!’ he snarled. ‘You cross-eyed, ale-swilling numbskull! Can’t you see he’s still wearing all his rings and a sapphire pin in his hat? And that his purse is still attached to his belt? What manner of footpads would leave such pickings, you dolt?’
Sergeant Merryweather appeared unperturbed by this mode of address. Indeed, if anything, he seemed used to it.
‘This gentleman’ — he indicated me — ‘disturbed the robbers before they had time to finish their work. They were baulked, that’s what they were. Baulked.’
‘Nonsense!’ Had there not been ladies present, I felt certain the knight would have used a much stronger word. He turned on me. ‘How long was it, Chapman’ — I was going to get no title from him — ‘before you reached the alderman after hearing his cry?’
‘Not long,’ I answered. ‘I was halfway along Bear Alley when I heard him shout. As you know, Bear Alley is one of the shorter turnings between Redcliffe Street and the wharf. Moreover, I ran. I would estimate thirty seconds or so, no more. But the quayside was deserted. There was no sign of any attacker.’
The sergeant nodded his sandy head. ‘That’s what I said. They were baulked.’
The knight let out a roar that sent Lady Marvell off into another bout of hysterics. Bartholomew patted her ineffectually on the shoulder.
Sir George ignored his wife and vented his spleen on Tom Merryweather. ‘You dunderhead! Footpads wouldn’t have run off like that, before they had cause to. They would still have been kneeling over the body, trying to rob it. But they weren’t. In the very short time it had taken the chapman here to run from Bear Alley on to the wharf, whoever did this heinous deed had disappeared. Now that would suggest to anybody but a fool like you that the murder was his — or their — main object, not robbery. This must be reported immediately to the sheriff. Christmas Day or no Christmas Day, I demand that he be brought here at once!’
I thought his argument a sound one. I had almost reached the same conclusion myself. Lady Marvell’s sobs had abated again, so I ventured to raise my voice.
‘There is also the fact, Sergeant, that when Sir George asked Alderman Trefusis if he had recognized his assailant, or assailants, he uttered what sounded like the name Dee.’
Sergeant Merryweather frowned heavily. ‘This is the first time such a circumstance has been mentioned. How am I to do my job if vital information is being withheld from me? Dee, you say? And known to the alderman? That puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. Not,’ he added slowly, ‘that I know of that name in the city, and I pride myself on being acquainted with most families within these walls.’
To my astonishment, Sir George, instead of corroborating my story, hastened to refute it.
‘The alderman mentioned no name,’ he snapped, glaring at me. ‘It was simply a noise he made as he lay dying. I doubt if he was even aware of my question. He was too far gone. A moment later, he was dead.’
I was about to appeal for support to the others who had been present, when I realized that the knight knew perfectly well what his friend had said, but that for some reason or another he did not want it repeated. Moreover, he was frightened. There was something in the rigidity of his stance, the way in which his hands were clenched by his sides, the fixed look on his face that spoke to me of fear. Why the name Dee should provoke this reaction, I had no idea, but I was positive it was so.
‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ I muttered.
The sergeant was pardonably incensed. ‘Well, which is it?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Did the deceased mention a name or no?’
‘No,’ Sir George said, and with an emphasis that brooked no argument. ‘He died without saying anything. But that doesn’t alter the fact that he was deliberately murdered in cold blood. I want no more talk of footpads. I want the sheriff fetched before another hour has passed. That’s an order. See that it’s obeyed.’
Suddenly it was easy to see that he had once been a soldier, in charge of other men. He had an indisputable air of authority and command. But if I was impressed, Sergeant Merryweather stolidly refused to be so.
He removed his hat and scratched his head vigorously before replacing it again. ‘What was the alderman doing, I wonder, out alone on the wharf, in the dark with no attendant?’
I thought for a moment that Sir George would explode with frustration. Instead, he spoke very slowly and carefully, as if dealing with a more than usually stupid child.
‘He had been taking his Christmas victuals with us, Sergeant. We have known one another for years. As for being out alone in the dark, apart from the fact that it is not late — the church bells have not yet rung for Vespers — he soldiered with me in France. Robert Trefusis was not afraid of danger or of darkness.’
The sergeant drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, it seems he had cause to be this time. Whoever set upon him for whatever reason was intent on taking his life. I still think it was footpads, but I daresay you’re right, Sir George. He’s a man of some standing in the community. We’d best send for the sheriff. Not that he’ll be pleased at being disturbed on Christmas Day, but there you are. It can’t be helped. Did the alderman have any family that you know of? Can’t say I’ve ever heard tell of anyone. But you seem to know him better than I do.’
‘He had a wife once,’ the knight said shortly. Then added, ‘She left him many years ago.’
It was an hour or more before the sheriff arrived and I was able to make my deposition and go. I arrived back in Small Street to be met by a wrathful Adela.
‘The children were too tired to stay up any longer,’ she said accusingly, ‘and you promised to play Snapdragon with them before they went to bed. Where have you been? You can’t have been talking to Margaret all this time. If you’ve been drinking, Roger …’
But when I had made my explanation, her anger gave place to curiosity, intrigue and a certain amount of exasperation. When she had finished exclaiming over the murder and speculating aloud as to who could have done such a thing, and why, and trying to recall anyone she knew by the name of Dee, she demanded, ‘What were you doing on Redcliffe Wharf, anyway? It’s not on your way home from Margaret’s.’
‘Not directly, no. I just thought I’d walk that way round to the bridge and get a breath of river air.’
‘And ran straight into a murder.’ She sighed. ‘What is it about you, Roger? You just seem to attract trouble and mayhem as a magnet attracts pins.’ An alarming thought occurred to her. ‘They don’t suspect you, do they?’
I was able to reassure her on that score, then suggested we retired to bed ourselves.
‘It’s Saint Stephen’s Day tomorrow,’ I pointed out. ‘We must be up early to light the Yule log, and then it’s the mummers’ first performance in the afternoon. The children will be excited about that. So let’s get some rest while we can.’
‘Oh, well, if it’s rest you’re talking about. .’ Adela answered and let the sentence go.
‘Not altogether,’ I admitted as we started up the stairs.
I have to admit that of all the twelve days of Christmas, I like St Stephen’s Day the least. Even as a boy — and I was as callous as most children are — I never liked the custom of going out and stoning wrens to death, then tying the poor, broken little bodies to poles and parading them around the streets. People were supposed to give you money in return for one of their feathers, a talisman that apparently averted shipwreck; but as there were very few, if any, sailors in inland Wells, the custom seemed pointless. In Bristol, of course, where sailors abounded, it was a different matter; but even so, I had always forbidden our children from joining the early morning forays into the surrounding countryside to kill the birds.