‘One of these days,’ Briant said, leaning across the table and bringing his face close to mine, ‘that long nose of yours is going to be the death of you, Master Chapman.’ He breathed heavily for several moments, his ale-laden breath hot on my cheeks, and I saw an angry glint in the dark brown eyes. My belly felt queasy and I could almost feel the cold steel of a knife gliding between my ribs. But then he withdrew and sat back again on his bench. ‘You’re right, of course. I hadn’t known who she was until that moment. Humility Dyson had simply informed me that a respectable woman — a lady, he said — needed my services.’ He laughed. ‘That was nothing new. It’s only the respectable and those with well-lined pockets that can afford our services. This woman wouldn’t come to Marsh Street; was afraid to be seen anywhere near it. Again, that was normal, so I made arrangements to meet her elsewhere. That night in the Green Lattis people were too drunk to take notice of what their neighbours were doing. Except you, of course. We arranged to meet again on Christmas Day, at dawn, during the Shepherds’ Mass, when she was to give me details of the man she wanted abducted, and also pay me. As you guessed, that was when I learned who she was. I told her I was no longer willing to go through with it, but I didn’t tell her why. I just left her to think what she would.’
‘And who did she want removed?’ I asked.
Now Briant really was angry. His hand went to the knife in his belt and his eyes seemed to have turned red. ‘Do you think I’m going to tell you that?’ he snarled.
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied calmly, although my heart had started to thump a little. ‘But I’ll make a guess. It was her step-grandson, James Marvell. With him out of the way, her own precious boy, Master Bartholomew, stands a better chance of inheriting not only his father’s wealth — for I doubt if Cyprian Marvell can father another child — but old Drusilla Marvell’s fortune as well.’
The Irishman regarded me thoughtfully, the anger slowly draining out of his face. ‘I’ve heard rumours about you,’ he said after a while. ‘You’ve a reputation in this city. And of course, four years back when you persuaded me to take that Scottish nobleman, or duke, or whatever he was, over to Ireland, I knew you were dabbling in treason. I suppose that’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to step outside the law when it suits you.’
I was indignant and about to refute this accusation, when honesty compelled me to admit that it was true. I grinned in acknowledgement.
‘But,’ I warned him, ‘if I wake up one morning to find that Sir George Marvell has been murdered, I shan’t hesitate to tell everything I know.’
He shrugged. ‘Well, if someone does eventually kill that swivel-eyed piece of dirt, it won’t be me. I’ve finished with him. If God had meant me to be the instrument of his destruction, he wouldn’t have let you thwart me.’ He crossed himself. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. I shall be going home to Ireland in a few days’ time. The Clontarf’s due to drop anchor along the Backs on Tuesday, if the weather holds and she can navigate the Avon safely. Even your fucking rivers lay snares for foreigners.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this conversation, Chapman.’ He smiled, showing a chipped and blackened tooth. ‘I seem to recall that years ago, when we first met, either Padraic or myself gave you some good advice. Watch your back. One of these days you’ll make an enemy too many.’
I gripped his proffered hand, for, in spite of what he was, I returned his liking. All the same, ‘I meant what I said,’ I reminded him. ‘I’m law-abiding enough, whatever you may think, not to tolerate murder.’
‘I believe you,’ was his answer. ‘But I also have enough faith in your sense of justice to know that you would want to bring the right man to book. And that man won’t be me, I give you my word.’
I grinned. ‘And I might even believe you,’ I said.
SEVEN
I was just in the act of leaving when a thought struck me and I turned back. ‘I don’t suppose,’ I said, ‘you know anything about the death, on Christmas Day, of an alderman of this city by the name of Robert Trefusis?’
Briant’s face immediately became suffused with blood and his right hand flew to the evil-looking dagger tucked in his belt. ‘Are you accusing me-?’ he began.
‘No, no!’ I exclaimed hastily. ‘I just wondered if there had been any talk along the Backs concerning it.’
Mollified, he shook his head. ‘Never heard of the man until yesterday when chat of a murder went round. I fancy someone did say that he’d been a deputy sheriff, but why he had been killed, nobody seemed to know. Nor was anyone very interested and there were certainly no rumours as to who might have wanted him dead. But if it matters to you, I can ask around, here and at the Wayfarer’s. Someone could have heard a whisper.’
‘Nothing was said of a man named Dee? Or of a woman, I suppose, if it comes to that. Although throat-cutting isn’t usually a woman’s crime.’
Briant snorted. ‘I’ve known women who would cut a throat without a moment’s hesitation. I grant you such creatures are rare, but they’re to be found, nevertheless. I remember one. Dressed like a man, walked like a man, talked like a man. Swore like one, too. She was a member of the Fraternity. Best slaver on either side of the Irish Sea. So it’s not impossible. Unlikely though, I agree. However, as I said, I can make enquiries for you if it’s important.’
I hesitated a moment, then shook my head. ‘I won’t put you to so much trouble. The death is nothing to me. I wasn’t acquainted with the man. But if you should hear anything before you return to Ireland …’
Briant tapped his nose, ‘I’ll let you know, of course. Humility will get word to you one way or another.’
We shook hands once again and I left the ale-house amid a positive flurry of goodwill. Rogues I had never seen in my life before saluted me or flashed a smile from the depths of their overgrown beards. From now on I would most probably be known in ‘Little Ireland’ as ‘that friend of Briant’s’. I could only trust that such a description did not extend beyond the confines of Marsh Street.
Adela, for some reason, did not appear to have noticed my delay in returning home. She had been too busy keeping an eye on Luke who, at eleven months old, was eagerly exploring everything within the orbit of his peculiarly crablike, sideways crawl. Finally, she had done what she used to do with Adam and tied him to the leg of the kitchen table with a length of old linen.
‘He doesn’t like it, but he’ll have to learn to,’ she said firmly as the child raised an indignant, tear-stained face to mine. ‘Did you get all the things for the Twelfth Night cake?’
With a flourish I lined up my purchases along the centre of the table, taking a piece of the sugared lemon peel from its wrapping and handing it to Luke. His tears turned instantly to smiles as he started to suck it, and Hercules promptly bit my ankle to remind me that he, too, had a sweet tooth.
That afternoon I took the older children to see the second of the mummers’ plays as, in a rash moment, I had promised to do. Adela elected to stay at home in order to make her Twelfth Night cake so that the brandy with which it was laced would have plenty of time to soak into the rest of the ingredients. (This Christmas was costing me a fortune.)
‘Don’t forget to put in the bean and the pea,’ Elizabeth instructed before we left the house, ‘or we shan’t have any King and Queen of the Feast.’
‘How long do you think I’ve been making …’ Adela was beginning furiously when I pulled my daughter outside and firmly closed the door behind us. (Even now, as a mature woman, she still has no sense of danger.)
The outer ward of the castle was once more crowded, although not quite as full as it had been the previous day. And the general talk was still of Alderman Trefusis’s murder, but I could sense that interest was beginning, very slightly, to wane. In a day or two other topics would have superseded it in the public mind.