Much to my surprise, my slumber had been undisturbed by any dreams, fair or foul, and now I was awake and refreshed, staring over Adela’s shoulder at the early morning light rimming the shutters and feeling fit to face whatever the day might bring. I kissed the nape of Adela’s neck and she stretched and murmured something, but did not wake. Gently, I eased myself into a sitting position, hugging my knees under the blanket, and considered the previous day’s events as dispassionately as I could.
Many people had disliked Sir George Marvell — even, I suspected, his own wife — but someone had truly hated him, and the only person I knew of who had reason to loathe him enough to want to desecrate his dead body was Miles Deakin. The knight had not only horsewhipped him, deprived him of an extremely rich old wife (who might have been expected to die very shortly, leaving him a wealthy man), but he had also had the young man’s parents turned off their land, robbing the family of its livelihood. But then again, what did I really know of Sir George’s past life and how many other enemies he might have made? If he could treat one young man in such a brutal fashion, what might he have done to someone else?
It was the words ‘young man’ that suddenly brought me up short. Sir George, it was true, had been over seventy by several years, but he had been strong for his age and active. It would surely have taken more than one man to bring him down and cut his throat. I found it difficult to believe that the knight, summoned to an empty house in the middle of the night, would not have been on his guard against trouble of some sort. And the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that there must have been more than one person …
I became aware of Adela steadily regarding me. She had rolled on to her back and was wide awake, her brown eyes holding a look of loving resignation.
‘Why does it always have to be you?’ she sighed. ‘You and Trouble are twins, joined at the hip. If he’s there, you’re there, unable to keep away.’
‘I don’t do it on purpose,’ I pleaded. ‘These things just happen.’
‘No, they don’t,’ she answered tersely. ‘They happen because you’re incapable of keeping your nose out of other people’s business.’
It was the old cry that had followed me throughout my life and, in fairness, I had to admit that such an accusation was probably justified. From childhood, I could never resist a riddle or a mystery.
I tried to look apologetic which made her laugh, but when I would have taken her in my arms she pushed me away.
‘You stink, Roger. Go and wash under the pump and then put on some clean clothes. By that time your breakfast will be ready.’
I did as she bade me, but when I finally sat down to eat — having also performed my daily chore of tending to the Yule log — my thoughts had reverted to the death of Sir George. I had swallowed a bowl of porridge and munched my way through two oatcakes without really tasting anything, when I had a sudden idea. Springing to my feet, I handed Adela my knife and stretched out full length on the floor. The children stared at me in fascination, obviously of the opinion that I had finally gone mad, while Hercules, interpreting the move as the prelude to a new and delightful game, hurtled across to throw himself athwart my chest and frantically lick my face.
I pushed him aside and indicated the knife Adela was now holding.
‘Sweetheart, I want you to imagine that you have just murdered me and you’re going to carve the word “DIE” into my chest. Show me how you would do it.’
My wife flung the knife from her. ‘I refuse to do anything so horrible,’ she declared. ‘It’s disgusting. I don’t know how you can ask it of me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ breathed Adam excitedly, scrambling down from his stool. ‘I have my little knife.’
I sat up abruptly. ‘Don’t let him touch me!’ I yelled. ‘He means it!’
Adela did more than prevent him: together with Elizabeth and Nicholas, she bundled Adam out of the kitchen and sent them all to play upstairs until it was time for their morning lessons. Once we were alone — except for Luke, who was too young to appreciate what was going on — she told me exactly what she thought of my ghoulish behaviour. ‘And in front of the children, too! It’s enough to make them ride the nightmare. I despair of you, Roger!’
‘Sweetheart,’ I begged, ‘bear with me. I agree I shouldn’t have asked you when the children were present, but I got carried away. Adela, this is important. I feel sure you must have been told the details of Sir George’s murder before I got back yesterday, so it hasn’t come as a shock to you. If you were the murderer and you were going to mutilate my body with the word “DIE”, how would you do it?’
She could see that I was in earnest and made an effort to overcome her repulsion. Picking up the knife again, she advanced towards me as I lay down once more. Even then, she hesitated.
‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘How would you do it?’
Adela took a deep breath. ‘As he — the killer — did, I suppose.’ And holding the knife point downwards in the air, she drew an imaginary letter D above my right breast, a letter I following the line of my breastbone and an E over my left breast. Then she tossed the knife back on the table and burst into tears.
‘It’s too horrible to think of,’ she sobbed. But I knew she wasn’t picturing Sir George Marvell as the victim. She was seeing me.
Hurriedly, I got to my feet and folded her in my arms. ‘My love, forgive me! Forgive me! I shouldn’t have made you do it.’ I wiped her eyes tenderly with the edge of my sleeve.
When she was quieter, she asked, ‘Did it do any good? Did it tell you anything you wanted to know?’
‘Yes.’ We sat down, side by side, on the stools and, still with one arm about her, I poured her some more ale from the jug on the table. ‘You see, you assumed, as I think anyone would have assumed who only knew the facts without having seen the body, that that was what the murderer had done. You spaced out the letters right across my chest.’
‘And it wasn’t like that?’
‘No. All three were crowded on to the right breast, close together.’
‘So?’
‘So … So perhaps it was just the beginning of another, longer word which was never finished.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the killer, or killers — and I feel certain there must have been more than one — were disturbed before they could finish. There was a knife flung down on the floor, half-hidden by the body, and …’ My voice tailed off as I remembered the mutilated hand with one of the fingers partially cut through.
I caught my breath. Suddenly I felt certain that the murderers had indeed been interrupted before they could complete their ghoulish work. And I felt equally certain that I knew the name of the man who had disturbed them. None other than Briant of Dungarvon.
THIRTEEN
The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that I was right.
Briant had left Marsh Street to make his way to Rownham Ferry where, he had been informed, the Clontarf had dropped anchor. Avoiding the Watch, which was a fairly simple matter as you could hear them coming a mile off, he had made for one of the gaps in the city wall, probably the one nearest the Frome Gate. Once across the Frome Bridge, he would have taken the westward path which skirts Brandon Hill and leads eventually to the ferry. But somewhere, during the early part of his walk, he must have seen the familiar figure of Sir George Marvell ahead of him, climbing one of the hills that lead to the summit of the downs.
I could imagine how intrigued he must have been; how curious to know where the knight was going and why. It might even have crossed his mind to renege on his promise not to harm Sir George. He hated him and bore him a lasting grudge which he had nursed for many years. And here was Fate throwing the man in his way on a dark night when he was flouting the law of curfew and when it might be expected that some robber or footpad would find him easy prey. His murderer would never be found — nor, for that matter, diligently sought — and Briant himself would never be suspected. He could return to Bristol whenever he pleased and continue his calling,