But, if my theory were correct, curiosity must have got the better of any murderous impulse. So, keeping a discreet distance, Briant had followed his quarry all the way to the Marvell house perched high above Ghyston Cliff, only to bear witness to Sir George’s gruesome murder. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. Briant had watched as the knight had unlocked the door, but then started in surprise as two figures — I was by now convinced that there must have been two — rose from the concealing bushes on either side to follow him in. He must have heard the victim’s yells for help as he was set on and then the awful silence that succeeded them. Perhaps Briant had waited several minutes while he debated whether to enter and find out what was going on or to take himself off and let discretion be the better part of valour. It was, caution must have whispered, the wisest course.
But in the end, an overwhelming desire to know what had happened to his enemy, to know that justice had finally caught up with Sir George, prompted him to go in. And the scene which met his eyes must have horrified even him: the sprawled, half-naked, mutilated body, the gouged-out eyes, one murderer with a knife scoring something into the bare flesh while the other sawed at the fingers of the knight’s right hand. Did Briant let out an involuntary gasp or shout out in protest? He must surely have revealed his presence in some way for one man dropped both knife and hand to rise up in pursuit of the unwelcome intruder, while the other also left his handiwork to join in the chase. Did the pair catch Briant and throw him over the cliff into the river below to silence him? Or did he lose his way in the darkness and blunder over the edge himself? That, I felt, was something I might never know. But one thing was certain, for whatever reason, the murderers had not gone back to finish what they had begun. Maybe a sudden revulsion had seized them, or maybe the shock of being observed had warned them to get out while the going was good …
‘Roger! Roger, are you all right?’ Adela’s concerned voice brought me back to reality with a jolt to find that I was still seated at the kitchen table, my arm around her shoulders. ‘You were miles away,’ she accused me.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ I said, giving her a squeeze. ‘I–I was working something out.’
‘Bricks without straw again?’ She sounded sceptical.
‘No!’ I was indignant. But then honesty forced me to admit, ‘Perhaps.’
She laughed and freed herself from my embrace. ‘I must clear away the dishes and then give the children their morning lessons.’ She picked up Luke and took a clean, dry loincloth from the washing basket. ‘But first, I must see to our foster-son. He’s soaking. What will you do this morning? Will the sheriff want to see you, do you think?’
The words had hardly left her mouth when there was a brisk knocking on the outer door. There was no doubt it was made by someone in authority. Our friends and neighbours would never knock so loudly.
It was Richard Manifold, come to escort me to the sheriff’s office and barely able to restrain himself from asking a hundred and one questions as we walked the short distance to the Councillors’ Hall between the Tolzey and All Saints’ Church. There was a strange atmosphere abroad in the city. All the Christmas cheer of the past few days seemed to have evaporated, leaving the populace at large tense and frightened. Rumours of the state of Sir George’s body had already got out and were being wildly exaggerated. Evisceration, beheading, a limbless torso were, Richard told me, just some of the stories circulating in the town. He glanced sideways at me, obviously hoping to draw me out, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy deciding what, if anything, I should mention of my own theories, and it didn’t take me long to decide to say nothing. I would stick to the facts of what had happened and that was all.
James Marvell, still looking very pale, was already with the sheriff when I arrived and I was called upon to do little more than confirm his story. As to why we had visited the old house at Clifton, the sheriff accepted without demur James’s explanation that he had gone there on a sudden impulse to check that no one had broken in during the weeks it had been standing empty, and that he had asked me to accompany him.
‘Master Chapman’s a good, strong companion to have in a fight,’ he added, ‘although neither he nor I really expected to find anything amiss.’
Of Miles Deakin, he made no mention, so, when it came my turn to be questioned, I followed suit. I agreed with everything James had said and we were both soon dismissed. Once outside the Councillors’ Hall, the young man took my arm and led me into the Green Lattis.
There was a sudden awkward hush as we entered. All eyes were on my companion and several people made as though to rise and offer some sort of condolences. But without exception, each one thought better of it and sank back on to his stool, averting his gaze.
James grinned wryly at me. ‘Grandfather wasn’t popular. People would like to feel sorry for me, but they can’t. I’m sure most folk think of his death as a good riddance. They’re shocked and horrified at the manner of his murder, of course, and perhaps a little frightened, but in general, they’re glad he’s gone.’ I murmured a half-hearted protest, but my companion shook his head. ‘There’s no need to feel embarrassed. He wasn’t a nice man, although there were times — rare, I admit — when I felt a sort of fondness for him.’ He added in a burst of confidence, ‘I don’t know how my own grandmother felt about him, but Patience had certainly grown to hate him. I can’t say I blame her. He treated her abominably. My father may be the only person alive who had any rag of affection left for him.’
The pot boy arrived, took our order and departed.
‘What about Alderman Trefusis?’ I asked. ‘Sir George seems to have had one friend there, at least.’
James grimaced. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. It was a very odd friendship because I would have sworn that they didn’t really like one another. But they seemed bound together by the fact that they had both soldiered in France. Both had fought under Talbot of Shrewsbury and Grandfather had been knighted in the field. Yet neither ever talked about that time. If ever I enquired about their exploits, Grandfather would shut me up.’
‘Modesty?’ I suggested as our beakers of ale were placed before us.
James snorted. ‘Neither of them was what I’d call a modest man. But what worries me is that they both met their end in a similar way. Both had their throats cut and it’s my belief that if you hadn’t interrupted the attack on Robert Trefusis, the same mutilations would have been perpetrated on his dead body.’
I sipped my ale. ‘That thought had occurred to me.’
My companion nodded. ‘I had an idea it might have done. And as far as I can see, the link between them is this Miles Deakin. Trefusis was the one who informed Grandfather of what was going on with Deakin and Great-Aunt Drusilla. And he did try to say the name before he died.’
‘I’ve been giving that some thought,’ I said. ‘Also the word cut into Sir George’s chest.’ And I explained my concern about the letters being cramped together on the knight’s right breast. I went on: ‘Just as I believe the alderman’s “Dee” was only half a word, I think the same might apply to “DIE”. How do we know how Miles Deakin spells his name? It could be D-e-e-k-i-n or D-e-a-k-i-n-’
‘Or even D-i-e-k-i-n,’ James interrupted eagerly. ‘Yes, you’re right. We have to find him.’
‘You didn’t mention anything about him to the sheriff.’
‘No. His Honour will be even more desperate now, after Grandfather’s murder, to find a scapegoat. If the man were discovered, he wouldn’t stand a chance. I want to satisfy myself of his guilt before I hand him over to the authorities. Are you willing to ride up to Clifton with me again?’