‘Today?’
To my relief, he shook his head. ‘No, I must stay with the family for a while. The funeral has to be arranged and the will obtained from Lawyer Heathersett.’ He finished his ale and rose. ‘I’ll let you know. It may not be until after Twelfth Night, when Christmas is finally over.’
This arrangement suited me very well as I had plans for visiting Clifton by myself to do a little investigating of my own. Consequently, once dinner was over, I pulled on my boots, took my cudgel from its corner and said that I needed to go for a walk, if only to clear my head.
Adela looked pointedly at my pack, but I said quickly, ‘People won’t be buying again yet awhile. Not until the twelve days are over.’
‘Then you can take Hercules with you,’ she said. ‘He needs to stretch his legs.’
Elizabeth put her head around the kitchen door. ‘Grandmother and her friends are at the top of the street,’ she informed me. ‘I’ve just seen them from the attic window.’
Of course they were! The only wonder was that they hadn’t arrived earlier. They must only just have learned that I was involved in the discovery of Sir George’s body and were hastening to get the story so that they could lord it over their friends as having the only true account. Silently, Adela handed me the dog’s rope collar and lead, but I didn’t stop to put them on him. Snatching Hercules up in my arms, I hurriedly quit the house, turning sharp left in the direction of Bell Lane and feigning deafness to the frantic shouts of ‘Roger!’ which pursued me until I disappeared from the good dames’ view. I felt a stab of pity for Adela, who would bear the brunt of their frustration and vexation.
A watery sun was struggling to appear from behind the clouds and there was a nip in the air, dispersing the chill dampness of the past few days. As I climbed towards Clifton, thankful to be on my own two feet again instead of in the saddle, I felt reinvigorated, glad to be by myself once more, unencumbered by other people. I filled my lungs with fresh air while Hercules ran about chasing imaginary rabbits, fell into streams and sniffed and barked at everything that moved, his tail wagging like a pennant in the breeze.
By midday, we had reached the summit and in a very short space of time, were standing outside the Marvell house not far from the edge of Ghyston Cliff. I wondered suddenly if the door were still open or if someone had managed to close and secure it the previous day. But I need not have worried. As I tentatively pushed it, it swung inwards with the same creaking of its hinges.
At once, Hercules drew back, shivering and whining. For a moment, I was afraid someone might be in there and gripped my cudgel tighter; but then I realized that it was the lingering smell of death that was disturbing the dog. I picked him up and held him in my arms. He whimpered again, but the trembling ceased.
I made my way to the counting-house where James had found the candles. He had also mentioned lanterns and, sure enough, there were two with horned panes ranged with the candlesticks along one wall. Dust lay thick everywhere and, without furniture, the room echoed eerily, like the sound of the tide in an underwater cave. I put Hercules down, found the tinderbox and lit both lanterns. With one in either hand, I then proceeded to search the hall.
I knew what I was looking for and found it before very many minutes had passed. The knight’s hat, cloak, gloves, his belt and pouch, together with the shirt and tunic ripped from his upper body, had been thrown into a corner beside the dais, concealed from view by the shadows. Yesterday, everyone had been too shocked and horrified by the discovery of Sir George’s mutilated body to think about his missing clothes, but before long somebody — Cyprian, perhaps — would remember them and either come in person or send someone else to find them.
I sat down on the floor, my back against the edge of the platform, the lanterns and Hercules beside me, and opened the pouch, a strong affair of ribbed leather looped on to the belt. At first, to my great disappointment, I thought it was empty, but then I realized that the silk lining was torn and a scrap of paper had got between it and the leather. Carefully, with fingers that shook a little, I prised it free, unfolding it and spreading it out flat on the floor.
It was a piece of rag paper about three inches square, but there was writing on it, so I moved both lanterns closer and tried to make out its message. The ink was of poor quality, probably blackberry juice mixed with blood, and the writing difficult to read. The letters were shaky and badly formed, but not illegible: the sender had been taught to write, although not well and not fluently. Still, it was more than many folk could do.
Within a few minutes I had worked out what it said.
Must see you. The old house. After midnight. Tonight. Alyson.
That was all. But it had been enough to bring Sir George hurrying up to Clifton on a bitter winter’s night at the end of December. The note smacked of a secret tryst, and having learned from Briant of the knight’s past infidelity, it seemed the most likely answer. But who was Alyson? That was something I had to find out. I put the note back in the pouch and, together with the rest of the clothes, returned it to the corner where I had found it. Then I restored the lanterns and tinderbox to the counting-house, having first blown out the flames, called to Hercules and considered what to do next.
The cliff path leading to St Vincent’s chapel and the neighbouring hermitage was as perilous as ever. It was nearly three years since I had last traversed it and, during that time, it seemed to have become even narrower and more overgrown with vegetation. The rope railing had, in at least two places, come adrift from the cliff face to which it was attached and, with Hercules tucked under one arm, I trod as cautiously as possible. Nevertheless, I could still hear the rattle of pebbles and dirt as a little more of the pathway slipped into the gorge below.
The hermit, who lived in the cave next door to the tiny chapel and who was seated on the ground hunched over a fire of smoking twigs, glanced up as I entered. His manner was belligerent and I remembered him as a miserable fellow with a seeming grudge against his fellow men, particularly those who disturbed his meditations. But I had forgotten his antipathy towards dogs.
‘Get that mongrel cur out of here,’ he snapped.
Hercules growled and bared his teeth.
‘Why?’ I sneered. ‘Are you afraid he’ll foul your cave? He stays here with me. That path’s not safe.’
The man smoothed down the few strands of hair that covered his bald pate and blinked his watery eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet.
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been here before. And that animal.’
‘You’ve a good memory,’ I applauded him. ‘It’s nearly three years ago. The year of the war with Scotland. Back then, I was looking for a woman named Emilia Virgoe. Now, I’m trying to find someone called Alyson. I don’t know her other name.’
I half-expected him to shrug his shoulders and say that, in that case, he could do nothing to assist me. Instead, ‘Oh, I know it all right!’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘It’s Carpenter! Alyson Carpenter! A little whore, if ever there was one.’
‘She’s young, then?’
The hermit curled his lip. ‘She ain’t seen more’n fifteen, maybe sixteen, summers, I reckon.’ He paused to cough as the smoke caught the back of his throat, and the spittle dribbled down the front of his frayed and stained brown robe. ‘Good, God-fearing parents,’ he went on, ‘but what sins they’ve committed to have a trollop like her for a daughter, the saints alone know. She’s the scandal of Clifton. Anything in breeches she’s after. Her poor father’s beaten her black and blue, but it does no good. She’s after anything that’s got two legs and a prick in between.’
I’m no prude, far from it, but all the same, it jolted me to hear a holy man speak so bluntly.
‘What about Sir George Marvell?’ I asked. ‘A man old enough to be her grandfather at the very least. Even her great-grandfather, maybe. Would she have fancied him?’