But tomorrow was now today! Whatever the subject of that sibilant and anxious colloquy, whether or not it boded trouble, whether it was or was not of sinister content, it had certainly been about something which was due to take place today. It might already have happened; some purely innocent action now safely in the past. Yet I could not bring myself to believe so. I felt in the very marrow of my bones that evil had been hatched and was still to break out of the egg. There was no logic for this reasoning, and God knew that my instincts were not always sound, but with His guidance I usually, in spite of my own foolishness, managed to arrive at the truth.
My eyes were drawn towards the mummers, sweating inside their heavy masks, whose comedy was reaching its climax. The shawms of the minstrels, aloft in their gallery, sounded their high-pitched notes as the rest of the cavorting animals surrounded the fox, brandishing the rope with which they intended to hang him. Everyone’s eyes were on the cornered Reynard, some of the onlookers noisily encouraging their favourite to get away, others whooping and screaming out hunting calls, as though they were in very truth witnessing the chase instead of merely watching a play. The King and Queen were as vociferous as any, the former commanding Reynard to make his escape, the latter banging the table and yelling for death. Behind them, Geoffrey Whitelock was clapping his hands with glee and even Duke Richard, his dark eyes glowing, was caught up in the general excitement.
Then suddenly I noticed that one of the players, wearing the cockerel’s mask, had separated himself from the mêlée about the errant Reynard and was edging slowly towards the dais where the King and his two brothers were sitting. If others remarked him, they no doubt thought it to be part of the action and indeed, for a moment I made the same mistake myself. But there was something about the manner in which Chanticleer fingered the dagger at his belt that caught my attention and, as he began to draw it, I saw the jewels in its hilt wink and sparkle in the light from the candles …
This was no make-believe weapon of wood and paint! This was the real thing, a gentleman’s poniard, and the blade glittered with menace as it was inched from its sheath. Demain! That tomorrow which was now today! Surely there could be no further doubt that what I had overheard had been our assassin receiving instructions that the time had come for him to strike?
But there was no more time to ask myself questions, nor to try to reason out the answers. With a shout of warning to the Duke I leapt on to the board, treading on plates and scattering goblets of the finest Venetian glass with a sublime disregard for the havoc I was causing. I was but vaguely aware of the outraged invective which followed my progress as I jumped to the floor again on the opposite side of the table. Even so, I was not quite quick enough. Before I could reach him, Chanticleer just had time to divine that his intent had been discovered. He rammed the dagger back into its scabbard, turned and ran, taking advantage of the general bewilderment and chaos to vanish through the door set in the wall of screens which separated the hall from the servery.
I struggled to overtake him, but was hampered on all sides by people crowding forward to find out what was happening.
‘Let me through!’ I yelled. ‘Let me through!’
Timothy Plummer suddenly materialized at my elbow, issuing orders with all the considerable authority at his command. ‘Stand back! Stand back there! In the name of the Duke!’
He followed me into the servery, where the fugitive’s path was plainly visible by the overturned trestles and plates of broken meats littering the floor. Coagulating pools of left-over gravy and half a dozen different sauces were seeping into the rushes. Several of the servers had been knocked to the ground during our quarry’s headlong flight and were dazedly nursing their various injuries.
‘Which way did he go?’ I cried, before I realized that there was only one way possible: through the archway in the southern wall.
Timothy Plummer had come to this conclusion faster than I had, and pushing past me, was already mounting the twisting staircase beyond. As I caught him up, he stumbled and fell, cursing volubly.
‘What is it?’ I demanded; and for answer he disentangled from his feet what I could just make out, in the wisping flame of an almost burnt-out wall-cresset, to be Chanticleer’s mask.
I thrust it under my arm, helped Timothy to his feet and proceeded upwards. But the delay had cost us dear and by the time we reached the top, which gave us access to a corridor stretching in both directions, there was no sign of anyone anywhere along its length. To make matters worse, scores of people were now pushing up the stairs behind us, jostling and shoving and asking questions.
‘I’ll go one way, you go the other,’ Timothy hissed in my ear, adding with a contemptuous dismissal of some of the highest and greatest in the land, ‘Ignore this rabble.’
I had to smile, albeit grimly, as I turned to my right, leaving Timothy to explore the left-hand side of the passageway. This nonplussed our following for a moment and by the time, still vociferously demanding answers, the leaders had decided which one of us to tail, I had managed to enter and glance around the first two rooms I came to. But both were completely bare of furniture or hangings, offering no means of concealment.
At this end of the corridor a small flight of steps led down to a landing and a curtained alcove. Roughly I tugged back the leather curtain, its metal rings rasping against the wooden pole, and saw the scattering of clothes dropped anyhow over the floor of the window embrasure. There was still enough light remaining in the summer sky for me to recognize them as the upper garments of Chanticleer’s costume. But far more important was the body of a young man, clothed only in his undergarments, lying face down, the hilt of a black-handled kitchen knife protruding from his back, its blade embedded in his heart.
‘God’s teeth!’ breathed an awestruck voice behind me. A dozen necks craned to peer across my shoulders. Then the same voice whispered, ‘Who is it?’
I made no answer because I had no way of knowing for certain. But I could guess. This, surely, must be the body of the mummer who should have played the part of Chanticleer in the evening’s entertainment. Unfortunately for him, our murderer had needed the costume and so had been forced to kill. He dared not risk anyone pointing the finger of suspicion at him once the deed was done. He had failed in that, but succeeded, I reflected bitterly, in preserving the secret of his identity at the cost of an innocent’s life.
The Duke of Gloucester was angry with all the irritation of a man who knows his anger to be unjustified.
The guests and representatives of the law had finally departed and the grieving band of mummers had borne away the body of their fellow to mourn his death and give him burial. The murderer had not been found, even though the Sheriff’s officers had questioned as many of the Duke’s and Duchess Cicely’s retainers as they could. But in the end, with the moon paling into insignificance and the world edging once again towards dawn, the sheer impossibility of their task defeated them. There were too many people in too many places, too much movement and general activity on such an occasion, to yield a great deal of reliable information.
Apart from the guests, some persons were definitely accounted for. I myself was able to swear that Geoffrey Whitelock had been standing behind King Edward’s chair and therefore could be exonerated of masquerading as Chanticleer. Some hundred or so others had also been noted and were above suspicion, but the whereabouts of the majority relied solely upon their own word. There was, moreover, a feeling amongst the Sheriff’s men that the death of a single mummer must not be allowed to interfere with great and momentous events of state and that the invasion of France was too imminent to justify a protracted investigation.