Kate Sedley - The Christmas Wassail

By the time I had staggered into the house with my burden, laying him down in front of the fire in the great hall and then gone back for my cudgel — which I had, out of necessity, been forced to drop — not only the knight himself but also his wife and daughter-in-law, both sons and grandson had also come running from other parts of the house and were gathered about the dying man. For there was no doubt in my mind that he would not last many minutes. Indeed, the only surprise was that he had survived the attack at all, for a bloody gash marked his throat almost from ear to ear.

‘Robert!’ Sir George was kneeling with his friend’s head in his lap. ‘Who did this to you? Did you recognize whoever it was?’ He turned furiously on his wife, who was having a fit of hysterics. ‘Hold your noise, woman,’ he bawled, ‘or I’ll thrash you to within an inch of your life. Bart, see to your mother! Knock her unconscious if need be.’ He bent once more over his friend. ‘Robert!’ His tone was urgent. ‘Do you know who did this?’

His voice seemed momentarily to penetrate the other’s failing senses. The dying man struggled violently against the encroaching darkness.

‘Dee …’ he began. But that was as far as he got. The death rattle sounded in his throat, his eyes rolled up under his lids and the grizzled head fell back against the other’s chest. The alderman and occasional deputy sheriff was dead.

Sir George looked up at me. ‘Did you see anyone?’ His voice was harsh.

I shook my head. ‘No one. The wharf was deserted but for myself.’

The knight’s lips pinched together in a thin, straight line. His expression became even grimmer. ‘Well, there’s no help for it. I suppose we’ll have to send for that idiot, Richard Manifold.’

But it was not Richard who arrived some short time later; his fellow sergeant, Thomas Merryweather, came instead, attended by his two corporals. Merryweather I knew only by sight, having had almost nothing to do with him in the past, but he had always struck me as a plodder, thorough but slow. I had heard people refer to him as dim-witted, but I doubted this, or he would not have remained in his post. Nevertheless, he was not quick on the uptake.

‘Footpads, no doubt of it,’ he said ponderously, looking down at the dead man. ‘Christmas,’ he added, as though that explained everything.

Sir George made a choking sound deep in his throat. ‘Footpads!’ he snarled. ‘You cross-eyed, ale-swilling numbskull! Can’t you see he’s still wearing all his rings and a sapphire pin in his hat? And that his purse is still attached to his belt? What manner of footpads would leave such pickings, you dolt?’

Sergeant Merryweather appeared unperturbed by this mode of address. Indeed, if anything, he seemed used to it.

‘This gentleman’ — he indicated me — ‘disturbed the robbers before they had time to finish their work. They were baulked, that’s what they were. Baulked.’

‘Nonsense!’ Had there not been ladies present, I felt certain the knight would have used a much stronger word. He turned on me. ‘How long was it, Chapman’ — I was going to get no title from him — ‘before you reached the alderman after hearing his cry?’

‘Not long,’ I answered. ‘I was halfway along Bear Alley when I heard him shout. As you know, Bear Alley is one of the shorter turnings between Redcliffe Street and the wharf. Moreover, I ran. I would estimate thirty seconds or so, no more. But the quayside was deserted. There was no sign of any attacker.’

The sergeant nodded his sandy head. ‘That’s what I said. They were baulked.’

The knight let out a roar that sent Lady Marvell off into another bout of hysterics. Bartholomew patted her ineffectually on the shoulder.

Sir George ignored his wife and vented his spleen on Tom Merryweather. ‘You dunderhead! Footpads wouldn’t have run off like that, before they had cause to. They would still have been kneeling over the body, trying to rob it. But they weren’t. In the very short time it had taken the chapman here to run from Bear Alley on to the wharf, whoever did this heinous deed had disappeared. Now that would suggest to anybody but a fool like you that the murder was his — or their — main object, not robbery. This must be reported immediately to the sheriff. Christmas Day or no Christmas Day, I demand that he be brought here at once!’

I thought his argument a sound one. I had almost reached the same conclusion myself. Lady Marvell’s sobs had abated again, so I ventured to raise my voice.

‘There is also the fact, Sergeant, that when Sir George asked Alderman Trefusis if he had recognized his assailant, or assailants, he uttered what sounded like the name Dee.’

Sergeant Merryweather frowned heavily. ‘This is the first time such a circumstance has been mentioned. How am I to do my job if vital information is being withheld from me? Dee, you say? And known to the alderman? That puts an entirely different complexion on the matter. Not,’ he added slowly, ‘that I know of that name in the city, and I pride myself on being acquainted with most families within these walls.’

To my astonishment, Sir George, instead of corroborating my story, hastened to refute it.

‘The alderman mentioned no name,’ he snapped, glaring at me. ‘It was simply a noise he made as he lay dying. I doubt if he was even aware of my question. He was too far gone. A moment later, he was dead.’

I was about to appeal for support to the others who had been present, when I realized that the knight knew perfectly well what his friend had said, but that for some reason or another he did not want it repeated. Moreover, he was frightened. There was something in the rigidity of his stance, the way in which his hands were clenched by his sides, the fixed look on his face that spoke to me of fear. Why the name Dee should provoke this reaction, I had no idea, but I was positive it was so.

‘Maybe I was mistaken,’ I muttered.

The sergeant was pardonably incensed. ‘Well, which is it?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Did the deceased mention a name or no?’

‘No,’ Sir George said, and with an emphasis that brooked no argument. ‘He died without saying anything. But that doesn’t alter the fact that he was deliberately murdered in cold blood. I want no more talk of footpads. I want the sheriff fetched before another hour has passed. That’s an order. See that it’s obeyed.’

Suddenly it was easy to see that he had once been a soldier, in charge of other men. He had an indisputable air of authority and command. But if I was impressed, Sergeant Merryweather stolidly refused to be so.

He removed his hat and scratched his head vigorously before replacing it again. ‘What was the alderman doing, I wonder, out alone on the wharf, in the dark with no attendant?’

I thought for a moment that Sir George would explode with frustration. Instead, he spoke very slowly and carefully, as if dealing with a more than usually stupid child.

‘He had been taking his Christmas victuals with us, Sergeant. We have known one another for years. As for being out alone in the dark, apart from the fact that it is not late — the church bells have not yet rung for Vespers — he soldiered with me in France. Robert Trefusis was not afraid of danger or of darkness.’

The sergeant drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘Well, it seems he had cause to be this time. Whoever set upon him for whatever reason was intent on taking his life. I still think it was footpads, but I daresay you’re right, Sir George. He’s a man of some standing in the community. We’d best send for the sheriff. Not that he’ll be pleased at being disturbed on Christmas Day, but there you are. It can’t be helped. Did the alderman have any family that you know of? Can’t say I’ve ever heard tell of anyone. But you seem to know him better than I do.’