The Christmas Wassail (10 page)

I said coldly, ‘There is no need for me to run after him, Sir George. I not only know who your assailant is, but I also know where he can be found when he's in Bristol.'

The knight glowered at me. ‘You do, do you? So who is the murdering rogue? Out with it! We don't want to be standing here all night. Master sheriff and his sergeants have work to do. Who was it, eh?'

I waited for him to finish ranting, then answered quietly, ‘I don't know what you've done to incur his enmity, Sir George, but the man who just tried to kill you is an Irish slave trader by the name of Briant of Dungarvon.'

T
here was a long silence; long enough at least for me to be conscious of rats scrabbling in the central drain, scavenging for food. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked, and nearer at hand an owl hooted.

After my revelation, I had expected Sir George to demand immediate action; to send me at once for the sheriff or command that I lead him without delay to Marsh Street and indicate the ale-houses where the Irish slave trader lodged. Instead, he said nothing for several seconds, but stood staring at me while he soothed his frightened horse, which was still trembling in every limb.

Finally, he spoke. ‘A slave trader, eh? Probably mistook me for someone else. One of his “marks”. Must have realized his mistake when the torchlight showed him how old I am.' He gave an uncertain laugh, not at all like his customary confident bellow. (Not that I had heard him laugh much, I had to admit.) ‘Nothing to be done about it, then. The lord sheriff won't thank me for turning his men out to raid “Little Ireland”, especially not after dark. Somebody's sure to get hurt. Those rogues will resist any form of authority. So it will be just as well for you to keep your mouth shut about this, Master Chapman.' His new-found politeness slipped a little as he added menacingly, ‘I don't want to hear this story being bandied around the town. If I do, I shall deny it completely and imply that you are only wishful of drawing attention to yourself. There are no witnesses.'

He was right. Even my yells had provoked no response. No one had opened a door or a casement or called out to know what the matter was. Such incidents were all too frequent in the Bristol streets after dark, and last night's murder had made everyone doubly wary of getting involved. A killer was abroad; and if an alderman, with his short sword and dagger at his belt, was not safe, then why should a common man with nothing more than his meat knife and stick to protect him, fare any better? It was wiser to stay indoors and shut one's ears.

I answered coldly, ‘If you wish me to say nothing about this affair, Sir George, then naturally I shall keep quiet. But I must point out to you that no slave trader worth his salt tries to kill his “mark”, as you call it, only to kidnap him. Or her. I have heard it said that the slavers' code of honour' – the knight snorted derisively – ‘forbids murder for money and that anyone of them breaking this unwritten law is summarily dealt with in the same fashion.'

The knight's explosion of fury was so sudden and so violent that I took a hurried step backwards and almost fell again. In the light of the overhead cresset I could see that his face had turned purple and was contorted with an almost animal-like rage. He was fairly slobbering with anger and the spittle ran out of his mouth and down his chin as he gibbered, ‘Th-Those s-scum have no honour. They d-don't know the meaning of the word.' He took a deep breath to steady himself, but even so, he found it difficult to speak coherently. I caught the words ‘mad', ‘arrant rubbish' and ‘dangerous theories' before he jerked his horse's reins and pushed past me, mounting at the Redcliffe end of the bridge and vanishing in the direction of Redcliffe Wharf.

I stared after his retreating form, leaning against the wall of one of the houses, waiting for the beating of my heart to steady and trying to make sense of what had happened. My overriding impression was that George Marvell had been badly frightened, not simply by the murderous attack on his person, but also by my remark concerning the slavers' code of honour and the retribution exacted for its flouting. The name Briant of Dungarvon had meant something to him – that was obvious. He was acquainted with the man, but their association was to remain a secret and so he had threatened to make me look a fool if I should make the incident public.

But something else occurred to me as I stood there in the darkness of the bridge; an explanation of the little drama which I had witnessed between Lady Marvell and the Irishman played out the previous morning. She had solicited his services for some purpose of her own and he had been perfectly willing to comply until … Until what? Until he learned her name, of course. Until he realized that she was the wife of a man he had marked down as his enemy and whom he intended to kill. Perhaps he had not previously known that Sir George moved from Clifton Manor and was now living in the heart of the city, so close to ‘Little Ireland'.

I heaved myself away from the wall and continued my journey home, suddenly confident that my reading of the situation was the right one. All that remained now was to try to discover, if I could, what the connection between the knight and the slave trader might have been.

‘I don't believe it!' my wife exclaimed in exasperation when I had offered my explanation of why I had again been delayed returning home. ‘Why are you always present at the exact moment when these things happen? Why do they never occur when other people are nearby?'

I gave a sheepish grin. ‘Luck?' I suggested.

Or God's will? It had always been my contention, although not one I shared very often with other people, that the Almighty nudged me into these affairs where my natural powers of deduction were used by Him to bring evil to justice. Perhaps it was arrogance on my part to believe so, but all too frequently I seemed to be involved through no volition of my own. As had happened last night and again this afternoon, I was on the spot when events unfolded more often than seemed warranted by simple coincidence.

Adela snorted. ‘Ill fortune, more like,' she retorted. ‘Now come and eat your supper. And remember! The children are expecting that game of Snapdragon with you that you failed to give them yesterday.'

The game of Snapdragon in our house, with three excitable children and a cautious mother, was played not as it was by the gentry, with pieces of exotic fruit floating around in a pool of flaming brandy, but with slices of apple and a handful of raisins swimming in ice-cold water and having to be bobbed for with the teeth. There were screams of merriment as Nicholas, Elizabeth and Adam bent over Adela's largest bowl and attempted to catch the fruit in their mouths. The trophies were not immediately eaten, but lined up in front of each child, to be counted when the bowl was empty to see who had managed to catch the most.

It was almost a foregone conclusion that the winner would be Adam. It was an equally foregone conclusion, of course, that he would cheat, butting with his head and jogging with his elbows to ensure that he had an unfair advantage. But as he shared his ‘snapdragons' with Luke, who had been frantic to join in, but been forcibly restrained by Adela, his older siblings and I let him get away with it for once. The three older children and I now being extremely wet and cold, we towelled one another dry, then played a vigorous game of Hoodman Blind to warm ourselves up. This was followed by Oranges and Lemons, although with only five of us able to participate (Luke was carried round with Adela and screamed with delight whenever they were captured) there was no prospect of the tug of war which should always succeed the game.

We were, in any case, starting to flag and even I was beginning to look forward to my bed.

‘It's your age,' my wife said unkindly as she began herding the three older children upstairs, leaving me with Luke to entertain until such time as she could attend to him.

I quite properly ignored this remark and carried my foster son into the parlour, where I was able to rest my ancient bones in an armchair and rock him on my knee. Tomorrow, I reflected with relief, would be St John's Day, and he being the patron saint of booksellers and writers – and now, presumably, of those who practised this new-fangled art of printing – it was likely to prove a quiet, uneventful day. At least, so I hoped.

But the next day, pushing my way through the Saturday morning crowds milling around the Tolzey marketplace, I felt a tap on the shoulder. Turning with a smile, expecting to see someone I knew, I was confronted by the lugubrious, bearded features of Humility Dyson, landlord of the Wayfarers' Return in ‘Little Ireland'. He was not himself Irish – a native of Bristol born and bred, so I had been given to understand – but he was trusted by all the slavers as one of them and treated as though he were in fact an Irishman. Indeed, I believe he thought of himself as one of them and would have no more considered betraying them to the authorities than he would of cutting his own throat.

‘You're wanted,' he said tersely, jerking his head vaguely in the direction of Marsh Street.

‘Who wants me?' I stalled, though I could guess.

‘Him.'

‘Who's him?'

‘You know who.'

I sighed. This conversation could continue all day. ‘If you mean Briant of Dungarvon, why don't you say so?' I snapped.

The landlord gave a start and glanced nervously around him. ‘Lower your voice,' he growled. ‘Yes, him.'

‘And what does he want me for? To stick a knife in me like he tried to do to Sir George Marvell yesterday evening?'

He shoved me – and I am not an easy man to shove – behind one of the booths with surprising ease. His hirsute face was pushed within an inch of mine. ‘He won't harm you. I'll vouch for that. And if you doubt my word,' he added belligerently, ‘I'll twist your head round so that it's facing the other way.'

‘Very well,' I said, considering it politic to submit. ‘Where is he?'

‘The Turk's Head.'

This I knew to be the other ale-house in Marsh Street, also nowadays owned and run by Humility Dyson. I nodded. ‘But I'll walk two or three paces behind you. I don't wish to be seen in your company.'

He accepted this readily, knowing it to be a sensible measure and one which he would have suggested himself had I not done so.

‘Except,' he amended, ‘you'll walk two or three paces ahead of me so that you don't decide to disappear.'

As it happened, I was too anxious to hear what Briant had to say for himself to do anything of the kind.

The Turk's Head was twenty or so yards nearer the gate which opened on to the path bordering the great marsh itself than the Wayfarers' Return, and strange to me. On the two previous occasions when I had visited Marsh Street, the Irishman had been lodging at the last named ale-house, but this time he appeared to have altered his habits. It was difficult to see why as the interior of one was very similar to the interior of the other; if anything, slightly more cramped and fetid with the stink of unwashed bodies.

There was the usual sudden silence as I walked in, followed by a resumption of conversation as it was seen that I was accompanied by the landlord. Briant had chosen his customary dark corner and motioned me to take a seat on the opposite side of the table to himself. I swung my long legs over the bench, cursing, as always, as I scraped my knees against the board, and requested Humility Dyson to bring me some ale.

‘And he can pay,' I added shortly, indicating my companion.

The Irishman laughed. ‘Getting bold, aren't you, Chapman?' he asked. Nevertheless, he nodded at the bar keep, who prowled away in the direction of some kegs lined up along the further wall. Briant leant towards me, lowering his voice.

‘Our friend hasn't called out the forces of law and order against me, then?' There was no point in pretending not to know who he meant, so I shook my head. Briant grinned. ‘I knew he wouldn't. He'd be too afraid of what I'd say.'

A pot boy came with my ale. I took a generous swallow. It was very good. I looked at my companion over the rim of the beaker. ‘You intended to kill him,' I said, following his example and not mentioning Sir George by name.

‘I did. And would have but for you interfering.'

His face was suddenly grim and my heart missed a beat. Had Briant got me here to take his revenge? I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘You'd be facing the noose if I hadn't. The sheriff wouldn't let you get away with killing a knight of the realm. His men would have braved Marsh Street for that. And if all I hear is true, your fellow countrymen wouldn't have lifted a finger to save you. They don't hold with murder.'

‘For some things they do.' His voice and face were even grimmer than before. ‘Moreover, they might have come after you for informing against me. You were the only witness.' He stared me down for a moment or two, then drew a deep breath and seemed to relax. ‘However, you did prevent me and unless you change your mind and go to the authorities, we'll hear no more of the matter. But I'll wager the old bastard has instructed you not to.'

I drank some more ale. ‘You'd win your wager. Sir George told me that if I did, he'd deny the whole incident and make me appear a fool.' There was a pause while the hubbub of the tap room went on around us. ‘So why am I here?'

Briant shrugged and glared at another man who would have joined us at the table. The newcomer hurriedly slunk away.

‘I like you,' the Irishman said unexpectedly, finishing his own drink and calling for another. ‘I want you to know why I tried to kill that piece of shit. I want you to know what sort of man he really is.' I raised my eyebrows and, after his ale had been brought, he continued, ‘The first time we ever spoke, I was with my friend, Padraic Kinsale. Do you remember?'

‘Yes. But when I commented on his absence at our second meeting, you refused to say what had become of him.' My companion's lips tightened into a narrow, ugly line and he fell silent. ‘So what happened?' I prompted.