‘And I drank what was in it?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It was getting awful noisy by then and people were acting very silly. I got under the table with Hercules. But I ’spect you did. You were drinking ever such a lot and acting sillier than anybody else.’
I had the grace to blush at this damning indictment and avoided Adela’s look of accusation. Instead, I asked, ‘Did you see what it was the bird man dropped in the beaker?’
But Adam was unable to tell me any more than he had done already. I had no doubt at all that it was the truth, for why should he lie? Moreover, it bore out my own suspicions. I thought back, desperately trying to summon up the scene after we had returned from calling on friends and neighbours, when we had acted as hosts; when people had crowded into our little house until it seemed to be bursting at the seams. I had definitely been in the kitchen where a good host should be, dispensing hospitality in the shape of food and drink. But by that time, I was more than a little tipsy and, try as I might, I could recall nothing very clearly. I made a great effort to picture a man in a bird mask, but failed dismally. He had, according to Adam, handed me a drink and had probably wished me, ‘Waes Hael!’ Had I said, ‘Drink Hael!’ in return? But I could remember no particular voice, only a cacophony of sounds buzzing in my ears like a swarm of bees.
I had been so lost in thought that I’d failed to realize my family were all waiting for me to speak. I cleared my throat and pushed back my stool. ‘You say they’re still searching for Sir George?’ I asked Adela, and when she nodded, said, ‘I’ll join them.’
‘You’ve hardly touched your pottage,’ my wife pointed out anxiously, and I repressed a shudder.
‘My belly’s still too upset.’ I excused myself.
I was just pulling on my boots, with a little assistance from Bess and Nick, when a knock at the street door heralded the arrival of Richard Manifold. He looked exhausted and Adela fetched him a beaker of ale without waiting to be asked. The two older children vanished upstairs.
‘You still haven’t found him, then,’ I said, not bothering to make it a question.
Richard shook his head before taking a long, steady, grateful draught of ale. ‘No.’
I frowned. ‘You’ve searched the crypt under Saint Giles and what remains of the old synagogue foundations? You know there’s a secret chamber at the far end?’
Our guest sighed wearily. ‘The answer is “yes” to both questions.’
‘And the underground chamber at Saint Mary Bellhouse?’
‘Yes, yes! I tell you, Roger, I don’t think there’s a hiding-place anywhere in this city that hasn’t been searched. Empty houses, occupied houses, outhouses, the stews, the inns, the alleyways. We’ve even armed ourselves and ventured into ‘Little Ireland’. We didn’t get much cooperation there, as I don’t need to tell you, but, in fairness, we weren’t obstructed, either. According to them, of course, they’re all honest trading folk and I don’t doubt some of them are.’ He rubbed his nose and sighed again. ‘This morning we’ve searched Sir George’s own house from cellar to attic and Dame Drusilla’s, next door, as well. The old lady wasn’t best pleased and went so far as to say she hoped her brother had finally got what he deserved and was probably at the bottom of the Frome or the Avon. She really hates him, but I can’t pretend any of the family members are showing much concern. They all give the impression that if he never turns up again, they won’t be shedding any tears.’
‘What about Patience? Lady Marvell?’
Richard shrugged and finished the remainder of his ale. ‘She seems the least concerned of the lot of them.’ He paused, biting a fingernail. ‘In some strange way, she seems almost … What can I say? Triumphant. Yes, that’s the word. Triumphant. Almost as if it was something she had wanted to happen.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I must be off. If we haven’t found Sir George by nightfall, the sheriff has decided to call off the search and assume the knight has either drowned or left the city. As you’ve said yourself, Roger, it isn’t an impossible task nowadays to leave without using the gates with the walls in their present state of disrepair. Will you join the search later or is your belly still giving you trouble?’
I indicated my boots. ‘I was just coming to join you when you knocked. The fresh air will do me good.’
Richard grimaced. ‘Be careful, then. It’s very cold outside.’
Here, Adam, who had not followed his half-brother and — sister upstairs, but remained in the kitchen, a silent listener to his elders’ conversation, broke in to remind me that I had promised to take him to see the mummers again that afternoon. His lower lip was trembling pathetically (a trick he had learned very early in life) and his large brown eyes were full of tears. I could remember no such promise, but to deny him would only provoke the kind of scene I felt unable to cope with at the present time.
I glanced at Richard, who was looking disapproving — he thought me far too lenient a father — and said lamely and untruthfully, ‘I’d forgotten. But I’ll join in the hunt again as soon as the mumming is over.’
He nodded abruptly. ‘Go where you like. Covering ground that has already been covered doesn’t matter. It’s all we can do now.’
TEN
No one else wanted to see the mummers, so Adam and I went by ourselves. After four days, audiences were inevitably growing thinner and we were able to get close to the cart which doubled as a stage and which already stood, awaiting the players, in the outer ward of the castle. To my son’s delight the painted curtain, slung between its poles, indicated that the day’s performance was to be his favourite play, St George and the Dragon. Indeed, we were so conspicuously close to the edge of the cart that when young Tobias Warrener made his entrance as St George, he singled Adam out for special attention, pretending to be astonished at seeing him in the audience yet again. Heads were turned and smiles exchanged to see the child jumping up and down with self-importance.
I can’t pretend that I paid much heed to what was going on. My thoughts were preoccupied by my recent conversation with Richard Manifold and his description of the Marvell family’s reaction to Sir George’s disappearance. He had described Patience Marvell as having an almost triumphant air about her, and for the first time I began to wonder whether the transaction she had tried to make with Briant of Dungarvon had not been, as I had naturally assumed, to remove either her stepson or step-grandson, but her husband. Perhaps, to begin with, she had revealed neither her own nor Sir George’s names, and it was only when, finally, the Irishman had discovered their identities, that he had refused Patience’s commission because he suddenly saw his opportunity to avenge Padraic Kinsale himself.
But why would Patience wish to rid herself of her husband? Well, not all marriages were happy and hers might be unhappier than most. Perhaps, too, she knew for a fact that Sir George had left his entire fortune to his son from his second marriage, or even simply to herself, cutting out both Cyprian and James. If this were the case and if she were not fond of her husband, why wait until he died to get her hands on his money? The move from Clifton to Redcliffe, with its proximity to ‘Little Ireland’, had offered her the opportunity she had needed.
But what of Briant of Dungarvon? He had promised that he would not pursue his vendetta against Sir George, and Humility Dyson had assured me that the Irishman was a man of his word. Set against that, however, was the fact that he was a slave trader and a criminal, even if his trade was blinked at by authority on both sides of the Irish Sea. Could he have changed his mind? After all, when I came to think of it, he had only given me his word that he would not kill Sir George. He had said nothing about abducting him and carrying him off to Ireland. Money was money when all was said and done. Perhaps he had contacted Lady Marvell and renewed their understanding. Perhaps he, and not this Miles Deakin, was the man in the bird mask seen by Dame Drusilla standing outside her brother’s house …