Free The Christmas Wassail by Kate Sedley Page B

across the cobbles. I grasped my cudgel a little more tightly, aware of a sudden silence as the walls of the buildings of the alley cut off all sound …
    But not quite all. A frenzied cry of ‘Help! Murder!’ sent me running on to the wharf as fast as my legs would carry me. I paused to look around.
    Then I saw it, a dark shape huddled at the foot of one of the cranes. I reached it just as the door of a neighbouring house opened cautiously and lantern light spilled out across the cobbles. A voice quavered, ‘What is it? What’s happening? Is someone hurt?’
    I knelt down and turned the dark shape over. ‘It’s a man,’ I said. ‘I think he’s been stabbed.’ I felt for his pulse. ‘He’s still alive, but only just. Quick! Come and help me. We must get him under cover, out of the cold. Is this your house?’ And I indicated the tall, three-storey building behind the man who was now proceeding with even more caution towards me.
    â€˜No,’ was the reply. ‘It belongs to Sir George Marvell. I’m his steward.’
    â€˜Then go quickly and tell Sir George what’s happened.’ The light from the lantern fell across the victim’s face as the steward stooped to take a closer look. ‘God’s toenails!’ I exclaimed, startled. ‘Hurry, man! Go! This is a friend of your master’s, Alderman Trefusis.’
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.