The Eye of God

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Possibly,’ Kathryn replied, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth. She stared down at the table, and when she looked up, Colum was half-asleep, his hand round his wine-cup. ‘Come on,’ Kathryn said gently. ‘It’s time we all slept. There’s nothing that won’t wait.’

  Colum blinked, rubbing his face. ‘At least we have the Eye of God,’ he mumbled.

  He staggered to his feet and touched Kathryn gently on the head. Colum blew a kiss at Thomasina and staggered up the stairs, shouting that, God willing, tomorrow morning he would be refreshed and able to think more clearly.

  Kathryn helped Thomasina for a while and then went into her writing-office. She smoothed out a piece of vellum and, picking up the quill, quickly wrote down what they had discovered. She leaned back in the chair, dozed for a while, then got up to return to the kitchen for a stoup of water. She was still absent-mindedly pulling at the cord round her waist, nibbling at the gold tassel on the end. The cord jerked and she recalled Faunte in the cell, loaded down with chains, the manacles round his wrists. Kathryn paused.

  ‘Lord, save us!’ she murmured. ‘Of course, that’s what Webster realised.’

  She hastened back into the kitchen, splashing cold water over her face, telling Thomasina to build up the fire, for she intended to stay there.

  ‘Oh, how long?’ Thomasina wailed.

  ‘For as long as I need to.’

  Kathryn brought her writing-tray into the kitchen. She went out to refresh herself in the cold night air and looked up at the starry sky.

  ‘At last,’ she whispered, ‘God be thanked, the mystery unravels!’

  Kathryn went back and began to work, writing quickly and easily as if telling herself a story. Thomasina fussed around her, clucking like an angry chicken. She then resignedly sat down beside Kathryn, watching the bold strokes of her mistress’s quill.

  ‘You were always stubborn,’ Thomasina muttered. ‘Even when you were a little girl, you were stubborn.’

  ‘I think I know the murderer,’ Kathryn said. She gripped Thomasina’s wrist. ‘I know what happened, Thomasina. I know who murdered the prisoner in the castle. Even, perhaps, how Webster died.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Kathryn grinned and tapped the side of her head. ‘A piece of cord told me.’

  After that Kathryn refused to be drawn. She finished writing, rolled the vellum into a neat scroll, tied it with a piece of scarlet cord and retired to her bed. She only slept for a few hours and woke before dawn. She washed and dressed quickly, shouting at Colum not to be such a lazy-bones for they had business to attend to. Colum was always heavy-eyed in the mornings. Only after he had washed and shaved did Kathryn sit down with him in the kitchen. She let him break his fast, then called Thomasina to bring Wuf and Agnes in.

  They all sat in the kitchen rather heavy-eyed. Wuf said he was thirsty, so Thomasina brought him a cup of buttermilk and another for Agnes. Colum sat on a stool near the hearth, secretly admiring Kathryn; she had had little sleep yet he could see how the excitement had coloured her cheeks whilst her eyes danced with life.

  ‘Thomasina, sit down,’ Kathryn began. ‘We are going to play a game.’

  Wuf immediately leapt to his feet, clapping his hands.

  ‘Can I play?’

  ‘Yes. Colum, I want you to tie Wuf’s hands and feet together, like we saw poor Faunte at the Guildhall.’

  Wuf crowed with excitement but stayed still as Colum fetched the rope and did what Kathryn asked. The little fellow stood, his hands and feet tied together, a rope connecting the bonds round his ankles with those about his wrists.

  ‘Wuf, stop giggling,’ Kathryn said. ‘Agnes, go and stand beside him.’

  Agnes, round-eyed, obeyed.

  ‘Now, Wuf, remember,’ Kathryn warned. ‘It’s only play. Try and grab Agnes round the neck.’

  Utter confusion followed. Agnes stepped hurriedly back. Wuf leapt up and down before he fell, laughing, onto the rushes. Colum stared across at Kathryn.

  ‘Sparrow and the turnkey?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Kathryn replied. ‘No, Wuf, don’t ask me about those. Colum, cut his bonds.’

  Colum released the still laughing Wuf, who ran to stand beside Kathryn and gave her a hug.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Thomasina demanded.

  ‘We are trying to catch a killer,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Do you remember the old sisters, Eleanor and Maude? Everyone thought they had the plague, but we knew it really was pellagra. Our killer in the castle is like that. He has presented us with facts, but these really distort the truth.’ She smiled at Colum. ‘We thought Sparrow killed the turnkey and took the key to release his manacles. He escaped, later tried to blackmail Brandon’s murderer in the castle and was killed himself.’ She shook her head. ‘I was tugging on the cord of my dress when I suddenly realised that a rope or a chain tied tightly greatly hinders movement.’

  ‘So,’ Colum intervened. ‘Sparrow’s manacles must have been unlocked before he killed the turnkey! He was allowed to escape by his accomplice, who later murdered him to keep him quiet.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I applied the same logic to all the other murders, refusing to accept what we had been told. Now, Wuf—’ Kathryn pointed at the door. ‘If I told you that door was bolted on the outside and you wanted to get out, what would you do?’

  ‘Go through the window,’ Wuf replied.

  ‘No, no,’ Kathryn laughed. ‘Let us say the room had no windows.’

  ‘I’d get a hammer or a log and smash it down,’ Wuf said stoutly, enjoying Kathryn’s attention.

  ‘And if you were in a hurry?’ Kathryn continued. ‘Let us say there was a fire raging. Once you were out in the garden, you would not really check if you had made a mistake, that all along the door had been locked from the inside, not the other way around.’

  Colum slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘The trapdoor in the castle!’

  ‘My suspicions began,’ Kathryn added, ‘when I wondered how Webster could cry out if he was unconscious.’

  ‘But,’ Colum continued, ‘Webster was seen at the top of the tower.’

  ‘Was he?’ Kathryn asked. ‘A few days ago, I came back to this house and thought I saw Agnes in the garden because I glimpsed her brown robe, but it was Wuf. No, no!’ She held a hand up at Agnes. ‘Now is not the time to start quarrelling about that. Can’t you see, Colum? The murders were so simple. We saw distorted images. Brandon died, but in fact he was poisoned. Did Sparrow escape? No, he was allowed to. Webster was seen on the tower and the trapdoor was locked from his side. But was he there? Was the trapdoor locked?’

  ‘Then who’s the murderer?’ Colum asked.

  Kathryn rubbed her eyes. ‘Well, we come to another distorted image. Brandon, Moresby and four others left Barnet carrying the Eye of God. Now, after our visit to Sellingham, we have seen the corpses of all of them except?’

  ‘Except Moresby,’ Colum replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Kathryn breathed. ‘Except Moresby. Is he really dead? Did someone take his place? Now, let’s clarify this image.’ She got to her feet and stood by the fire. ‘Who at the castle might not be what he pretends to be?’

  ‘The pardoner.’

  ‘And who at the castle can wander round to his heart’s delight?’

  ‘The pardoner,’ Colum repeated, this time Wuf, Thomasina and Agnes chorusing it with him.

  ‘Then, Irishman, it’s to the castle we should go. Before anyone leaves.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Wuf cried.

  Kathryn kissed him on the top of his head. ‘No, you and Agnes have already been a great help.’

  She and Colum collected their cloaks, made their farewells and went out to the stables.

  ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘you know the murderer?’

  ‘One thing still bothers me,’ she answered. ‘Two riders visited that deserted village, on different occasions, quite recently, yes?’

  Colum nodded, dabbing at a nick on hi
s cheek inflicted by a rather hasty shave. ‘I know horse tracks,’ he said. ‘I cannot be fooled.’

  ‘In which case,’ Kathryn continued, ‘we might have to reconsider who had access to Brandon, Sparrow, and that trapdoor.’

  Having collected their horses, Kathryn and Colum proceeded to the castle. On the Winchepe, just before the gates of the castle, Kathryn paused. ‘While I occupy the others, you must examine the lock on the door,’ she said. And, with an apt quotation from Chaucer’s ‘Wife of Bath’, Kathryn gave him a pithy lecture on what, she called, the very obvious. At last Colum conceded, moving his horse gently to one side to allow two large carts to rumble into the castle.

  ‘But what proof do we have?’

  ‘None,’ Kathryn lightly replied. ‘At least, not yet. But, as soon as we are in that castle, you are to go and search out what I asked you to do.’

  Colum caught her pointed finger and squeezed it gently.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said, edging his horse forward, ‘I always thought Thomasina would make an excellent Wife of Bath. However, after hearing you speak, I am not too sure.’

  Kathryn stuck her tongue out at his retreating back before moving her horse alongside his.

  ‘Colum, aren’t you concerned? You seem . . .’

  ‘Resigned?’

  ‘Yes, resigned.’

  Colum shook his head. ‘I have lived with death all my life, Kathryn. I’ve fought in battles, ambuscades, hacking and hewing in villages, fields, or along some river bank. I have hunted and been hunted.’ He gathered the reins more tightly. ‘When you live like that, you become hardened. Do you think the King or Gloucester cares about Brandon? It’s that pendant they are after.’

  They had entered the castle grounds, so he wouldn’t speak any further. A sleepy-eyed groom took their horses whilst another was sent to summon the household to the great hall.

  They all gathered, one by one. Fitz-Steven the clerk was tousle-haired and unshaven. Pulled straight from his bed, he looked angry. Peter the chaplain seemed nervous. Gabele was stony-faced. The Righteous Man looked as strange as ever. And finally came an irate Fletcher, who spoke for them all.

  ‘I am tired of this,’ he shouted, glaring at Kathryn. ‘Sick to death of being summoned hither and thither! Where’s the Irishman?’

  ‘He’ll be with us soon,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He has to see something.’

  ‘What?’ Fitz-Steven growled.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Colum retorted, striding into the hall and sitting down at the end of the high table opposite Kathryn.

  ‘I can see you are all impatient, so let me summarise very briefly.’

  Colum ignored their grumbles of disapproval and gave a succinct description of what had happened in the castle over the last few days.

  ‘What’s new about that?’ Peter the chaplain snapped.

  ‘Nothing really,’ Colum admitted, smiling. ‘Oh, by the way, Mistress Swinbrooke, I did look where you asked me to and you are correct.’

  ‘So,’ Gabele asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Well, first,’ Kathryn declared, ‘we have found the Eye of God.’

  She looked quickly at their faces, searching for a reaction.

  ‘One thing, however, I still don’t understand,’ Kathryn continued, ‘is Webster’s death. Master Gabele, you reported him as walking along the tower?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And the guards heard him scream before his death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you went up there?’

  ‘I’ve told you that,’ Gabele retorted. ‘I couldn’t lift the trapdoor because Webster had bolted it from the other side. I told everyone to stay away until the Irishman arrived.’

  ‘The trapdoor was locked on the tower side but unbolted from the stair side.’

  Gabele licked his lips.

  ‘Well, was it?’ Kathryn persisted.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘In which case,’ Colum interrupted, ‘I have just examined the trapdoor. The locks on both sides have been replaced.’

  ‘Well, of course. They would have been damaged when we forced our way through,’ Fletcher explained.

  ‘Yes, but when I looked at them again, very closely, the bolt on the tower side had simply been replaced; there’s very little sign of forced entry, such as wood splintering, which should have occurred when the soldiers forced their way through.’ Colum tapped the table-top gently with his fingers. ‘What is even more curious is that the bolt on the stair side has been replaced. But why? If it was drawn back, it shouldn’t have been broken.’

  ‘What are you implying?’ Gabele snapped.

  ‘Well . . .’ Colum held his hand up. ‘You have a trapdoor with a bolt on either side. On the tower side Webster is supposed to have drawn the bolt closed and we later forced it. However, there’s no real sign of force. On the stair side’ – Colum pointed to the other side of his hand – ‘which was supposed to have been unlocked, there are definite signs of force being used.’

  ‘In other words,’ Kathryn continued, ‘that trapdoor was only bolted on the stair, not the tower side.’ Kathryn looked down the table at a pale-faced Gabele. ‘So I shall tell you what happened. The Constable went to the tower and climbed the steps for his usual morning walk. You, Master Gabele, lurking in the shadows, struck him a blow on the back of the head, took his cloak and beaver hat and pretended to be the Constable walking backwards and forwards. The guards only saw what they expected to see, and from where they were standing in the gray light of dawn, they could hardly be expected to make out your features. You did everything Webster would do: walk around, light the brazier, even call down to the guards. From such a height, one man’s voice can sound very similar to another. You then left the tower, locking and bolting it from the inside.’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ Gabele shouted.

  Colum, sitting beside him, gripped the master-at-arms by the wrist.

  ‘You then put Webster’s cloak and hat back on him,’ Kathryn continued, ‘and peered through the slats of the sally-port, that great wooden window just under the trapdoor to the tower. You may remember, the one built in the wall?’

  Gabele refused to look at her.

  ‘You watched the sentries, tired and cold after a long night’s duty. You undid the latch, waited till their backs were turned, and pushed poor Webster’s body through. As the sally-port door closed, you cried out, the guards turned, they glimpsed a flash of colour, heard the shout and reached the logical conclusion that Webster had either fallen or jumped from the top of the tower.’ Kathryn paused. ‘I would never have guessed,’ she continued, ‘if you had struck Webster on the same side of the head which hit the ground.’

  Gabele got slowly to his feet. ‘You’re a lying bitch!’ he snarled.

  Colum leaned forward: the Irishman’s dagger pricked the side of Gabele’s neck whilst, with his other hand, Colum plucked Gabele’s knife from his sheath.

  ‘Sit down, please!’

  Gabele did so; if looks could kill, Kathryn’s head would have bounced off her shoulders.

  ‘But,’ Peter the chaplain spoke up, ‘I thought the bolt on the tower side of the trapdoor was broken? Surely you saw that, Master Murtagh?’

  Colum shrugged. ‘On reflection, what I saw was that the clasp which held the bolt was loosened to make it look forced. Gabele probably did that before he left the tower.’

  Fletcher sprang to his feet and pointed accusingly at Gabele.

  ‘You bastard!’ he hissed. ‘You bloody bastard! The Irishman’s right. You came back and said the trapdoor was locked. We believed you. No one checked. On your orders, we stayed away.’

  ‘He’s lying!’ Gabele screamed. ‘The Irishman can’t prove what he says. I replaced . . .’ His voice faded as he realised the enormity of what he was admitting.

  ‘You did what?’ Kathryn quietly asked.

  Gabele looked away.

  ‘Oh, I know what you did,’ Kathryn continued. ‘You replaced both bolt
s. Colum saw that they had been changed when he visited the tower this morning.’ She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘Now why should you do that, Master Gabele? Why replace both bolts? The one on the side of the stairs should not have been broken. So why replace it? And why you? Hasn’t the castle got a carpenter?’

  ‘Look.’ Fitz-Steven beat his hand on the table-top. ‘You are saying, Mistress, that Gabele waited for Webster on these darkened stairs, struck him on the head, borrowed his cloak and hat, then pretended to be the Constable?’

  Kathryn nodded.

  ‘After which,’ the clerk continued, ‘he loosened the bolt clasps of the trapdoor on the tower side, locked it from the stairs, put the cloak and hat back on Webster and tossed the poor bastard’s corpse through the sally-port?’

  ‘Yes, you have it, Master Clerk. Remember it was dawn. The guards were tired and looking the other way.’

  Fitz-Steven scratched his chin.

  ‘I accept that, Mistress, but why, when we forced the trapdoor, didn’t you notice the bolt on the inside was undrawn?’

  ‘Simple,’ Colum interrupted. ‘Gabele had ordered that no one approach the tower until I arrived. Secondly, the stairway is very dark. Thirdly, even if we had noticed the bolt, would it have mattered? Gabele could always claim he had done it for security purposes. Finally, and most importantly, remember how we approached the tower? Gabele went first and ordered the soldiers up before us to force the trapdoor, just in case we might observe something wrong.’

  ‘But why?’ the chaplain asked.

  ‘Oh, I think Webster was killed,’ Kathryn explained, ‘because he realised Sparrow’s escape was no accident; that’s why Webster engaged in that little mummery on the castle green with Peter the chaplain the night before he died. You see, according to the story, the turnkey was strangled. But how could Sparrow do that, if the manacles on his hands were tied all the more securely by a chain linking them to the gyves on his ankles? How could you, in such a situation, raise your hands to strangle a man? No.’ Kathryn shook her head. ‘I suspect those manacles were rendered faulty, so they never locked properly.’