A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Will you stay at Ingoldby?’ Colum pulled himself up in the chair as he spoke. He’d been sitting quietly, head down, eyes half-closed, though Kathryn knew he’d been listening intently.

  ‘Master Murtagh, my husband has yet to be buried. I will be announcing a decision very soon.’

  ‘And your husband’s papers?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Ah!’ Lady Elizabeth raised one finely plucked eyebrow. ‘That is the reason for these questions, is it not?’

  ‘I must go through your husband’s papers. I must examine a copy of his will, even though it has not gone through Court of Chancery. There may be something there. A small thread, perhaps a clue to all these mysteries?’

  ‘Master Mawsby,’ Lady Elizabeth replied briskly, ‘is only accompanying Father John down to Canterbury. He’ll be back later this afternoon. You have my permission to go through all papers and documents, memoranda and accounts, kept in my husband’s writing office. Now, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Lady Elizabeth smoothed the pleats of her gown. ‘I must also prepare to leave. I wish to keep the death vigil over my husband’s corpse. The good monks at Canterbury have said I and Eleanora may rest at their guest house. You are welcome to stay here this evening. But I do ask – in fact, I beg you – that tomorrow we be left alone. My husband’s funeral requiem will be sung at eleven and, for the rest of the day, I shall be entertaining the principal mourners. I have to see craftsmen about Sir Walter’s tomb. Chantry Masses have to be sung.’

  Kathryn rose to her feet, Colum likewise.

  ‘And one more thing.’ Lady Elizabeth poured the ave beads into a beautiful quilted bag. ‘If you go anywhere in this manor,’ she pointed at Colum, ‘your beloved goes with you!’

  Kathryn walked to the door.

  ‘Oh, Mistress Swinbrooke?’

  Kathryn turned. Lady Elizabeth had risen from the chair and come towards her. With a surprising gesture she grasped Kathryn’s hands and pulled her close. The physician smelt her fragrant perfume and stared at this beautiful woman’s face framed by its sombre veil. Lady Elizabeth reminded Kathryn of a painting her father had brought from Italy; that serenity, those well spaced, calm blue eyes and skin without blemish.

  ‘I am sorry if I was sharp. You may envy me, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ She let go of Kathryn’s hands and gestured round the room. ‘But in truth I envy you. I have made my own searches about Alexander Wyville and this, your Irishman.’ Her voice had a slight lilt to show she intended no offence.

  ‘Envy me, my lady?’

  ‘You are mistress in your own house,’ Lady Elizabeth replied. ‘Skilled in your own profession. You are about to marry a man of your own choosing, a man you love. Isn’t it strange, Mistress Swinbrooke, how I, who have everything, can still envy you?’

  Kathryn glanced at Colum who simply winked and hid his own embarrassment by moving close to the door.

  ‘Be careful,’ Lady Elizabeth urged. ‘What happened this morning must not happen again.’

  Once they were out in the gallery, Colum slipped his arm through Kathryn’s and brushed his lips against the side of her face.

  ‘Are you not fortunate?’ he teased.

  ‘Irishman, always remember I’ll be mistress in my own home.’

  Colum continued his teasing as they made their way downstairs. They went into the great hall where some bread and meat had been laid out. Kathryn and Colum shared a platter and sipped at the watered ale before going out to the rear of the house and down the steps to the great meadow. They walked across to the arbour of flowers where Lady Elizabeth and Eleanora had sat on the day Sir Walter was murdered.

  ‘You should have been more careful,’ Colum admonished as they took their seats.

  ‘And you, Irishman,’ Kathryn dug her elbow into his ribs, ‘shouldn’t have been late. Some trouble at King’s Mead?’

  ‘No, Greyfriars.’ Colum sucked on his lips. ‘Do you remember the cutpurse, Laus Tibi? Well, the good brothers opened the church this morning . . .’

  ‘He’s not dead?’

  ‘No, he’s vanished.’

  ‘What?’ Kathryn spun round.

  ‘I know it’s impossible,’ Colum said. ‘The sacristan will take an oath over the blessed Host. He locked that church; not even a small mouse could enter. The bailiffs guard every entrance, yet when Brother Simon opened the door of his church this morning, Laus Tibi had drunk his wine, eaten his food and vanished like incense smoke. Neither hide nor hair of him remained.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Kathryn declared. ‘First the Lacrima Christi and now Laus Tibi? How could he . . .?’

  ‘Well, he has. The bailiffs are beside themselves with rage. I interrogated each and every one of them. There was good silver on Laus Tibi’s head and they were determined to arrest him. I searched the church. No windows broken, nothing forced, gone like a thief in the night. The good brothers are most apologetic. They allowed Laus Tibi to wash, eat and drink. During the day he used a privy just outside the sacristy. At night he was given a jakes pot which was the first thing emptied when the church was opened.’ Colum laughed abruptly. ‘Indeed, that’s the only trace left of him. A half-full jakes pot but no Laus Tibi. Luberon has ordered a search to be made of the markets. The city gates are watched, but when I left, Laus Tibi’s disappearance was still a mystery.’ Colum stretched his legs. ‘By the way.’ He grinned at Kathryn. ‘I went a-wandering through Canterbury. I called in to see Thibault the locksmith. . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He fashioned the lock to the chantry chapel, as well as two keys; they could not be replicated. One of them was stored in his strongbox and never left it.’ Colum spread his hands. ‘Thibault claims that lock couldn’t be forced. He also assured me that Brother Simon was very proud of carrying the other key and would not let it out of his sight.’

  ‘So, the mystery remains?’

  ‘Yes. Now, this attack upon you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve reflected on that,’ Kathryn confessed. ‘It was easy enough. Someone learnt I went down to those cellars, and the assassin must have followed; two people in the light of a lantern are an easy target. If Hockley hadn’t been there,’ she grasped Colum’s hand, ‘that quarrel would have taken me.’

  ‘But why?’ Colum leaned back against the turfed seat. ‘You carry the King’s seal, Kathryn.’

  ‘It means,’ Kathryn explained, ‘that I did something which frightened the assassin.’

  ‘If the assassin’s here?’

  Kathryn looked askance.

  ‘Remember the good brothers at Greyfriars. They have a link with Ingoldby Hall. Brother Ralph was here the day Maltravers died, and Prior Barnabas had to explain how the Lacrima Christi was stolen.’

  ‘A friar committing murder?’

  ‘Judas betrayed Christ. Remember, dear physician, we don’t yet know what the motive is. My favourite tale is the Pardoner’s . . .’

  ‘Radix Malorum est Cupiditas.’ Kathryn finished the sentence, raising her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘In ‘The Pardoner’s Tale’ thieves fall out and kill each other,’ Colum mused. He grasped Kathryn’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

  She pulled away. ‘I don’t want any of your Irish riddles!’

  ‘Don’t be sharp, sweetheart.’ Colum edged closer and put his arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I did miss you,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘I always miss you, Colum, not because of the danger.’ She poked him gently in the stomach. ‘But because of your riddles. The attack on me was a mystery.’ She sat up, hands in her lap. ‘I am sure,’ she declared, ‘I did something this morning, or last night, which alarmed the dark soul of this assassin but, for the love of me, I don’t know what.’

  She then told him everything that had happened: the death of Veronica, which Colum had learnt about from servants; her conversation with Gurnell and Father John; her impressions of Ingoldby Hall and the hideous scene which had aroused the manor household during the night. Every so often Colum interrupted with a question.

  ‘Radix Ma
lorum est Cupiditas,’ he repeated as she finished. ‘Deep desire is the root of all these evils, Kathryn, a love of money or a love of something else.’

  ‘More the hatred of a gargoyle’s soul,’ Kathryn replied. ‘So many at Ingoldby have good reason to hate.’

  She told Colum about Gurnell, Mawsby and Thurston – how they had been linked to the recent civil war. Colum whistled under his breath.

  ‘I believe every man in this kingdom had a part to play in that bloody struggle,’ he declared. ‘Look at Greyfriars, both Brother Ralph and Prior Barnabas experienced the horrors of war – but Towton?’ Colum’s face became grave. He mouthed the name softly.

  ‘You’ve talked about it occasionally.’ Kathryn brushed his hair. ‘Sometimes, when you’ve drunk a little more ale than you intended. You often ask Father Cuthbert to offer a Mass for those who died there.’

  ‘Towton was bloody! Kathryn, you have to experience battle to understand it. You’re not brave but full of fear. Towton was the very pit of hell. Misty and cold, hard ground and frozen rivers. If the enemy didn’t kill you the bitter wind froze your blood. I was terrified, Kathryn! Banners flying, horses neighing, the clash of arms, eyes glaring at you through helmet slits. Men in armour, blood pouring out through every slit and gap. Men, unhorsed, drowning in mud, screams and yells. Englishmen begging for mercy but showing none. I was near the King. Edward was fearful that the Lancastrians would try to outflank him through Wrenshaw or Castlehill Woods, a favourite strategy of Beaufort the Lancastrian commander. So I was sent to scout the battlefield. I saw hideous scenes, Kathryn; we’d ceased being men and become wolves tearing at each other. I heard vaguely about what Maltravers’s men did to the foreign mercenaries, but it was just one story amongst many. They say twenty-five thousand men died that day.’

  Beads of sweat appeared on Colum’s forehead.

  ‘Do you think Towton lies at the root of all these murders and deaths?’ Colum asked abruptly. ‘It’s possible,’ he continued, not waiting for an answer. ‘Many hatreds were born that day. Our armies were composed of three sections: the great lords, the commons, and men like myself, Gurnell, Mawsby and Thurston’s sons. We are the mercenaries, the professional soldiers. We, in turn, can be divided into two further groups, those who fight for money and those who fight for the cause. I fought for the cause: Richard of York once saved me from a hanging on Dublin’s fair walls. Gurnell, I suspect, is a sword-seller, a man who will fight bravely enough, till the silver runs out or the battle is lost.’

  ‘And Mawsby?’

  ‘Mawsby fought for the cause of Lancaster. I keep a roll of those indicted by the King’s lawyers. Mawsby’s name was on it. Maltravers must have paid dearly for his kinsman’s pardon, though Edward of York is now in a more forgiving mood.’

  ‘Because he’s King?’

  ‘No,’ Colum grinned, getting to his feet. ‘Because most of his enemies are dead. You say Maltravers fell ill of a stomach ailment?’

  Kathryn shook her head. ‘I don’t know what Brother Ralph thought was the cause, but the sickness disappeared.’

  ‘Come.’ Colum stretched out his hand and Kathryn grasped it. ‘I want to walk that maze again!’

  They strolled across the grass into the maze. The guide rope still lay there, so Kathryn found it easy to thread the maze. The paths lost their air of menace, the hedges no longer seemed to crowd in on her. Soon they reached the centre and stood on the small path leading up the Weeping Cross, its steps still stained with blood. Kathryn sat on the stone bench. This was a serene place with the brooding Christ hanging on the wooden cross, the weatherbeaten steps, the dark green of the hedgerow, the sun full and strong. Butterflies danced and chased each other, bees hummed lazily whilst, in the grassy verge, crickets continued their monotonous clicking.

  ‘Maltravers came here that Friday,’ Kathryn declared, staring across at Colum sitting on the top step. ‘He knelt down. The assassin was waiting for him. One clean swipe.’ She mimicked the movement with her own. ‘The assassin grasped the head, rolled it into a sack, then disappeared like dew under the sun. Who could it have been, Colum? Everyone has given a good account of their movements that day. . . .’

  ‘And that includes Mawsby,’ Colum interrupted. ‘I asked Luberon to make careful search amongst the market bailiffs. Mawsby is well known to the stall-holders in Canterbury. He was definitely seen that morning in the city.’

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke! Mistress Swinbrooke!’ A girl’s voice carried faintly from the maze.

  ‘That will be Amelia.’ Kathryn got to her feet. ‘Let’s see what she wants.’

  They walked back, following the guide rope. Amelia was standing near the entrance hopping from one foot to another, wringing her hands, her face all woebegone.

  ‘What’s the matter, girl?’

  ‘You were very kind. You’ve been very kind to us.’ The words tumbled out. ‘One of the stable lads told me how you tended the burns on his hand. He said you were very kind, that I was wrong not to tell you. I didn’t mean to tell a lie. I was just . . .’

  ‘Hush now,’ Kathryn said, grasping the girl’s hand.

  Amelia gazed fearfully at Colum as if he was the figure of Death itself.

  ‘I’ll be in no trouble will I?’ Amelia stared wild-eyed. ‘But I didn’t steal it. Veronica said I did.’

  ‘What did Veronica say? Slowly now.’

  Amelia closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Veronica lost her locket. She claimed I had stolen it. I was angry and denied it. Veronica later found it and apologised.’

  ‘Where did she find it?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I am not too sure, possibly her chamber. I live in a small garret at the top of the hall, at the back overlooking the great meadow.’

  ‘And Veronica’s?’

  ‘Hers was at the front.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Amelia looked fearfully over her shoulder. ‘I must get back.’

  Kathryn gazed across where Eleanora was directing the maids who were bringing out small coffers and saddlebags, piling them high at the top of the steps.

  ‘I have duties.’

  Kathryn let go of her hand. Amelia stepped back and, spinning on her heel, ran towards the hall.

  Kathryn and Colum stayed a while speculating on what they had learnt, watching Lady Elizabeth’s retainers bring out more baggage and household goods in preparation for their mistress’s journey to Canterbury. Laurel branches were stacked on either side of the door as a sign of mourning, and by the time Kathryn and Colum reentered the house, strips of black lawn had also been pinned to the lintel. Kathryn showed Colum the library; they were seated close together at the great black table when the door opened and Mawsby came swaggering in.

  ‘Master Murtagh. Mistress Swinbrooke.’

  The red head went down in a mock bow. Mawsby’s boots were dust covered and he trailed a cloak over one arm.

  ‘You are a strange man, Master Mawsby.’

  Kathryn’s blunt remark caught their visitor unawares; he stepped forward, face perplexed.

  ‘Mistress, you have a tart tongue.’

  Colum cleared his throat threateningly.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ Maswsby added. ‘I know you, Master Murtagh, as well as you know me.’

  ‘You were at Towton?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Aye, and Wakefield and Barnet. I missed the bloody massacre at Tewkesbury.’ Mawsby listed the hideous battles of the civil war. ‘By then King Henry’s cause was lost and I’d taken ship across the Narrow Seas.’

  ‘You were an archer?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No, Mistress, a master bowman, a good soldier. Do you find that strange?’

  ‘You walk like a soldier,’ Kathryn explained. She pointed to the war belt strapped round his waist and added, ‘You dress like one.’ She gestured around. ‘Yet you are a scholar, Lord Maltravers’s secretarius?’

  ‘I studied in the Halls of Cambridge.’ Mawsby replied. ‘I disputed in the schoo
ls and received my bachelorhood.’ His smile faded. ‘Then my father and brothers were killed in the West Country fighting for Lancaster.’

  ‘When Lord Maltravers was killed,’ Kathryn asked, ‘where were . . .?’

  ‘I returned just after the alarm was raised,’ Mawsby interjected. He turned as if distracted by the sunlight beaming through the window, and watched the dust motes.

  ‘Do you know why Lord Maltravers was killed?’

  ‘Murdered, Mistress. My master was murdered. I know of no threats.’

  ‘Did you find it easy here?’ Colum asked, getting to his feet and helping Kathryn up.

  ‘To serve Lord Maltravers?’ Mawsby pulled a face. ‘He was a distant kinsman, a kind man. The war was over, Murtagh. I fought, I did my best. I couldn’t kick my heels in the slums of Pais for ever and a day. I know nothing of Lord Maltravers’s death, no more than you do.’

  ‘Even though you were his secretarius?’

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I served in the armies of Lancaster. I worked alongside men whom I drank with, ate with and fought with. Men who told me about their wives and sweethearts, their children, their dreams. Ask Murtagh here, what are they to me now but dreams? When you’re a soldier, you keep your friends, as well as your enemies, at sword-length.’ He gathered his cloak to hide his agitation. ‘The Lady Elizabeth will soon be leaving for Canterbury. You have asked to see Lord Maltravers’s papers; I am to help you.’

  He didn’t wait for them but walked away, leaving Kathryn and Colum no choice but to follow. They reached the hallway, busy with servants and climbed the main staircase to the first gallery. Mawsby undid the small ring of keys he carried on a belt hook and led them to a door at the far end of the gallery. He unlocked this and ushered them in.

  Maltravers’s chancery or writing office was as comfortable and luxurious as the rest of the manor. Light poured in from a large bay window, illuminating the design on the quilted seat beneath, where golden lions fought silver unicorns against a bright blue background. Some of the walls were wainscoted; the rest, where shelves had been fixed, were lime-washed. Chests and coffers stood about, lids thrown back, rolls of parchment spilling out. There was a wooden, open-fronted case, its shelves packed with ledgers and calfskin books. Rolls of parchment, all tied neatly in red ribbon, were stacked in order along the shelves. Underneath these stood a large, rounded tub full of freshly scrubbed bundles of parchment. Two small writing benches carrying inkpots, pumice stones; paper knives and large black jars full of quills were arranged against the far wall, whilst the large, black desk, with its red leather surface, was positioned to catch the light from the window. The chancery reminded Kathryn of her own, with its smell of ink, vellum, parchment and cured polished leather. It was a comfortable chamber from where Maltravers could manage his many affairs, both at home and abroad.