by Paul Doherty
‘Do they now?’
‘And, did you know, Sir John, there are members of Levigne’s household who believe that anyone who followed the Oriflamme should suffer swift but secret execution here in London? I mean, Sir John, we have heard about the death of Falaise. Perhaps that could be the work of our French guests.’
‘Do you know anything else?’
‘No, Sir John, we do not. But I am sure you will agree, such information is worth some coin?’
Cranston raised his tankard in salutation. ‘My friends,’ he smiled, ‘on that, I do agree, so I bid you adieu!’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘But, my beloveds, I do have a task for you. Listen now …’
Cranston was fastening on his cloak and warbelt when Tiptoft, looking all solemn, slipped silent as a ghost into the solar. The grim-faced courier gave a small bow.
‘Sir John, my apologies, the hour is late, but we have received messages at the Guildhall from Mistress Alice Brun. Something about the arca house in the parish cemetery at St Olave’s being locked and bolted from within. Matthew Hornsby, a member of the guild and clerk of the stores, is allegedly inside, but he will not answer to any knocking or calls. Sir John, I have taken the liberty of asking Flaxwith to join you in the cemetery. My Lord Coroner, I think you’d best come.’
The day was greying when Cranston arrived in the cemetery of St Olave’s. He immediately judged it to be an eerie place at an eerie time, the hour of the bat and the time of the fox. St Olave’s cemetery was fairly small. The graves, memorials and coffin crosses were all well tended, as were the hummocks of soil which stretched across the graveyard. Ancient yew trees, gnarled and twisted, clustered close, their branches stretching out, moving slightly in the breeze, as if they were the arms of a monster ready to emerge from the murk. A few people stood there holding torches, the flames leaping up, as if to capture the tendrils of tar-reeking smoke. They all clustered close to the arca house, a squat square of the hardest sandstone, darkened and weathered by the years. It had arrow-slits for windows whilst the iron-studded door was a thick slab of oak.
Cranston studied it carefully as Mistress Alice Brun came hurrying through the poor light, grasping another woman by the hand, whom she introduced as Katherine, Matthew Hornsby’s wife, a small, wiry woman with the jerky movements of a sparrow. Katherine Hornsby tearfully described how her husband was clerk of the parish stores. He had left their house to do work in the arca but had failed to return. She and others had hastened here. They had rapped on the door and shouted through the arrow-slits but there was no reply. Now she was alarmed, fearful at what might have happened.
‘And where is your priest?’ Cranston demanded. ‘Father Ambrose and the others?’
‘Sir John,’ Mistress Alice replied, ‘I believe they have moved across river to St Erconwald’s. Father Ambrose wishes to take sanctuary there. He and the others truly believe that Brother Athelstan and yourself are their best defence.’
Cranston nodded understandingly, as if he was aware of what was happening, though secretly, he was completely nonplussed.
‘Sir John,’ Alice’s voice turned all pleading, ‘what can be done?’
‘Mistress, bear with me.’
Cranston heard his name called and turned as Flaxwith and his cohort of bailiffs arrived. The coroner issued his orders. The bailiffs kicked and pounded on the door, shouting through the arrow-slits.
‘Sir John,’ Flaxwith drew close, ‘there’s no reply and I do fear the worst.’
Cranston agreed. He had been to such places before. He stared at the arca house and felt a shiver of fear as he sometimes did when he approached any place where murder may have taken place.
‘Very well, Flaxwith,’ Cranston asserted himself. ‘Tell the others to leave, they have no business here. Only Mistress Alice and Master Hornsby’s widow …’ Cranston hastily corrected himself, ‘Master Hornsby’s wife.’
Flaxwith and his cohort cleared the cemetery, then brought an old bench from the church: they used this to batter and pound the thick wooden door, concentrating on the side where the locks and bolts were. The bailiffs swung the heavy bench backwards and forwards until both lock and bolt ruptured in a screech of metal and wood. Cranston told everyone to stay out. He took a lanternhorn, mentally listing what Athelstan would do in such circumstances.
The coroner paused in the entrance to the arca and examined both bolt and lock on the lintel of the door; these had definitely been twisted and violently torn. Cranston was satisfied that no trickery had taken place, no sleight of hand to depict the door as firmly held fast. The coroner walked further in, lifted the lantern and stared around at the various chests, coffers and sacks. He breathed out noisily as he glimpsed the body sprawled on the floor, arms and legs extended. Cranston drew closer and stared down at Matthew Hornsby. The cause of his brutal death was obvious. A crossbow bolt embedded so deep in his forehead that flesh and bone had erupted on either side, whilst only the feathered flight protruded from the victim’s forehead. Blood had seeped out of the wound and poured from both nose and mouth to form a gruesome mask over the dead man’s face, covering everything except the popping, glassy dead eyes.
Cranston crouched by the corpse and recalled what Athelstan would do. He swiftly scrutinized the man’s wrists and ankles for any sign of ligature or binding but there was none. Hiding his distaste, the coroner lifted the blood-soaked leather jerkin and the linen shirt beneath. Again, there was nothing. Finally he scrutinized the man’s skull but could find no trace of recent bruising. Cranston crossed himself and stared around that gloomy chamber. He had seen similar buildings in other church cemeteries, especially those parishes which bordered the river, where the depredations of pirates and the river-robbers were a constant threat. Such fortified rooms were strongly built; this was no different. Cranston glanced up at the roof, noting the beams tightly lined together and, above them, tiles, cemented so hard and thick, not even a chink of light could pierce them. The floor seemed to be of hard rock and Cranston believed the arca was probably built on the foundations of some earlier building. The coroner sighed, got to his feet, and returned to stand in the doorway. He summoned Flaxwith and shouted at Mistress Alice that no one else was to enter the arca. The chief bailiff stomped in, glimpsed the corpse and whistled under his breath, tightening the leash around Samson as the mastiff lunged towards the blood-drenched cadaver.
‘Sir John,’ the chief bailiff whispered hoarsely, ‘a man cruelly slain, but there is no one here! And how could the assassin leave? That door was locked and bolted from within.’
‘Then let us search for an answer,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Flaxwith, tether Samson and help me.’
The chief bailiff did so and joined Sir John on a thorough search of the arca. Coffers, caskets and sacks were pulled away, but Cranston’s original conclusion held fast. The arca was built on rock with no sign of entry through the floor, walls or roof.
‘God will help us,’ Cranston breathed when they had finished. ‘Or, even better, send my little friar to assist.’
By the time Athelstan met Cranston at St Erconwald’s, the friar had recovered from the hideous confrontation he’d experienced earlier in the day. He had visited both Benedicta and Father Ambrose and insisted that his parishioners help in settling all those who wished to seek sanctuary in St Erconwald’s. The preparations for this were now very much in hand. Moleskin had already informed Benedicta, Watkin and Pike that Father Ambrose would be joined by the sept of barge and watermen, together with their wives and children. They would lodge in the church and be provided with every sustenance from The Piebald’s kitchen and Merrylegs’ pastry shop.
Athelstan had left them to it. He had visited Senlac, still busy in the old death house raising the paving stones. He admitted it was slow and arduous; only a few of the slabs had been lifted. So far, it was unrewarding, and he assured Athelstan that he had found nothing of note except for a few coins. Athelstan also received a visit from Master Tuddenham, the archdeacon’s harsh-faced
henchman. This church lawyer declared that Father Ambrose’s petition to seek sanctuary in St Erconwald’s was in strict accordance with canon law, adding that he had also granted permission for the priest to lead a pilgrimage across the Narrow Seas to visit the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Boulogne.
Cranston’s arrival was a welcome relief to that of Tuddenham. Seated in his locked and bolted priest’s house, with Crim and Bonaventure on guard outside, Athelstan informed the coroner about what had happened: the desecration of St Erconwald’s statue, the attacks on Benedicta, Ambrose and himself. The coroner kept whistling under his breath and, when Athelstan had finished, he banged the table top.
‘I will send Tiptoft to the Tower. I will order Armitage to despatch a dozen archers; the idle buggers can camp out at the death house and keep guard over Ambrose and his flock. You take care, little friar. Now, I too have been busy.’ Cranston took a generous gulp from the miraculous wineskin. ‘There has been another murder.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, Brother, I will be succinct. Matthew Hornsby.’ And Cranston, choosing his words carefully, described precisely his meeting with Grindcobbe, as well as what he had seen at St Olave’s.
Athelstan listened intently, eyes half closed as he imagined the arca house, a square block of stone, no windows, no other entrance except that reinforced door, and the dreadful sin committed within. A man slain, murdered, his soul sent unprepared to God. The friar asked a few questions and carefully listened to Cranston’s precise, detailed replies.
‘There is no explanation for it,’ Athelstan declared. ‘None whatsoever. A man locks and bolts himself in a secure chamber and he is found murdered, a crossbow bolt loosed deep into his brain. There is not a shred of proof, any evidence of how the killer got in or left. As you say, Sir John, another murder, undoubtedly the work of the Oriflamme. Yet there is one item missing.’
‘Brother?’
‘No red wig left on the victim’s head. Why?’ Athelstan smiled drily. ‘Has the Oriflamme’s supply of such grotesque objects petered out? Or is he trying to create the impression that someone else is responsible for the murder?’
‘Brother, I am sorry. What you are saying eludes me.’
‘I refer to what Sicarius and Wrigglewort told you. How the French are offering rewards for the Oriflamme and his henchmen either dead or alive. Now, Sir John, in my heart of hearts, I believe Hornsby was killed by the Oriflamme. He may wish to lessen suspicions against himself, hinting that Hornsby’s death could be the work of others. Someone paid by the French or, indeed, have members of the guild turned on each other? Anyway, believe me, Sir John, there must be a logical explanation of how the killer broke into that arca and left so easily. I certainly don’t believe, my friend, that assassins enjoy the same gifts and virtues as the Risen Christ.’ Athelstan smiled at Sir John’s look of puzzlement. ‘The ability, my good coroner, to pass through wood and stone without hindrance.’ The friar paused. ‘Let me think, let me reflect.’ He said, ‘What the Sicarius and Wrigglewort told you was interesting and what you asked them to do even more so. We must visit that benighted place. After all, this Robin of the Green Wood, what he said does point to that house of foundlings being the source of all this murderous mayhem.’
‘Brother, you are correct.’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘After meeting with the Sicarius, I went to the Guildhall to search amongst the records. I discovered petitions from former inmates of that foundling house. These bitterly complained about the cruelty shown them by those harridans supposedly in charge of their care: two sisters, Lucy and Magotta. According to the meagre evidence, this precious pair were as cruel and as barbarous as any Newgate jailor. As I’ve said, there wasn’t much, just scraps of parchment, faded pieces of vellum.’
‘Were there any names?’
‘Oh yes.’ Cranston smiled thinly. ‘No less a person than Samuel Moleskin, an orphan foundling raised by the Minoresses till he was entrusted,’ Cranston snorted with laughter, ‘to those sisters of the night. Apparently an able scholar, Moleskin left the house but he never forgot. He was one of those who definitely petitioned the council about the cruelty he suffered.’
‘So,’ Athelstan replied, ‘the two sisters were cruel and it now seems that a former inmate of that house used the recent bloody disturbances to settle grievances. This was probably the Oriflamme, who must have been raised in that infernal place where he was punished and abused from morning till night. Once this individual reached adulthood, the Oriflamme took on the guise of his tormentors during his forays through Normandy. The war in France ended and the Oriflamme promptly disappeared. However, he hasn’t just emerged from the darkness, he did so during the Great Revolt last spring. Perhaps hanging those two old women whetted his appetite and made him keen for more.’
‘I agree.’ Cranston rose to his feet and stretched. ‘But don’t forget, little friar, the Oriflamme we are hunting in London may not be the one who prowled the Seine so many years ago.’
‘But surely, Sir John?’
‘Brother, what if it’s someone who knew the Oriflamme? Someone else, a former inmate of that house of foundlings?’ Cranston spread his hands. ‘We still do not have definitive proof that the Oriflamme in London and the one in Normandy are the same person. Now,’ the coroner sat down, ‘what do you think of my meeting with the Sicarius?’
Athelstan scratched his head. ‘Well, Sir John, the first part of his information confirms what we already suspect: the Oriflamme is a member of – or closely connected to – the Worshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen. The second part of the information is more complicated. Undoubtedly Levigne is prepared to offer rewards; that’s the obvious thing to do. He would pay dearly to seize the Oriflamme and his henchmen, bundle them aboard some cog and drag them back to Paris for trial and execution. However,’ Athelstan tapped the table, ‘I am not too sure whether Levigne is really interested in the likes of Falaise and Hornsby. Or, indeed, our own Samuel Moleskin.’
‘Aye,’ Cranston agreed, ‘we must keep a sharp eye on your parish boatmen. Nor must we forget our visitor Senlac; he could be involved in this murderous mystery.’
‘True, he is a possible suspect but, there again,’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘when Benedicta was attacked last night and Ambrose and myself were threatened, Senlac was either drinking himself stupid in The Piebald or busy in the old death house. No, no, no,’ Athelstan pronounced. ‘We are making progress, Sir John, yet we still stumble and lose our way. Ah well, it’s time I became busy. And you, Sir John?’
‘Little friar, a walk around your parish. I will visit the church as well as those miscreants at The Piebald, then I shall return to the tender charms of the Lady Maude.’
PART FIVE
De profundis clamavi ad te: Out of the depths, I cry to you …
The coroner departed all in a bustle. Athelstan heard him go, reflecting on what he’d seen and heard. He recalled what Cranston had told him about that arca house with Hornsby’s corpse sprawled within. ‘But if the assassin didn’t come through the door, the floor, the walls or the ceiling,’ Athelstan wondered, ‘then how? If it was through the ceiling, he would have to climb onto the roof and remove hard-set tiles; he might have been seen. The floor, according to our good coroner, is hard rock. So that leaves the walls.’ Athelstan recalled Cranston’s description of the sandstone blocks which formed the arca wall. He stretched his hands towards the fire as he sifted the possibilities. ‘Lord have mercy,’ he said, ‘but staring into the flames will not help me, not now.’
Athelstan left the priest’s house and walked through the lychgate across the cemetery to the old mortuary. He went in and stood for a while reciting both the ‘Requiem’ and the ‘De Profundis’ for those whose corpses had been brought here, especially poor Godbless. Athelstan then walked around, noticing how a few more of the paving stones had been loosened and lifted but there was nothing beneath except gravel-packed earth. He walked absent-mindedly, missed his footing and fell down, sprawling backwards.
Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘Silly friar,’ he whispered. ‘I could have done myself an injury.’
He lay for a while, arms outstretched. He opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling, and gasped in surprise as he studied the faded paintings. Athelstan scrambled to his feet and pattered a swift prayer in thanksgiving. He stared around and began to carefully pick his way across the death house. Once again he marked the paving stones which had been raised as well as those which had not. All of the latter bore a faded inscription, a small triangle within a rectangle very similar to what was on that old treasure chart. For a while Athelstan just stood, sifting the possibilities. He felt a surge of excitement. He now believed he had stumbled onto a path which might well lead him to the truth. Athelstan was determined, no matter what, to confront the terrors which had clenched him in their grasp. He would break free, seek the truth and, God willing, impose God’s justice and that of the King to resolve this murderous mayhem.
Athelstan left the mortuary. Cranston had already gone so he searched out Watkin and Pike. Brushing aside their questions, the friar gave them the strictest instructions about the old death house being locked, sealed and closely guarded. No one was to enter without his express permission. Athelstan then returned to the priest’s house and tried to recall all he had seen, heard and experienced. ‘I glimpsed something,’ he muttered to Bonaventure who was busy preening himself on Athelstan’s table. ‘I know I saw something else very important but it eludes me. God sharpen my wits for I cannot recall it.’ Athelstan, still troubled by the murderous mysteries which clogged his mind and dulled his wits, left the house to welcome Father Ambrose and the sept of the Woshipful Guild of Barge- and Watermen into St Erconwald’s.
For a while the friar walked up and down the two transepts, greeting the different families gathered anxiously around their priest. Ambrose was doing his best to comfort them but he was clearly distressed himself. Athelstan glimpsed Moleskin with his soft-faced, dreamy-eyed wife, her cheeks plump and red as an autumn apple. The boatman caught Athelstan’s glance and looked away, a bitter expression on his face. According to Ambrose, Moleskin was all frightened, fearful that ghosts from the past were gathering to seize him. Athelstan sketched a blessing in the boatman’s direction and moved down to the corpse door. Again, something troubled him, but he still failed to discern the reason for the anxiety gnawing at his soul. He recalled his training in the schools of Oxford. His masters used to lecture him constantly on his fiery temper. How, when the red mist did descend, his turbulent mood achieved nothing, but posed even greater obstacles to cold, logical thought.