The Sacred Stone

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Why, there appear to be characters inscribed here,’ he said. ‘Strange markings. Letters, perhaps, although not English ones.’

  ‘Perhaps so, perhaps so,’ said the doctor.

  ‘It has curative properties?’

  ‘It may do.’

  ‘My friend Dr John Dee of Mortlake would be interested in this,’ said Tallman.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Dr Jonathan Case.

  I picked up the reference to a much more famous doctor, the aforesaid Dee, the aged occultist and astrologer who was an occasional counsellor to kings and queens. Tallman probably mentioned him to show the reach of his acquaintance. If so, Case was determined not to be impressed, as his terse answer showed.

  Trying again, Tallman said, ‘I am sometimes troubled by the head-ache. I could sleep with the stone under my bolster to test its curative powers.’

  Case was having none of it. He held out his hand but Tallman wasn’t quite done.

  ‘I was under the impression that this was the property of an important foreigner, one residing in London.’

  ‘It may have been,’ said Jonathan Case, now practically seizing the sky-stone from Tallman. The physician replaced the black stone in the cabinet, once more making a show of turning the key in the lock and examining the dial.

  I had a sense of strong animosity between the three men, or at least between Jonathan Case on the one side and his brother Colin Case and Henry Tallman on the other. I was not sure what Tallman did but, from his mention of Dr Dee and other not-so-casual comments, I rather thought he, too, was one of those individuals who claim to be able to unpick the mysteries of heaven and earth, and most likely of hell as well. That would explain his interest in the sky-stone. Each man had his specialism, whether it was seamanship or physic or occultism, and each man looked down on the others’. With Colin Case there was the additional irritation of having to defer to his brother, who had chartered the Argo. I hoped the ship’s captain was getting well rewarded for it.

  Jack and I kept fairly quiet and tucked into the mutton stew provided by the Gravesend ordinary. We were glad enough to be at the end of our voyage, as we thought. I hadn’t eaten all day and my appetite had returned. We listened to the bickering of these individuals with mild interest, no more. There was a revealing comment made by Dr Case later in the meal. Tallman brought up the subject of the sky-stone once more, remarking that many people would like get their hands on it by fair means or foul. As Tallman said this, Jonathan Case glanced at Jack Wilson and me. Not in suspicion, as if we wanted to steal the thing, but with a momentary unease, as if he were touched by guilt.

  ‘Is that why you requested our company from Middle Temple to the riverside yesterday?’ said Jack. ‘Were we to act as protection against any attempt to seize the stone?’

  ‘I was delighted to have you with me,’ said Case. ‘Strength in numbers.’

  ‘But why did you take the stone to the Temple in the first place?’ persisted Jack.

  ‘Tell them, Jonathan,’ said Colin Case. ‘It is the least you owe these players for having imposed on them. Tell them, or I shall.’

  ‘I went to the Middle Temple with a dual purpose,’ said Case with great reluctance. ‘To see you players in the King’s Men and to, ah, collect an object that another member of the audience wished to entrust into my hands . . .’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Captain Case, a very mild reaction for a sailor. ‘As usual, my brother can’t help making himself out to be much more important than he really is, as when he conveys to us the King’s opinion on smoking. Brother Jonathan is merely acting on commission, carrying that precious sky-stone from London to St-Malo. He is being paid for his pains, and I in turn am being paid for the pain of enduring his company and his chatter.’

  ‘You collected the sky-stone from someone in the French ambassador’s party,’ I said. This was not much of a stab in the dark, since Tallman had already referred to ‘an important foreigner in London’, but I could see from the expression on Case’s face that it had gone home. ‘That was really why you were at the Middle Temple. You and your cousin.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Colin in derision, so that another of my suspicions seemed to be confirmed. Thomasina was no cousin to the physician. As if to prevent any further outburst, Jonathan rapidly agreed that, yes, it was so, he had been in conversation with an individual from the ambassador’s entourage – whom he was not at liberty to name – and that he was now responsible for delivering the sky-stone to another unnameable individual in St-Malo.

  Henry Tallman had been staring hard at the doctor all this time. He tapped his long, beringed fingers on the table.

  ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘It is Maître Renard you are taking it to, no? He is the only man in St-Malo who would be concerned with such things.’

  ‘It may be Renard.’

  ‘The only one who would have the resources to pay for it, too. He must trust you, Dr Case.’

  ‘I have a certain reputation,’ said Jonathan.

  ‘That is what I mean,’ said Tallman. ‘And I would wager that the individual you obtained the sky-stone from was acting – how shall I put it? – sub rosa? That he perhaps does not have full title to the thing since he is not the “important foreigner” I referred to but one of his underlings.’

  Having relieved himself with these insults and imputations, he settled back, satisfied, and fiddled with a pipe. Lighting it from the charcoal brazier, he was soon filling the low cabin with layers of aromatic smoke as a way of further irritating the good doctor.

  Jonathan Case said nothing in response to Tallman’s comments. Instead, he changed the subject by announcing that Jack and I might sleep in the great cabin tonight. It would be preferable, he said, to going down to the hold, where the wine barrels were stored, and much preferable to sleeping with the mariners in the fo’c’s’le. He indicated the little curtained alcoves where we might rest our heads. All of this was performed with the air of bestowing a great favour on us. I gathered that Tallman was also sleeping in the cabin, so it may have been that Jonathan wanted protection from his persecutor. Colin Case, however, planned to lay his head elsewhere. Probably he could not bear bedding down near his brother, particularly if Jonathan was occupying the space that would normally be his.

  Jack said he wanted to take a turn on deck before putting his head down. He spoke for both of us. In truth, we wanted to escape the stifling air of the cabin, stifling not so much on account of the pipe smoke as for the bad feeling between the other diners.

  Outside, the air was bracingly chill. The bad weather had blown itself out for the time being, and, not far above the horizon, a waxing moon bobbed like a boat among the clouds. It was quiet on deck and I wondered whether the mariners were happily asleep in the squalor of the fo’c’s’le or out and about among the delights of Gravesend.

  ‘Do you know what was going on in there?’ said Jack.

  ‘It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? The sky-stone doesn’t belong to Dr Jonathan and probably not the person he acquired it from either. According to Tallman, it is the property of an important foreigner. Probably the legate, de la Broderie. I reckon that someone in de la Broderie’s entourage has passed it to Case for disposal in France. He’s no more than an agent for stolen goods.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Jack.

  ‘No, but I do know I don’t like him. And it would explain why he wanted us with him last night. He felt more confident in company. Perhaps he was fearful that someone would attempt to take back the sky-stone.’

  Jack was about to answer but suddenly paused. I sensed rather than saw him hold up his hand. From somewhere close by came a muttering sound. Jack moved towards it, stumbled and swore.

  A human shape started up from where it had been lying or crouching on deck and made to dart off. But we were too quick for him. Jack had him by one side and I by the other. Although I could see little, I was fairly sure it was the individual we’d glimpsed on the afterdeck and perhaps down in the hold. His hood
fell back to reveal a round face, whitened by the moon. He wriggled but he was smaller than us and after a moment he gave up the struggle. I was glad, because the tussle gave me twinges from my injury the previous evening in Middle Temple.

  ‘I did not know anyone was there,’ he said, as if to explain his reaction. Even though it was high-pitched in fear, his voice sounded educated.

  ‘You were talking to yourself,’ said Jack.

  ‘Was I?’ said the other. ‘Yes, that’s it. I must have been talking to myself.’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ I said. ‘You are not a mariner, for sure. You’ve been spying on us.’

  ‘My name is Nicholas,’ said this person, and I started slightly at meeting in the dark someone who shared my name. Then he said in a more controlled tone, ‘I am no spy but a traveller like you.’

  ‘Well, we are the most unwilling travellers on earth,’ said Jack. ‘We leave this boat tomorrow.’

  ‘While I am hoping to sail on,’ said the other meekly.

  By this time we had altogether slackened our hold on Nicholas’s person. Whatever he was doing on board was none of our business. Once he was free he immediately bent down and began scrabbling on the wooden boards.

  ‘Lost something?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Perhaps we felt slightly guilty for having accosted this harmless gent, for Jack and I also stooped, cautiously in my case, and began to fumble about on deck with splayed hands. I found the dropped object first. It had the feel of a beaded necklace. Before handing it back I said, ‘We share a name, you and I, although people usually call me Nick. Is this what you are looking for, Nicholas?’ As he snatched it from me, I added, half in curiosity, half in mischief, ‘Deo Gratias.’

  He repeated ‘Deo gratias,’ then stiffened as if he’d given himself away. Which he had, since his unthinking quickness in responding to the phrase and the discovery of the necklace – or rosary – were signs of his religion. He had not been talking to himself but kneeling in prayer, and so absorbed in his devotions that he was unaware of our presence.

  ‘You are taking a risk coming out on deck,’ I said.

  ‘I need some fresh air after a few hours in the hold,’ he said.

  ‘Some persons of your sort might spend days and nights inside a priest-hole,’ said Jack, showing by his words that he had also realized who – or what – this man was.

  ‘They have more endurance than I,’ Nicholas said. ‘I cannot bear being cooped up for long. Not that I have ever been in a priest-hole.’

  ‘You have a . . . warrant to be aboard the Argo? You are here by arrangement?’

  ‘My presence is known,’ said the other, choosing his words with care. ‘I do not want to say who knows.’

  ‘Well, my friend and I mean you no harm, I am sure,’ said Jack. ‘In fact, I am not certain that we have ever met. So goodnight to you.’

  Nicholas muttered some indistinct words, presumably of gratitude, and scuttled away. Moments later we heard the sound of the hatch being opened. Jack and I remained out in the dark, as if giving Nicholas a decent interval to hide himself away once more. Neither of us said anything even if the same thoughts were probably running in both our heads. Thoughts to do with treason and conspiracy.

  Ever since the Powder-treason and the attempt to blow up the Parliament in the November of ’05 the authorities had shown a new determination to root out the plotters in the Catholic families as well as to hunt down their priests. Rather than face the Pursuivants, more than a few were making their escape to safety overseas. I’d no idea whether Nicholas was a member of a Catholic family or a fugitive priest, though something in his garb and manner suggested the latter. Nor did I know whether Captain Case was a sympathizer with the old religion or was merely being bribed to ferry this individual to St-Malo. It also occurred to me that perhaps Nicholas was on the Argo without the shipmaster’s knowledge. Possibly it was another of Jonathan Case’s enterprises. Or even Henry Tallman’s.

  Whatever the answer, it was best that Jack or I stayed ignorant, not so much out of fellow feeling as to avoid trouble. Why, as Jack said, we’d never even met the man. We returned to the great cabin, passing on our way the lad who’d served at table. He was carrying some leftovers of food and a jug of wine, awkwardly cradled in his arms. Perhaps he was taking them forward to share with his fellows. Crumbs from the rich man’s table . . .

  The aura of pipe smoke still hung in the air together with the odours of food and drink, but of our fellow diners there was no sign. I assumed that everyone was tucked up in their beds, Jonathan Case in his privileged quarters at the far end of the great cabin, and Tallman in one of the alcoves, with Colin Case having disappeared elsewhere, although I had heard no steps behind us on deck. A little oil light still burned near the compass, but the candles had been snuffed out. There was nothing for it but to turn in, though I did cast a curious eye at the cabinet containing the sacred stone or, more precisely, I ran my hand over its intricate lock. As I did so, something snagged against my fingers. It was a piece of thread. I rolled it into a little coil and tucked it into a pocket.

  Jack and I squeezed into the tiny, neighbouring alcoves and drew the curtains. I could almost stretch out at full length. The wind was getting up again, and the ship groaned and creaked around me as if it were alive. I was aware of the river water just below my berth. Above it was a tiny port that was closed with a kind of shutter. I did not open it. What was there to look at? The Argo was swaying gently but this was not reassuring, not like being rocked in a cradle. The straw mattress was less uncomfortable than our lodgings in the hold on the night before, but the pinched sides of the berth were reminiscent of a coffin and I thought of my bed at Mrs Ellis’s in Tooley Street. Then I wondered how we were going to account for our absence to the Globe shareholders. We’d be fined, for certain. I was reluctant to go to sleep for fear of waking up and finding that we’d set sail once more.

  But I did sleep in a fitful fashion. Once I awoke with a start, imagining we were under way. There was a grinding sound and distant, raised voices. But although the Argo seemed to be, as it were, shivering with cold, we were not actually moving. I slept again. The next I knew I was tearing aside the curtain and stumbling away from my little recess and up the steps and out of the great cabin into the open. The sun was just lightening the sky with glaring streaks of red. There was not a living thing on deck apart from a cat slinking along. Gog or Magog? The cats were free to come and go. I recalled Colin Case declaring that the Argo would not be leaving until the day was well begun. I breathed in clammy draughts of morning air and saw isolated threads of chimney smoke rising from the dwellings that marked Gravesend.

  The day looked to be a fair one even if the sky’s red message was hardly a good omen. For shepherds or sailors, that is. Not that I cared much about shepherds – and even less about sailors. I’d go back and rouse Jack Wilson and we’d make our exit from the Argo without bothering to say any goodbyes. Then we would either wait in Gravesend for the long ferry or, perhaps, hire horses to return to London. We had enough money for that, Jack and I. Jonathan Case had not mentioned again the letter to ‘old Dick Burbage’, but by this stage I did not trust him or believe anything he said. Would rather never see him again.

  But see him again I did, and in the worst of circumstances.

  I went through the entrance to the great cabin. Reaching the bottom of the steps, I paused. Coming from the outside, I could not see clearly at first, but the door to the inner cabin appeared to be open. This was where Dr Jonathan Case was sleeping, usurping the captain’s place. But no, the physician was up and about. There was a figure stooping over the bed that took up most of the space of the little chamber. The figure was outlined against the red light of dawn. As I’ve already mentioned, the occupant of this room was fortunate enough to have a window that offered a fine view from the stern of the boat, that and a bigger bed to sleep in.

  The figure remained where it was, stooping slightly. Something abo
ut the pose made me uneasy. I coughed and shuffled my feet, and the figure raised its head. It wasn’t Jonathan Case but Jack Wilson.

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Come here.’

  I crossed the few paces to the doorway of the tiny cabin and saw a terrible sight. Dr Case lay sprawled on his front on the bed, his feet by the tiny window and his head nearest the door. His prone body was washed by the red light of dawn as it poured through the casement window. Oddly, the casement was open.

  However red the sun, its light was pale enough in comparison to the blood which had issued from a great rent in the centre of Case’s back and which covered his nightshirt. Case’s hands were clasping at the bedcovers, while his head was jerked back so that he seemed to be resting on his chin. His eyes were cast up in his head, and his mouth was gaping as if he were about to scream or laugh. But he would never make another sound in this world. I noticed a great egg-like swelling on his forehead. The skin had split and there was dried blood on his forehead. I glanced up in the direction of the doctor’s dead gaze and saw what appeared to be more blood on the beams of the low ceiling.

  ‘In God’s name—’

  ‘I found him like this, Nick. I got up and the door was partly open and I was curious to have another peek inside the captain’s quarters. I found him like this.’

  Jack sounded calm but somehow weary, too, while I heard a slight tremble in my own voice. A tremble of frustration as much as fear. I foresaw hours and hours of complications before we would be permitted to quit the Argo. I glanced at Jack’s hands. They were clenched tight, like the dead doctor’s. My friend was grasping not bedclothes but, in his right hand, something more solid. I touched the back of his hand. In surprise, he dropped whatever he was holding. It landed on the bed by the dead man. I picked it up and felt the surface of the sacred stone, the sky-stone, polished smooth apart from those queer little incisions which might be letters.