Knaves Templar

by Leonard Tourney

  She asked the blackamoor what he wanted of her, but the ferocious man gave no answer and the crouching lions glared at her with cruel eyes and savage jaws, dripping with blood.

  Sixteen

  PHIPPS DID NOT RETURN TO MATTHEW’S CHAMBER UNTIL NEARLY MIDNIGHT, AND THEN IN AN ODDLY SULLEN MOOD. HE WOULD NOT BE ENGAGED IN CONVERSATION BUT TO SAY THAT HE HAD BRIEFLY ENCOUNTERED MATTHEW’S WIFE ON THE STAIRS EARLIER AND SO GOOD NIGHT.

  Perplexed by this sea change in the normally loquacious clerk, but dog-tired from waiting up, Matthew snuffed out the light and went to sleep.

  The next morning, true to his threat to Joan, Matthew got out of bed and dressed, determined to keep his promises despite his affliction. Jacob Flowerdewe had brought him an oak staff, and with its help he was able to hobble around with a minimum of pain, although using the staff made him feel like an old man. He went to breakfast with Phipps, whose stony silence a night’s sleep had done nothing to relieve. Dressing, Phipps had not said much more than to return Matthew’s good morning. Something had happened the evening before. Something compelling enough to staunch the usual flow of words proceeding from the clerk’s mouth. But Phipps wasn’t saying what it was. And when Matthew commented on Phipps’s depression, Phipps looked at him as though there were nothing wrong at all and the very idea was an absurdity.

  In the Hall, Osborne and some other Templars whom Matthew had remembered as actors in Osborne’s play were sitting at one of the tables; Matthew noticed that Keable had been readmitted to the company, at least provisionally, for although he sat a little apart from the others, he had been allowed to participate in the conversation, which dealt with the relative merits of Masters Shakespeare and Jonson.

  “And what do you say, Master Stock?” Osborne said, addressing Matthew as soon as he sat down. Matthew had no intention of joining in the debate. He knew next to nothing of plays, or of those who wrote them. He did intend to eat, however, and he found Osborne’s question an annoying interruption of these plans. “I see your indisposition has passed, save for a limp. Come, give us your opinion—which man, Shakespeare or Jonson, is the greater writer?”

  “Yes,” said Phipps, “which?”

  Matthew realized to his embarrassment that all eyes at the table were focused on him and everyone had stopped eating, waiting for his reply.

  “Do help us, Master Stock,” said Keable from his end of the table. “For we are evenly divided on the matter. Half of us prefer Shakespeare and the other half Jonson. ’ ’

  Matthew thought quickly. He had seen one of Shakespeare’s plays and heard so much from Thomas Cooke of another that it was almost as though he had seen it himself— a play called Twelfth Night. But he had seen no play of Jon-son’s, tragedy or comedy. Indeed, he had barely heard his name and had no opinion of his art. Yet by the look of anticipation along the benches, an answer was expected of him if he was to avoid appearing to be a country bumpkin with neither wit nor education. He decided to render his verdict in Shakespeare’s favor. “Master Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night is full of much good humor and witty invention.”

  Matthew had merely quoted Thomas’s offhanded remark one night at supper; he was not prepared for the rebuff his simple opinion would provoke, for he had no sooner said this than those of Jonson’s party, who seemed to be in the majority at table, protested vigorously.

  “Oh, come now, Master Stock,” Phipps declared. “Twelfth Night is a silly, frivolous piece, full of fantastic improbabilities that a few lines of witty verse cannot rescue from oblivion. In five years’ time, no one will have heard of the play—much less its author. Now, you take Jonson’s noble works. And most particularly his Everyman in His Humor—”

  “Indeed,” interrupted one of the gentlemen whose name Matthew had forgotten. “Who would believe that a maiden could disguise herself as her own brother and get away with it—much less win the heart of a gentleman?”

  “Save he were a fool and a cuckold,” said Phipps.

  “Or a base sodomite, delighting in womanish boys?” Osborne said archly.

  Osborne had addressed this remark to Phipps rather than to Matthew, and Matthew could see that along the table the nasty insinuation had not gone unnoticed nor unappreciated. Several of the men were smirking, and all the table fell silent and looked at the clerk, whose fair complexion had crimsoned, although he pretended to ignore the slur. Phipps said to Matthew in a strained voice: “Surely you concede, Master Stock, that such an impersonation is improbable—and that a device which so grievously flouts the laws of probability can hardly give legitimate pleasure?”

  But Osborne prevented Matthew’s answer. “No more improbable than Jonson’s plays you, Phipps, so much admire. Impersonation is the common device of comedy, and improbability its essence. Consider Plautus.”

  “ You consider Plautus,” Phipps snapped, glaring at Osborne. “The greatest virtue of that noble Roman is perfection of form, symmetry of scene. Where can one find that in Shakespeare? A notable grab bag of invention or what you will, undisciplined by the classical art. Why, there is utter confusion of times, places, and persons.”

  “There most certainly is,” exclaimed Keable, coming to Phipps’s aid. “The unities are violated.”

  “And so is decorum,” said Wilson, who had just joined the group and was half listening and half endeavoring to get a server to bring him something to eat.

  “Decorum be damned!” shouted Osborne. “The audiences loved the play. Even you, Master Phipps, were observed to laugh.”

  “I laughed at Malvolio—such a ludicrous caricature in his yellow stockings all cross-gartered. I also laughed because the play was so ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps,” replied Osborne. “But you and he have the same tailor.” Osborne smiled broadly and looked around the table for approval from the others. And there was some laughter, primarily from Wilson, who Matthew thought was a very silly young man and probably disposed to laugh at anything. Matthew noticed that Keable, who had been on Phipps’s side before, laughed too—and that Phipps had seen this petty treason and had not taken it lightly. Phipps’s face, reddened from embarrassment before, now darkened with rage. He got up from the table and, without a word of farewell, marched off.

  “Oh, dear,” said Osborne with false dismay, “I do hope I have said nothing to offend Master Treasurer’s clerk. ’ ’ Then he grumbled something about sore losers, and even those who had shared Phipps’s conviction that Jonson was the superior dramatist agreed that Phipps was overly sensitive to criticism, a damp squib, and the Treasurer’s catamite. Osborne was expanding upon this last theme in a particularly salacious anecdote when the subject himself came into the Hall and was practically upon them before a timely jab in the ribs from Wilson caused Osborne abruptly to shift topics.

  Hutton looked somewhat harried. He nodded briefly to the others and then asked Matthew if he might have a few words with him. Matthew got up from the table and followed Hutton to his office. Inside, Phipps was waiting. Hutton invited Matthew to be seated. The Treasurer took his place behind his desk, folded his hands on his desktop, and with a portentous sigh, said: “Master Phipps has just given me certain information that may help you in your investigation, Master Stock. Yes, I have told him about your real purpose here. I believe he can be trusted, especially in light of the valuable information he has brought us.”

  Matthew looked at Hutton with astonishment, then over at Phipps. The clerk’s face was without expression.

  “Theophilus, tell Master Stock what you have just told me.

  “With great pleasure, sir,” said Phipps, turning slightly in his chair and smiling at Matthew as though they were the best of friends. “Keable told me a tale I only half believed but have now come to think to be fact. Before the deaths of Litchfield, Monk, and Giles, Keable found them one night in close conversation in Litchfield’s chamber. They would not let him join them, but Keable swears Braithwaite was there, as was a fifth person he did not recognize.”

  “Could he descr
ibe this fifth person?” Matthew asked. “The man’s back was turned.”

  Matthew looked at Hutton. “Prideaux, do you think?” Hutton nodded. “Very possibly. A conspiracy, by the sound of it. With all now dead by violence, save Prideaux, who may be the murderer of the others.”

  “If Keable’s word can be trusted,” Matthew said.

  “He told me in strictest confidence,” Phipps said.

  “And yet you told us,” Matthew said dryly. “Why did you not say something to me before? I could hardly get a word out of you this morning, and last night, upon your return, you acted as though your tongue had been cut out. Surely you had this new intelligence by then, for you had no opportunity to speak to Keable this morning. ”

  “Marry, sir,” Phipps said. “I would have told you all had I known what you were and whose great interests you serve. Please believe I shall be more forthcoming henceforth. And as for the betrayal of trust you imply, I thought I owed a higher duty to the Templar brethren and to Master Hutton here than to Keable, whom I hardly count a friend, as you observed yourself at breakfast.”

  “You did your duty, Theophilus,” Hutton said. “Spoken like a true son of the Temple. Now, Master Stock, Theophilus has done yeoman service in providing you with this clue. Keable has always been a troublemaker. This incident with

  Braithwaite is quite in character. I suspect he’s more involved himself in the deaths of Litchfield, Monk, and Giles than he reports. Perhaps also in that of Braithwaite, whose grieving parents I must confront within the hour. I suggest you turn your attention now to him. Determine what else he may know about this secret gathering he discovered. You may take Theophilus here into your confidence. Use him wisely in your secret inquiry even as he has served you as a nurse these past two days.”

  Matthew sighed heavily and glanced over at Phipps, whose face showed a blank expression, but he sensed the secret triumph beneath the soft, delicate features, and it infuriated him.

  “I shall treat Theophilus with no less respect than he deserves,” Matthew said coolly with a polite nod in the clerk’s direction. “But before I ferret out what Keable has concealed, I would like to meet Braithwaite’s parents.”

  “And so you shall,” said Hutton, rising. “Theophilus, go see if they do not already wait outside. If not, find them and bring them here.”

  “Now I see my disclosing your purpose to Phipps does not please you, Master Stock,” Hutton said when Phipps had gone.

  “Generally, the fewer who know a secret, the less likely it is to be compromised.”

  “I heartily agree,” said Hutton in a conciliatory tone. “But your recent injury, I thought, called for desperate measures. Concede that you need help. Grant that Phipps has been helpful. Has he not proved his faithfulness in bringing us this information?”

  “Perhaps ... if it’s true,” said Matthew.

  “If it’s true! Why, do you believe he would make up such stuff?”

  Matthew was about to answer in the affirmative when Phipps returned with word that Sir Henry Braithwaite and his lady had arrived. Hutton rose from behind his desk with a heavy sigh and took Matthew by the elbow. “Come, Master Stock. You asked to be a part of this sad scene. You shall have your wish—and perhaps find out more about this Pri-deaux.”

  Sir Henry Braithwaite was a tall, solid-looking man of about sixty, very elegantly dressed, but all in black and dark gray as befit his grief, which was as evident in his sad countenance as it was in the colors he had chosen. By his side was his wife, a small, delicately boned woman who seemed her husband’s junior by about twenty years. Her face was pale and drawn and partially concealed by a hood. She walked haltingly, timorously, like a person on foreign ground, braced up by her husband. With them was Leyland, the physician, looking morose and perhaps a bit nervous, his hat off and his lank black hair all blown, although there had been no wind. Leyland was carrying his little satchel, and behind him came another gentleman, much better dressed than Leyland but similarly equipped. Matthew recognized him as Thomas Millcock. Matthew had met Millcock briefly at summer’s end when the illustrious physician had been summoned to give his verdict on the cause of death of a man whose mortal remains had consisted of no more than an ankle and foot. It had all happened amidst the stink and confusion of Bartholomew Fair. Matthew surmised that Millcock’s presence now had a similar purpose. So Sir Henry disputed the cause of death. As well he might, thought Matthew.

  Matthew was relieved when his eyes met Millcock and there was no sign of recognition in the physician’s face. Millcock should have remembered. Matthew had made somewhat of a name for himself then—at least among those privy to the circumstances of the case, as Millcock was. And yet Matthew didn’t need that now—exposure as one who by trade had become a ferreter of mysteries as well as a simple clothier with a shop in Chelmsford.

  Introductions now followed words of consolation from Hutton, who spoke a very long time about the inevitability of death and the glorious resurrection. Then Hutton led the way to the end of a passage where they descended to chambers below the great Hall. They went inside one room that was small and cold. Matthew realized at once that it was used as a mortuary, for there were no furnishings but a single bed without a mattress but only planks, and on this, covered with a sheet, lay Braithwaite’s body.

  “I’ll need more light than this,” Millcock said softly to Hutton and Phipps, who had tagged along after Matthew was dispatched to And more candles. In a moment he was back with a brace of six, all burning now, and these, along with those that were lighted before, gave ample light to see the waxy whiteness of the dead man’s face and the sweat glistening upon the brow of Leyland, for whom, Matthew realized, Millcock’s examination was a trial of his competency. Braithwaite’s mother wept softly, but the father stood calmly by, somewhat detached, like a general watching his troops from a great distance. Matthew heard Sir Heniy ask her if she wanted to go upstairs, but he did not hear the lady’s reply. She remained. Leyland joined Millcock by the body. Mill-cock looked up at Hutton, and Hutton nodded. Millcock rummaged through his satchel for instruments, then pulled back the sheet slowly. Matthew heard the mother gasp and then there was silence as Millcock began his work.

  An hour later, they were all gathered in Hutton’s office again. Millcock said to Sir Henry: “I must agree with my colleague, Master Leyland. The wound is clean of any infection, nor would I have expected it so hard upon the stroke itself. It has been competently cleaned and bound. The internal organs of your son seem without noticeable disease. They give no evidence that he was sick at the time of his death with any undiscovered ailment. He might have lived to be eighty with luck and God’s blessing.”

  “Yet he is dead,” said Sir Henry. “If it was not the rapier that killed him, then what?”

  Millcock shook his head. “The question is perhaps better put to a doctor of the Church. I inspected your son’s body from the crown of his head to his toes. Other than the wound in his shoulder, there is nc mark of violence upon him. All his organs were in perfect condition. Master Leyland did his work well. He cannot be blamed for your son’s death.”

  The learned physicians said their good-byes and departed. Matthew asked Sir Henry and his lady if he might speak to them privately. Hutton said Matthew could use his office. He had some business to see about, he said. “My clerk can stay.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Matthew said firmly, determined that Phipps should not be present while he spoke to the Braithwaites, and prepared to make an issue of it. But Hutton said, “Have it as you will.”

  Matthew ushered Braithwaite’s parents into the Treasurer’s office and closed the door in Phipps’s face.

  “Master Hutton tells me you yourself have a son in the Temple,” said Sir Henry when they were alone. He spoke in a quiet voice. His mind was obviously still on the grim mortuary and the mystery of his healthy son’s death. “And that you were the one who found my son’s body. ”

  “That’s true, sir,” said Matthew. �
�I had come to your son’s room to ask him some questions.”

  “Questions?” inteijected Lady Braithwaite suspiciously. “What manner of questions?”

  Matthew decided to tell the truth. There was no point in dissembling with these grieving parents. Ensconced in Surrey, they could have had no part in the murders. “Your son’s name was one of five on a piece of paper found in another gentleman’s chamber the same day the latter poisoned himself.”

  “Giles, you mean,” Sir Henry said with a frown. “We heard he took poison. Richard told us the story on his last visit home. But he said nothing about a list.”

  “Its discovery is not generally known, and I pray you keep its existence and what else I shall relate to you privy between us.”

  Sir Henry and his wife said that they would.

  “The names were Litchfield, Monk, Braithwaite, Giles, and Prideaux.”

  “Three of those you name are suicides,” Lady Braithwaite said. “We are not so remote in Surrey as not to have heard that grim report. But I hope you are not suggesting that my son took his own life.”

  “No, madam. But the other deaths are now suspected by Master Hutton and myself to be murders, devilishly disguised. On my way to ask your son why his name should have been found among the others’, I was attacked—very likely by him who had just taken your son’s life.”

  “But how?” exclaimed Sir Henry. “You heard what Master Millcock said. There were no marks upon the body.” “I’m not sure,” Matthew said. “Perhaps he was smothered—a pillow placed over his face while he slept. He was in a weakened condition. Leyland had given him something to sleep. Whatever it was, your son is dead—the fourth upon Giles’s list to die. And I know I limp and walk with a staff where before I was whole. Believe me, the figure I saw emerge from your son’s chamber the night of his death was no child of my fancy—he has left his mark upon me.”