by Paul Doherty
‘My jerkin,’ Hydrus spluttered bloodily. ‘We found it on Reynard.’ The Raven stripped off the dying man’s tattered leather jerkin and hurried away, passing it swiftly to a Friar of the Sack who knelt on the muddy cobbles, Ave beads wreathed about his fingers.
‘The stitching,’ the Raven muttered. The friar bundled the jerkin beneath his robe, rose and pushed his way through the noisy throng into the darkness of a nearby tavern. Once inside, he sat on a corner stool and picked at the rough, loosened stitching on the inside of the jerkin. It gave way easily, and the friar plucked out the roll of yellowing parchment, opened it and smiled to himself. He glanced up, pushing back his cowl to reveal a face well known to Thibault, who had proclaimed the likeness of Simon Grindcobbe, leader of the Essex Upright Men, across all the shires of the kingdom. The manuscript was safe. Thibault might have the cipher and any notes Whitfield had made. Gaunt’s henchman might even have passed these on to the Dominican Athelstan, but, Grindcobbe assured himself, he would take care of that very soon. All in all, a good morning’s work. Even if Thibault had the cipher, he did not have its key; otherwise there would have been tumult throughout the city. Grindcobbe pulled back his cowl to cover both head and face; he still had business to do in Southwark.
‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to himself, ‘a chat with Brother Athelstan might be profitable in more ways than one.’
Cranston and Athelstan had instructed Matthias Camoys to withdraw whilst they, the coroner pithily declared, ‘took a little refreshment’. Joycelina brought them chicken with brewis, a shin of beef generously garnished with onions, parsley and saffron, along with French toast and two blackjacks of ale from the local brewery. Athelstan blessed the food and, for a while, they sat and ate in silence.
‘I wonder,’ Cranston wiped his mouth with a napkin, ‘I truly do.’
‘What?’
‘The attack on Thibault here. The Upright Men have taken a great oath. If Thibault or any of Gaunt’s minions appear in public, each Upright Man has a sacred duty to kill them. We have learnt that from spies, and the evidence is clear to see with members of the Regent’s coven being struck down in public. Some are now so cautious, they stay cowering in their castles or fortified manors.’ Cranston grinned. ‘For all his faults, Thibault is not frightened so easily. He is well protected and would consider himself safe in a brothel in Southwark in the early hours of the day, which means …’ Cranston popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed slowly.
‘The Lord High Coroner is about to share his wisdom with his poor secretarius?’
‘Impudent monk!’
‘Impudent friar, Sir John.’
Cranston grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘First, friar, whatever Whitfield was working on must be of vital importance to Gaunt and Thibault, that’s why our Master of Mischief appeared here. Remember he was livid with rage, fair dancing around the maypole, mad as a March hare. Thibault was quite prepared, or at least he pretended so, to have that wench hanged. Secondly,’ Cranston fingered the crumbs on his platter, ‘the attack on Thibault was sudden. True, the Upright Men may have followed him here, but his soldiers surrounded the house, the attack came from the garden, the guard dogs were locked away …’
‘Only someone in the Golden Oliphant would be certain of that,’ Athelstan added. ‘An attacker from outside would have to get in then flee, a very dangerous task with Thibault’s men swarming all over the brothel. Finally the attacker knew exactly which chamber Thibault and Albinus were in.’
‘Which means, my little ferret of a friar, our mysterious bowman is a member of this august household. He, she or they must have seized an arbalest along with a belt box of quarrels, hastened into the garden and chosen some concealed place. Whoever it was realized they had little chance of striking a mortal blow, but at least it demonstrated to Thibault and his kind that they could never be safe. The Upright Men,’ Cranston continued, ‘have now assumed a new insignia, that of the all-seeing eye. They intend to demonstrate that it’s no idle boast. Anyway, Brother, enough of this. Let’s have Master Camoys back in again.’
Athelstan rose, crossed to the door, opened it and beckoned Camoys into the chamber. The young man entered, slack-eyed and shuffling from foot to foot like a scholar before his magister. ‘Whitfield and Lebarge,’ Athelstan asked, ‘they liked the ladies, did they?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they also liked to dress up as ladies?’
Matthias glanced away.
‘Well?’ Cranston barked.
‘Yes, we all did, that’s Cokayne,’ Matthias mumbled. ‘The world turned upside down. Why, Brother?’
‘They never left the Golden Oliphant disguised as such?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘And Whitfield promised to meet you at the Tavern of Lost Souls, when?’
‘Around the time of vespers, I’ve told you that. He claimed to have some idea about the cipher my uncle used, both here and at St Mary Le Bow.’
Athelstan sensed that fear had made this young man more malleable. He beckoned him towards the settle as he winked at Cranston. ‘Why should Whitfield visit the Tavern of Lost Souls?’
‘Why does anyone?’ Matthias stated nervously as Athelstan joined him on the settle, drawing as close as possible, whilst Cranston leaned across the table.
‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘The Tavern of Lost Souls buys and sells anything.’ Matthias shrugged.
‘And what would Whitfield be wishing to sell or buy?’
‘Brother, I don’t know why he was going there, he just told me he’d meet me as a favour.’
‘A favour?’
‘That’s what he said, but I don’t know what he meant.’
‘You knew Whitfield already?’
‘Father is a goldsmith. Thibault had business with him as he does with others. I have told you this. Whitfield visited our house. Perhaps he wished to please my father.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘Many people do.’
‘And he claimed he could help you resolve the mysterious carvings left by your dead uncle?’
‘So I thought.’
‘You haunt the Golden Oliphant,’ Cranston interposed, ‘but also St Mary Le Bow?’
‘Yes, my uncle’s tomb and that of his comrade: their chantry chapel is dedicated to St Stephen. I often visit it to study the same carvings found here.’
‘Have you asked Mistress Cheyne about them?’
‘Of course, Sir John, but she just laughs. She claims she never really understood my uncle’s absorption with the Cross of Lothar. She does not care for it.’
‘And St Mary Le Bow?’ Athelstan held a hand up for silence as he recalled Thibault’s remark about Reynard, the envoy of the Upright Men, who had been arrested for the slaying of Edmund Lacy, bell clerk at the same church.
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Matthias.’ Athelstan edged a little closer. ‘St Mary Le Bow?’
‘I go there when the church is empty. But,’ Matthias pulled a face, ‘it is haunted.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Cranston interjected. ‘About a hundred years ago, when gang violence in the city was rife during the reign of Edward, ancestor of our present king, a murder took place in St Mary Le Bow.’ Cranston sat back in his chair. ‘I make reference to it in my magnum opus, my great work on the history of this city …’
Athelstan closed his eyes in exasperation. Sir John’s absorption with the history of London was famous, and nothing could stop the coroner from delivering a long, unsolicited lecture on any aspect of city life. Cranston was already preparing himself with a swig from the miraculous wineskin, which he offered to Athelstan. The friar bluntly refused.
‘Sir John, the hour passes. Time is short, pleasure is brief. I think I know …’
‘Laurence Duket,’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Athelstan, ‘as I have said, about a hundred years ago he was a gang leader in London. He met his rival Ralph Crepyn in Cheapside and there was the usual dagger play. Anyway, Du
ket wounded Crepyn and fled for sanctuary in St Mary Le Bow. Yes, Master Matthias?’ The young man, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded. ‘The church was locked and sealed for the night,’ Cranston continued blithely, ‘yet when the priest opened the church the following morning, Duket was found hanging from a wall bracket. Of course, such a mystery swept the city. The King sent a royal clerk to investigate. The mystery was solved and ended up with a woman, Alice atte Bowe, being burned alive at Smithfield. Other members of the gang were hanged, either by the neck or the purse.’
‘Duket’s ghost is supposed to haunt St Mary Le Bow,’ Matthias took up the story. ‘I can well believe it. I go in when it falls quiet after the morning masses, when the market bell has sounded …’
‘You said haunted?’
‘Oh, I am sure, Brother, that the ghost of Laurence Duket glides the gloomy nave. The light is always dappled there, the shadows ever present, growing longer as the day dies.’ Matthias paused. ‘Strange sounds echo. You know the church is built over a Roman temple to a god called Mithras? I have been down into the crypt and seen some of the ancient ruins, but they don’t concern me; my uncle’s chantry chapel does. Duket’s ghost,’ Matthias shrugged, ‘has probably been joined by that of Edmund Lacy, slain in a tavern brawl.’
‘By the villain Reynard, who,’ Cranston peered at the hour candle standing in the corner, ‘should be meeting God above Tyburn stream. Now, young man, Whitfield and Lebarge – whom did they carouse with?’
Matthias scratched the side of his face. ‘They revelled and drank deep in their cups. They had conversations with, well,’ he shrugged, ‘with everyone. Though, for the life of me, I cannot recall specific occasions.’
‘And the wenches – whom did they favour?’
‘Whitfield, Joycelina; Lebarge, Hawisa – a pert little doxy with a swan-like neck, sweet-faced and full-bosomed.’ Matthias abruptly rose. ‘If you are finished with me,’ he stammered, ‘can I go?’
‘For the time being,’ Athelstan replied, asking Matthias to fetch the two women he’d named.
Joycelina and Hawisa arrived, the former looking cold-eyed and solemn, though Hawisa, pretty as any spring maid, seemed eager to please; yet neither was forthcoming, claiming that they had entertained their clients and knew next to nothing about their business affairs. Exasperated, Athelstan dismissed them.
‘You know more than what you have told us,’ he declared. ‘We will undoubtedly talk to you ladies again. So, until then.’ He swung open the door and gestured them through, then closed it behind them and leaned against it. ‘Sir John, we certainly do not have the truth about all this.’
‘Murder, little friar?’
‘Murder, Grand Coroner! Oh, yes! Murder has taken up residence here, along with a whole coven of mischief. Now, Sir John, let us return to …’
Athelstan stopped at a pounding at the door. It was flung open and Sir Everard Camoys, white beard and moustache bristling, stormed into the chamber.
‘Why, my good friend …’
‘Don’t good friend me, Sir John.’ Everard unclasped his cloak and threw it to the settle. ‘My feckless son is here, in this den of iniquity, this haven of harlots. I …’
Cranston swept round the table and clasped Sir Everard’s hand, drawing him into a full embrace before stepping away, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Fiery as always, Everard, but we are not charging the French. I have business here and, I admit, so have you. Now come.’ Cranston made the goldsmith sit down and served him a blackjack of fresh ale and a platter of bread and cheese. Athelstan introduced himself. Sir Everard, now slightly embarrassed, offered his apologies. Athelstan just smiled and sketched a cross in the air above the goldsmith’s head.
‘I am sorry,’ Sir Everard repeated, ‘but my waking hours were disturbed by the Herald of Hell. I sent you a message, Sir John.’
The coroner nodded.
‘Tell me more about this Herald,’ Athelstan said. ‘I know …’
‘Brother, a true will-o’-the-wisp, a night walker cloaked in the deepest dark. He appears, delivers his proclamation and vanishes.’
‘What did he say?’
Everard closed his eyes. ‘Lord Camoys,’ he began,
‘And all who with you dwell,
Harken to this warning from the Herald of Hell,
Judgement is coming, it will not be late,
Vengeance already knocks on your gate.’
Everard opened his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Doggerel verse! When I went down to investigate, out in the street, I could see no one. The watchman Poulter also reported the same, yet I heard that horn, those threats. I saw and held that beaker of blood with two sticks, small onions spiked on them like traitors’ heads poled above London Bridge.’
‘He is appearing all over the city,’ Cranston declared. ‘No one knows who he is or how he can come and go with such impunity.’
‘And yet,’ Sir Everard broke in, ‘I am sure …’
‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I recognized that voice, I am certain of it. Oh, I know they say the Herald of Hell is the leader of the Upright Men in London, and that he has the power to turn invisible and be in many places at the one time.’ Everard shook his head. ‘I am more a believer in human wickedness and cunning tricks. I recognized that voice but I cannot place it.’ He turned toward Cranston. ‘Remember, John, when we were in France? You and I were regularly despatched forward towards the enemy lines.’
‘I remember.’ Cranston smiled dreamily. ‘Warm nights, the air rich with the fragrance of apples. Do you remember that night outside Crotoy?’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan warned.
‘Ah yes.’ The coroner recollected himself.
‘They used to call us the King’s eyes and ears,’ Everard declared. ‘You with your sharp sight.’
‘And you, my friend, with an ear for the faintest sound.’
‘So you recognized the Herald’s voice?’
‘Yes, Brother, but, the angels be my witness, I cannot place it. I have done some searches. You are correct, Sir John. The Herald appears all over the city from Farringdon to Cripplegate.’ The goldsmith shook his head. ‘He knows where people live; he appears, then, like some will-o’-the-wisp, he vanishes into thin air.’
‘And the Cross of Lothar?’ Athelstan asked. ‘We know its origins …’
‘I am sure you do.’ Sir Everard waved a hand. ‘I could understand my brother’s absorption with it. What I find difficult to accept is that he soaked my son’s mind and soul with stories about that cross; the legends surrounding it, the richness of its jewellery, its dazzling appearance.’
‘Why didn’t Reginald just leave it to his nephew?’
Sir Everard sighed noisily. ‘Oh, Reginald eventually realized what he had done. Matthias was totally obsessed by that cross.’ The goldsmith blew his cheeks out. ‘About the only thing Matthias was interested in, apart from wenching and drinking. Anyway, my brother decided he would not make it easy for his nephew. He would force Matthias to use his wits. After all, he is an intelligent scholar; he could discover its whereabouts for himself. Ah, well,’ Sir Everard struggled to his feet. ‘I came to rescue my son from this house of stews with its filthy fleshpots. Sir John, if that is acceptable?’
‘As long as you stand guarantor for him. Matthias must not leave London and be ready to be questioned by us at any hour of the day. Everard, my old friend …’ Cranston came round the table. ‘One final question about the Cross of Lothar: do you have any idea of its whereabouts? Could it lie buried with your brother?’
‘No, I am sure it is not. Matthias is correct. I would wager a pound of pure gold that the Lothar Cross lies hidden, either here or in St Mary Le Bow. But now I must go.’
‘And so shall we.’ Athelstan gathered up his chancery bag. ‘Sir John, we must visit Whitfield’s chamber.’
Everard turned, his hand on the door latch. ‘Did Thibault’s clerk commit suicide?’
Athelstan smiled faintly. ‘Fo
r now, God only knows, but come, Sir John, I want Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina to join us. Sir Everard, I bid you good day.’
They left, and Athelstan went ahead, up the steep, narrow stairs to the top gallery and what he now called ‘The Murder Chamber’. He walked into the musty room and crossed to the window, noticing how the floorboards creaked. He scrutinized everything most carefully: the inner shutters, the window, the tattered oiled pigskin. He could detect nothing out of place except that the latch on the door window was rather stiff and creaked when moved. He opened it, leaned over and peered either side.
‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘According to Foxley, this was all sealed and locked.’ He tapped a sandalled foot against the floor. ‘The window is big enough for someone to enter, but how could they?’ He turned away. ‘There is no ladder long enough to reach it, and even if there was, the guard dogs roaming the gardens below would have been alerted. The soil has not been disturbed, and anyone climbing up to this window on the top gallery could easily be noticed from any window overlooking the garden.’ He paused. ‘I wonder,’ he whispered, ‘why Whitfield, not the fittest of men, should have a chamber on the top gallery? Why not a more comfortable one below? So …’ He moved over to the door propped against the wall and carefully inspected the dark stained oak, the bolts at top and bottom, both savagely ruptured, the torn hinges and the bulging, cracked lock with the key still twisted inside. He examined the lintel – slivers of wood had broken away – then stepped back into the chamber. The door was built into the wall with a recess on either side. He glanced to the left where robes and cloaks still hung on pegs and then to the right where the lavarium and hour candle stood. He walked around scrutinizing the floor, walls and ceilings, but the chamber was enclosed, with no traces of any secret door or passageway. He crossed himself and went to gaze at where Whitfield’s corpse had hung so eerily, swaying slightly on the end of that tarred rope.