by Paul Doherty
‘Impossible,’ Athelstan breathed, staring up at the beam. ‘Did you commit suicide? Does your spirit still hover here? Has Satan appeared with his hellish mirror so that you can gaze forever on your immortal soul stained with sin, or has God sent this great angel of mercy to comfort you? I pray that he has …’ He stopped as he heard a harsh clatter on the stairs and Sir John’s booming voice assuring the ladies that they could soon return to their normal business.
The coroner led Mistress Cheyne, Joycelina and Foxley into the chamber. The Master of Horse looked a little tipsy, the two women rather anxious, the usual arrogance drained from their faces. Athelstan ushered them out to the gallery and asked them to repeat exactly what had happened earlier in the day when the door was forced. Mistress Cheyne immediately described how she had been busy in the refectory with guests and servants who were breaking their fast. Griffin had gone to rouse everybody, but Whitfield’s absence was eventually noted and Joycelina despatched to fetch him. The maid then took up the story, explaining how she had knocked on the door, tried it, then peered through the eyelet, but this had been blocked, whilst the key had definitely been in the lock. She had then hurried down to the refectory to raise the alarm. Mistress Cheyne, now seated on one of the coffers, described how Foxley had gone out into the garden to bring the battering ram, along with the two labourers, whilst Joycelina had been despatched to tell the maids not to be disturbed by what they heard. The labourers had brought the ram; they had mounted the stairs and begun pounding the door, Foxley assisting them. The Master of Horse intervened and explained that he had also examined the door and found both eyelet and lock blocked. He had helped the labourers while Mistress Cheyne had shouted for Joycelina to join her, which she had done.
‘So you are gathered here,’ Athelstan declared, ‘in this dark gallery, then what happened?’
‘The door gave way, it collapsed. Immediately we saw Whitfield’s corpse swaying in the poor light.’ Mistress Cheyne wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘We were very frightened. I told Foxley to go in.’
‘I entered,’ the Master of Horse explained. ‘I passed the corpse. I was terrified. The shadows seemed to dance. I wondered if pig-faced demons …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘then what happened?’
‘You went straight to the window?’ Athelstan gently insisted. ‘And?’
‘I lifted the bar on the inner shutters and pulled at the window latch.’
‘Was that easy?’
‘No, it stuck a little, as if it had been clamped shut for some time. I pushed the door window back and lifted the hooks on the outer shutters.’
‘Tell me,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘did you notice anything amiss about either the shutters or the window?’
‘No.’
Athelstan studied Foxley’s face. ‘You may not have told me everything,’ he murmured, ‘or even the full truth behind other matters, but I believe you are telling me the truth about this.’ He turned. ‘Sir John, inform all those whom we have questioned to make themselves readily available if we wish to question them again.’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Or we shall have them put to the horn as utlegati – outlaws …’
Athelstan and Cranston left the Golden Oliphant, pausing beneath the huge, exquisitely painted sign to decide what to do next. Athelstan stared up. With its hidden sexual connotations, the curved, beautifully decorated drinking horn, its goblet sealed by a cross, struck him as a most accurate depiction of the house he was leaving. All fair in form, but what was its essence, the very substance of the place? A house of murder. Pondering how he could resolve the mysteries confronting him, the friar was tempted to return immediately to St Erconwald’s and question Lebarge, yet he sensed Whitfield’s scrivener would claim sanctuary in all its rights and refuse to talk. Why had Lebarge fled there? What was he so frightened of? Athelstan put these questions to Cranston, who simply rubbed his face and stared up at the gorgeously painted Oliphant.
‘The day is passing quickly enough,’ the coroner grunted. ‘We have other places to visit before we cross the river. Let us leave Lebarge for a while and thread these murderous alleyways to a house of even greater ill-repute, the Tavern of Lost Souls.’
Cranston and Athelstan made their way along the narrow runnels heading towards the stews along the Thames. The coroner was correct. The day was passing and the strengthening sunshine had coaxed all the inhabitants of these grim slums out into the streets to mingle with those making their way up to London and the approaches to the riverside. Cranston was recognized and mocked, but his comitatus or retinue, led by the burly bailiff Flaxwith, his ugly mastiff Samson trotting aggressively beside him, kept the threats to nothing more than hurled curses and obscenities.
They entered what Cranston described as the ‘footpaths of Hell’, mere slits between decaying houses, so rotten and dilapidated they leaned in dizzyingly close to block out both light and air. These derelict shells were only kept from collapsing by struts and crutches shoved under each storey. All windows were blind, shuttered fast, whilst doorways were hidden behind rough sheets of oxhide doused in vinegar as a protection against fire. Rubbish heaps, so slimy they glistened, exuded rotten smells, a haven for the fast, slinking rats almost as big as the long-haired cats which watched from the shadows. Dogs on chains, ribs showing through their mangy hides, howled and threw themselves from their foul kennels. Flies moved in thick black clouds like a horde of demons above the refuse which lay ankle-deep, swilling in the filthy water seeping from cracked rain tubs. Figures moved, flitting shadows through the murk. Voices echoed eerily. Here and there a lanternhorn, lit by candles reeking of tallow fat, glowed through the gloom. Along these footpaths, the dead hour, the witching time for all forms of wickedness, lasted from dawn to dusk. Now and again this sanctuary of sin showed some life: a beggar woman crawled out to plead for her husband, whose wits, she screeched, had been stolen by fairies. Athelstan was appalled at the sheer ugliness of her raw-boned, one-eyed face, her scalp scratched bloodily bare of hair, her fingers thin and crooked like hooks. He hastily threw her a coin and sketched a blessing. Cranston quietly cursed and immediately ordered his bailiffs to ring them as a huge, barred door was speedily flung open. A gang of beggars, swathed in rags, swarmed out to pester this generous friar. Cranston’s bailiffs drove them away as they hurried along the main thoroughfare leading down to the river.
Here the crowd was more busy about their own affairs. Athelstan, face hidden deep in his cowl, caught snatches of the teeming life around him. A wedding party: the groom, festooned with green leaves, a chaplet of roses on his head, led his merry guests in a spritely dance to the music of rebec, viol and harp. A knight, sombre in black and yellow livery, rode a powerful, roan-coloured destrier down to the tilt yards. He sat in the majestic, horned wooden saddle carrying lance and great shield; the caparison of his destrier matched his own colours, whilst before him a squire carried a decorated helmet with a leaping panther crest festooned with yellow and black feathers. Friars of many orders in robes of black, white, cream or muddy brown administered to the needs of funeral corteges, mourning parties or vigil fraternities. Traders and hucksters, their trays strapped round their necks, touted a range of goods, from threads to potions which could cure the plague. Leeches offered to bleed those too full of blood. Wild-eyed relic-sellers, who proclaimed they were fresh from Jerusalem or Rome, offered wares which included Delilah’s hair or bloodsoaked soil from the Garden of Gethsemane.
The noise was constant: curses, yells, shouts of traders offering ‘fresh mince’, ‘clear water’, ‘sweet grilled meals’, or ‘the fattest figs in a sugared sauce’. The night walkers and dark prowlers were also out with a keen eye for the loose purse or dangling wallet. The crowd surged and broke around funeral parties, pilgrim groups and the different fraternities who moved in clouds of incense and a blaze of colour to this church or that. The stink and stench proved too much for Athelstan, and he hastily bought two pomanders from a young girl, who also i
nvited them over to a puppet show on a garishly decorated cart. Athelstan smiled and shook his head. They turned a corner on to a rutted trackway which swept down to a three-storey, lathe and plaster building with a purple-painted door approached by steep steps. Above this hung a sign proclaiming in red and gold-scrolled lettering: ‘The Tavern of Lost Souls’.
‘Undoubtedly the work of Reginald Camoys,’ Cranston declared, taking a swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘A work of art, eh, Athelstan? Red and gold against a snow-white background. Snow-white!’ Cranston snorted. ‘That certainly wouldn’t be the description of what goes on behind that purple-painted door!’
‘Which is?’
‘Everything under the sun,’ Flaxwith, standing behind them, lugubriously intoned. ‘Buying and selling, cheating and cozening, where the Devil’s pact is sworn over this soul or that and lives are marked down for ending. Whatever you want, Brother, Master Mephistopheles and his minions will arrange.’
‘Mephistopheles? The devil himself?’
‘The devil incarnate!’ Cranston snorted. ‘Come.’
They climbed the steps. Cranston brought the bronze clapper, carved in the shape of a grinning demon’s face, down time and again. The door was flung open, and a man dressed in a grey robe bounded by a red cincture beckoned them into the most extraordinary taproom Athelstan had ever seen. A long hall stretched before them, well lit by catherine wheels lowered on chains. Candles crammed around each rim provided light, along with lanterns hooked on beams or pillars. The floor gleamed with polish, the air fragrant with the smell of beeswax and herb pots placed judiciously along the walls. There was no obvious furniture, but a long row of cubicles was set in the centre, each one carved out of shimmering oak with a door on either end. One of these hung open and Athelstan glimpsed a shiny table with cushioned benches on either side. The bright lighting meant that customers could view the extraordinary paintings which proclaimed the most frightening images of Hell: minstrels tortured by the very instruments they used to play; vain beauties forced to admire their own reflection in a mirror on the devil’s arse; adulterers impaled by demon birds; gluttons devoured by a huge stomach on legs.
Halfway down the taproom they were told to wait. Athelstan could hear murmurs of conversation from the cubicles, but these were so cunningly contrived and placed, it was nigh impossible to hear what was actually being said. He walked across to study the frescoes more carefully. The entire row of paintings all displayed scenes from Hell: demons depicted as part animal, part human and part vegetable; devils with gauzy wings and fly faces; sinners who once frolicked in the pond of lust now stood blue-bodied next to a frozen lake where more of the damned floated and froze, their heads just above Hell’s foul waters. The more he studied the paintings, the more Athelstan was convinced they were inspired by the teaching of the mystic Richard Rolle who proclaimed, ‘As a war-like machine strikes the walls of a city, so shall hideously fanged frog-demons strike the bodies and souls of the damned.’
‘You like our paintings, Brother Athelstan?’ The Dominican turned. A man, dressed in the same way as the one who had opened the door, emerged out of the darkness at the far end of the taproom. He walked across the dancing pools of light, hands outstretched in greeting. Athelstan grasped them and the man introduced himself as ‘Mephistopheles, Master of the Minions’.
‘You were not called that over the baptismal font?’ Athelstan enquired, stepping back.
‘You mean when I, or those who sponsored me, rejected the Lord Satan and all his pomp and boasts?’ Mephistopheles grinned in a display of white, shiny teeth. He drew closer and Athelstan caught the very cunning of this man. A shape-shifter, the friar thought, a man who could be all things to all men. Mephistopheles was quiet-voiced, his face cleanly shaven, his red, cropped hair shiny with oil. A pious face with regular features except for the slightly sardonic twist of his full lips and cynical eyes, as if the soul behind them contemplated the world and all who passed through it with the utmost mockery. Mephistopheles gestured at the paintings.
‘We like to remind our customers that life is short, judgement imminent and punishment eternal; this concentrates the mind something wonderful.’ He paused as Cranston strolled across, Flaxwith trailing behind him. ‘My Lord Coroner, a great pleasure!’
‘I wish I could return the compliment, Master Mephistopheles, but we must have words.’
‘And so we shall.’ Mephistopheles nodded towards Flaxwith. ‘But first ask your bully boys to stand by the door; they make me nervous.’
Cranston looked as if he were about to refuse.
‘Please,’ Athelstan murmured.
Cranston assented and Mephistopheles led them across to one of the cubicles. He opened the door and grandly gestured them to sit on one side of the table whilst he took the bench opposite. He asked if they wanted refreshment. Cranston was about to agree when Athelstan pressed his sandalled foot hard on the toe of Cranston’s boot. Mephistopheles grinned and rubbed white, fleshy hands together.
‘Sir John?’
‘Amaury Whitfield, Thibault’s clerk, has been found hanging in his chamber at the Golden Oliphant.’
‘So I have heard.’
‘He visited you?’
‘So it would appear; otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting me!’
‘Why did Whitfield come here and why did he intend to return this evening?’
‘You are right that he intended to return.’
‘What was his business?’
‘His business.’
Swifter than any dagger man, Cranston whipped out his knife and pressed the blade against Mephistopheles’ throat.
‘You will slit me, Sir John?’
‘Of course, defending myself, a royal officer, the King’s own Coroner in the City of London against a notorious miscreant resisting arrest.’
‘On what charge?’ Mephistopheles held his head rigidly still.
‘Oh, I can think of quite a few after Flaxwith and my bully boys, as you call them, have ransacked this house of ill-repute from cellar to garret. Now come, Master of the Minions, the truth.’
Mephistopheles nodded and Cranston resheathed his dagger.
‘He came here yesterday,’ Mephistopheles said carefully. ‘He met me. He held certain goods he wished to trade and enquired if I would inspect them and offer a price.’
‘What goods?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mephistopheles rubbed his throat where Cranston’s dagger had rested. ‘But he seemed satisfied and said he would return here later today, towards the evening, but …’ Mephistopheles spread his hands.
‘Was he frightened?’ Cranston asked.
‘Certainly. He mumbled something about the Herald of Hell, the sinister doom threatening the city, and his desire to escape the coming fury.’
‘Did he seem frightened enough to commit suicide?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘Oh, he came with him but remained as silent as a nun in vows.’
‘And Master Camoys?’
Mephistopheles pulled a face.
‘A callow youth whose uncle executed the sign outside. He has been here before to ask me what I knew about his dead uncle, which,’ Mephistopheles sniffed, ‘wasn’t much.’
‘Did you know why he should meet Whitfield here?’
‘No, Sir John.’ Mephistopheles leaned forward. ‘But for the love of God, you know what is coming.’ He indicated with his head. ‘The river is not far from here. As soon as the revolt begins, I intend to flee; half of London will follow me.’
‘So?’
‘Whitfield was the same. He was a coney caught in a trap. He was Thibault’s creature, marked down for capture, humiliation and a gruesome death.’ Mephistopheles lowered his voice, a look of pity in those strange eyes. ‘As you are, my portly friend …’
Cranston and Athelstan left the Tavern of Lost Souls. Mephistopheles had remained enigmatic and Cranston, as he informed Athelstan, had no real ev
idence of any wrongdoing by this most sinister of characters. They made their way along the busy runnels and alleyways towards the river. They were now in the heart of the stews of Southwark, where the bath houses and brothels did a thriving trade. Wandering food sellers pushed their moveable grills and ovens on barrows or pulled them on roughly made sleds. Water sellers, ale men and beer wives hovered close by, ever ready to sell drink to those who bought the rancid meats, their taste and smell carefully hidden beneath bitter spices and rich sauces. Whores, their heads and faces almost hidden by thick horse-hair wigs dyed orange or green, thronged in doorways and at the mouth of alleyways, or leaned from windows offering blandishments to all and sundry. Nearby their hooded, sharp-eyed pimps, needle-thin daggers pushed through rings on their tattered belts, kept an eye on business. Sailors, wharfmen and those who lived off the river thronged in to visit the stews and bath houses, taverns and ale cottages.
Cranston’s party was given a wide berth by all of these as they swept down to the quayside, where the coroner, using his seal of office, managed to commandeer a royal barge which had just berthed. They clambered in, followed by Flaxwith and his bailiffs. Cranston roared his orders and the grinning bargemen, who knew the coroner of old, pushed away, turning their craft into the swell, oars rising and falling to the sing-song voice of their master. The barge, its pennants fluttering, ploughed into the slow moving river. Athelstan was relieved; they would have gentle passage. He sat under the leather canopy in the stern, clutching his chancery satchel. Feeling more relaxed, he closed his eyes and quietly recited a psalm from the office of the day. He felt the salty, fishy breeze catch his face. Athelstan opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky; the sun was strong, the clouds mere white tendrils. He recalled the words of the poet, ‘How nature mirrored the shimmering mind of God.’ He murmured a prayer and turned to what he had seen, heard and felt that busy morning. Deep in his heart the friar realized that he and Cranston faced a truly cunning mystery. He thought again about Lebarge, sheltering in sanctuary. Had the scrivener fled the Golden Oliphant so precipitately because he feared that he also would die a mysterious death which would be depicted as an accident or a suicide? Athelstan turned and glimpsed a royal war cog in full-bellied sail making its way down to the estuary.