by Paul Doherty
‘It’s cold,’ Kathryn said and then she caught the smell. At first a musty perfume but something else lay beneath it, foul and fetid, like the sour breath from a rotting mouth.
Colum’s arm went round her shoulders, he hugged her tightly.
‘Lord save us, Kathryn!’
Kathryn stared around. Luberon looked positively ill, his face had become a whitish paste. He stood, wiping the sweat from his palms against his gown. Morel remained as still as a statue whilst Foliot hid his unease by crossing his arms and tapping his feet impatiently against the floor.
Kathryn forced herself to walk forward, towards the table covered in a purple drape; in the shadowy chair behind, she glimpsed Tenebrae’s corpse, still squatting in death. Her footsteps sounded hollow, like the beat of a drum. Keeping her eyes on the chair, Kathryn dug her nails deep into the palms of her hand and tried to breathe in deeply through her nose.
It’s like a dream, she thought, one of those nightmares when I am flying along a gallery towards some evil lurking in the shadows. Morel gasped, and Kathryn looked down. She was standing in some magic circle: she recognised the triangle and other cabalistic signs and glimpsed further traces of blood. Kathryn stopped.
‘In the name of sweet God!’ she shouted.
And, to give vent to her feelings and before anyone could stop her, Kathryn walked across the room and pulled back the shutters, throwing the wooden bars to the floor. The window behind was firmly locked but Kathryn undid the clasps and lifted up the latch. She breathed in deeply as air and light flooded into the room.
‘You shouldn’t do that!’ Morel wailed, his podgy hand waving in the air.
Kathryn turned, her face a mask of fury.
‘I’ll do what I wish!’ she shot back. ‘This room is sick, it reeks of all that is evil!’
Colum and Luberon joined her and soon the windows on either side of the room were open, the fresh air and sunlight driving away the shadows and menacing atmosphere. Kathryn then strode back to the table and looked down at the artefacts that littered its purple top: a black candle, a collection of dice made out of bone, a quill of raven feathers, an inkpot shaped in the form of a skull, and tarot cards. Kathryn tried not to look at the black-garbed corpse sprawled in the chair but, rolling the table-cloth as if it was a sack, threw it and its disgusting contents to the floor. She glanced up at Foliot and pulled a face.
‘I hate this,’ Kathryn muttered. ‘I detest these lords of the gibbet who prey like rats upon human suspicion and greed.’
She opened her wallet and took out the rosary beads, which had once belonged to her mother and put them round her neck. She glanced quickly at Morel who was now standing like a child, his hands hanging by his side.
‘Did you believe all this?’
Morel just stared back.
‘If he were so powerful,’ Kathryn almost shouted, ‘then why did he allow himself to be murdered? If he could see the future, why couldn’t he avoid his own death?’
Morel made some strange sign in the air with his podgy fingers.
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’
Kathryn told Colum to bring one of the candles from their holder and lifted the black mask from the dead man’s face.
‘Death is a great leveller,’ her father had once remarked.
In this case Kathryn had to agree. Tenebrae’s face looked no different from many taken unexpectedly by death, the eyes rolled back in their sockets, chin sagging, mouth open. The waxy-coloured cheeks and jowls now were slack. Nothing untoward except for a feeling of unease whenever Kathryn caught the sightless gaze of his eyes, and the large patch of blood, which streamed from the jagged hole in Tenebrae’s throat down his chest.
‘The blood’s congealed,’ Kathryn noted. ‘What time is it now?’
‘About two o’clock,’ Luberon replied.
Kathryn touched the man’s face. ‘Morel, what time did you come up?’
‘About half an hour after mid-day when my master rang the bell.’
‘And you knocked on the door,’ Kathryn insisted.
‘Yes, I told you, my master replied: he said he would take his refreshments in a little while.’
‘You are sure the room was empty?’
‘Of course,’ Morel said. ‘Bogbean said that the last visitor, Dauncey, had already left.’
Kathryn left the table and walked back towards the door. It was carved out of heavy oak and reinforced with steel bands and metal studs. She studied the smashed lock. Morel followed her like a dog. Kathryn, crouching beside the lock, looked up.
‘You smashed this open?’
‘Oh, yes!’
‘And the door can only be locked and opened from the inside?’
‘As I said, my master had the locks on this door, and the one at the far end, specially fashioned by a Cheapside keysmith.’
Kathryn studied the handle, the lock now buckled with the key lying on the floor. She opened the door and studied the other side.
‘Your master,’ she said, ‘must have been a suspicious man. I doubt if even the King’s Exchequer in London has doors with handles and locks only on the inside.’ She walked back across the room towards the other door, which Luberon already was examining.
‘It’s the same here!’ he cried. ‘Look!’
Kathryn passed the table where Colum and Foliot were still examining the corpse. Luberon stood aside and Kathryn found the door, lock and handle were identical to the one at the entrance. She slowly opened the door and, followed by Luberon, went out onto the small landing, which led to the back stairs. Just inside the room, on the left, was a window. Kathryn examined this, but it was firmly shuttered and barred. She opened these, and saw the window clasps and latch were firmly in place. They went down the stairs. The door at the bottom was the same as the ones they had examined upstairs, with handle and lock on the inside. They opened it and stepped into a small alley-way filled with rubbish and reeking of cat urine. Kathryn shook her head and, closing the door, went back up the stairs and into Tenebrae’s chamber.
Chapter 3
‘Well,’ Colum said, ‘Tenebrae’s as dead as a piece of mutton.’ He lifted the left hand of the corpse and showed her the rings glittering there. ‘He still has these on him and a money purse on his belt, so it wasn’t robbery.’
‘Except for the grimoire of Honorius,’ Foliot interrupted.
Kathryn beckoned Morel closer. ‘Look.’ Kathryn chose her words carefully. ‘Look around this room, Master Morel. Apart from the grimoire has anything been stolen or disturbed?’
Morel padded round the room. The chamber had now lost some of its terror. The daylight made it look rather tawdry and pathetic with that great magus sprawled in death, a crossbow bolt buried in his throat. Morel came back, shaking his head solemnly.
‘Nothing has been disturbed, Mistress.’
‘Then it is a great mystery.’ Kathryn sighed. ‘This chamber is on the second storey of the house. Along the walls on either side, the windows are firmly latched, the shutters barred, as are the doors at either end and the one downstairs likewise. No one could come into this chamber, or even up the back stairs, without Tenebrae’s permission as all doors can only be opened from the inside. Apparently Tenebrae was alive and well when Master Foliot visited him this morning. He then sees his guests whom we have fleetingly met outside. Each one comes up at his or her appointed time. Between what hours, Master Morel?’
‘Nine and noon.’
‘They all have their meetings,’ Kathryn continued, trying to ignore Morel’s unwavering gaze. ‘They come up the stairs, as we did. Tenebrae lets them out by the far entrance.’ She led them to the door at the far end and through into the small gallery. ‘They go down and out at the back lest anyone sees them. So who murdered Tenebrae?’ She pointed to the window on the landing. ‘This is secure, and there are no other entrances, are there?’
Colum said he wasn’t certain, so they returned to the death chamber to make a rigorous search, which only confirmed M
orel’s protests at the futility of their actions. The wainscoting was secure. No trapdoors or secret entrances could be found in the gaudily painted ceiling or black, painted floor.
Kathryn went and studied Tenebrae’s corpse.
‘Someone,’ she said, ‘God knows who, came in here with an arbalest and bolt, shot Tenebrae, stole the grimoire and then disappeared.’
‘It could have been magic,’ Morel spoke up quickly.
‘Why magic?’ Kathryn asked.
Morel spread his hands. ‘My master always said he could be killed by magic.’
Kathryn took a step closer. ‘Aren’t you sad, Morel? Don’t you grieve and mourn for your master?’
The man smiled slyly and pushed his face only a few inches from them. Kathryn stared into his liquid, vacuous eyes; Morel, she realised, was as mad as a March hare.
‘My master always said death would not hold him. Another magus will come and free him from the tomb.’ Morel breathed in, his nostrils quivering. ‘So now I must go. The house must be kept clean. There are tasks to be done.’
And, without further ado, Morel waddled out, closing the door behind him.
‘Do you think he murdered his master?’ Foliot asked.
Kathryn shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But treat him gently. Morel has a terrible sickness of the mind or soul, God knows what.’ She glanced at Luberon. ‘The house should be searched.’
‘Oh, I have done that.’ Foliot interrupted. ‘And what a treasure there is: cups, goblets, plates, ewers, costly drapes, robes.’ He shook his head. ‘But nothing else.’
Kathryn thought of the jumble and chaos of her own house.
‘No accounts?’ she exclaimed. ‘No indentures, letters?’
‘None,’ Foliot replied.
‘It’s the way of such people,’ Colum interrupted. ‘The grimoire would hold everything. Am I not right, Master Foliot?’
The queen’s emissary pulled a face. ‘It’s why we want that grimoire back.’
‘How big is it?’ Kathryn asked.
‘According to Her Grace,’ Foliot said, ‘the size of a large church missal, twelve inches high and the same across; she said it is as thick as a door step.’
Kathryn turned and waved round the chamber. ‘And who will receive all this?’
‘I have already checked the civil records,’ Luberon said. ‘There is no will or letter of attorney . . .’
‘Accordingly,’ Foliot spoke up, ‘this house and all its moveables belong to the Crown.’ He pointed at Luberon. ‘The creature downstairs can stay for a while. However, you, Master Luberon, are the city clerk and you, Murtagh, the King’s Commissioner here.’ He kicked at the tablecloth Kathryn had thrown on the floor. ‘The tools of Tenebrae’s trade can be burnt but his possessions are to be placed in a locked chest, sealed and despatched to Westminster. If anyone steals from this house, they steal from the Crown and that’s treason.’
‘And Tenebrae’s death?’ Kathryn asked.
Foliot walked slowly towards her, arms still crossed. Kathryn caught the mockery in his eyes.
‘Tenebrae’s dead,’ he said. ‘May he rot in hell. There may not be a God in heaven, Mistress Kathryn, but there’s certainly a devil in hell. Nor I, nor the Queen, nor His Grace the King give a fig: Tenebrae was a magus and a blackmailer who, at last, received his just deserts. However, as to the grimoire of Honorius, the Book of Shadows, the holder of so many secrets, including the whereabouts of Tenebrae’s wealth, I will not leave Canterbury without it. So both of you, in whom Their Graces have so much trust, will find Tenebrae’s assassin and the grimoire.’ Foliot let his hands drop by his side. ‘I am lodged at the White Hart in Queningate, but don’t worry, if you don’t come looking for me I shall certainly search you out.’ And, bowing at Kathryn and nodding at Murtagh, Foliot swaggered from the room.
‘Who is he?’ Kathryn asked.
‘One of Woodville’s henchmen,’ Colum answered. He paused to choose his words carefully. ‘The Queen is a relative commoner, the widow of Sir John Woodville. She caught and now holds the King by her beauty and her skill – some even say by witchcraft. Now, when she rose others followed, men like Foliot, greedy for power. They have one allegiance, one religion, one duty and that is the will of Elizabeth Woodville.’
‘And was Tenebrae one of her men?’
‘No,’ Colum said. ‘A creature of the darkness. We don’t know Tenebrae’s real name or where he came from. When he goes into the ground very few will care. Master Luberon!’
The little clerk waddled over.
‘Would you please stay and search around here. Make sure Foliot has told us the truth. Have Tenebrae’s corpse removed to the nearest church. Use whatever powers you have to ensure the poor bastard’s buried.’
‘No priest will sing a Mass over his grave,’ Luberon replied dourly.
‘A coffin and a blessing: that’s all I ask.’
‘And you?’ Luberon asked.
Colum glanced at Kathryn, who was staring up at the leering goat painted on the ceiling.
‘I think we should visit those patrons of Tenebrae. Where’s the nearest tavern?’
‘The Bishop’s Mitre,’ Luberon said. ‘It’s further down Black Griffin Lane.’
‘Then we shall join them there. Yes, Kathryn?’
She agreed. They left Luberon and walked down the staircase. Morel was waiting for them at the bottom. He ignored Colum but caught hold of Kathryn’s gown.
‘Mistress.’ His watery eyes pleaded with Kathryn.
‘What is it, man?’ Colum demanded.
‘I was not talking to you!’ Morel hissed, his face suddenly becoming ugly.
‘What is it, Morel?’ Kathryn asked quietly.
‘When will he come back?’
Kathryn stared into those mad eyes.
‘My master, Tenebrae. When will he come back?’ Morel smiled conspiratorially. ‘You are a magus as well,’ he whispered. ‘You have the power. I know that.’
Kathryn went cold but kept her face impassive. ‘I don’t know.’ She patted Morel on the hand. ‘But take comfort.’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ Morel called as they walked towards the door. ‘I trust you, Mistress Swinbrooke, as does my master.’
Kathryn closed her eyes, only opening them when Colum shut the door behind her. She took a deep breath and stared round the blighted garden.
‘He’s mad,’ she whispered.
‘But he believes,’ Colum replied. He looped his arm gently through hers and led her out into Black Griffin Lane. ‘Your hands are cold. Are you frightened, Kathryn? I certainly am!’
Kathryn forced a smile.
‘Do you believe in Tenebrae’s magic?’ Colum asked.
‘I believe,’ Kathryn said, walking slowly down the street, still grasping Colum’s hand, ‘that there’s more to our world, Irishman, than meets the eye. Powers of light as well as those of darkness. But magic?’ She squeezed the Irishman’s arm. ‘Colum, God is my witness, I don’t even know how the body works. Why does the blood flow round? How does the heart keep pumping? And the mind, the soul? Not to mention their sicknesses? It’s what people believe.’ She paused at a memory, then continued. ‘Years ago, when I was a child, my father took me down to the Buttermarket. He wished to buy some herbs. We found the place all a-riot because a man had arrived dressed in goatskins, his skin burnt dark by the sun. He carried a staff in one hand and a bell in the other, and kept ringing this whilst screaming at the people to repent. He called himself Jonah. He believed he was the reincarnation of the prophet in the Bible and that Canterbury was Nineveh. Someone asked my father to cure the man.’ She took a breath as they reached the entrance to the Bishop’s Mitre. ‘Do you know what my father replied? He said that if he believed he was Jonah and this Nineveh, not even an angel from heaven would dare contradict him.’ She licked her lips, still dry after her visit to that hideous death chamber. ‘That’s the power of people like Tenebrae. They control the mind. They build strange worlds, people t
hem with demons, goblins and sprites. May God help those who wander into such a world. They are locked in, unable to get out.’
Colum placed an arm round her shoulders and hugged her.
‘You’d have made a fine priest, Kathryn. As they say in Ireland, you have the power of the words.’
‘Aye, Colum Murtagh,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And you are the same. As Thomasina says, a teller of tales.’
Colum grinned. ‘I was only praising you.’
‘Flattery is like perfume,’ Kathryn replied. ‘You smell it, Irishman, but only a fool would drink it. Now come, we have people to question.’
They went down the passageway into the spacious taproom. Now mid-afternoon, the place was quiet though the air was still hot and stuffy with sweet smells of cooking and baking from the kitchen beyond. Hetherington had made his presence felt, commandeering a huge table near the one and only large window. The banker and his party had apparently dined well. The platters in front of them were littered with flagons, jugs, chicken bones, scraps of bread and vegetables. As Colum approached, Hetherington made no attempt to rise but, snapping his fingers, called over a limping, sweaty-faced tapster.
‘Our guests,’ he declared pompously. ‘Two more stools, man!’ He glared up at Colum. ‘You wish some food?’
Kathryn took one look at the merchant’s grease-stained mouth and decided her appetite could wait.
‘Some wine perhaps. Mixed with water.’
‘And I’ll have a blackjack of ale,’ Colum added.
He helped Kathryn onto the three-legged stool the scullion brought.
‘Well?’ Hetherington crossed fat fingers across his protuberant belly and leaned back in his chair. ‘We have wasted considerable time. We had arranged a special visit to the Blessed Martyr’s tomb.’
‘Then why didn’t you go?’ Colum retorted, resentful at this merchant’s arrogant ways.
‘You asked us to stay.’ Hetherington pursed his lips, his eyes rounded in anger.
‘I asked you to stay,’ Colum said, ‘because you were waiting outside Tenebrae’s house. And why should you go there?’