by Paul Doherty
‘Please don’t publish it abroad, Mistress Swinbrooke, but I was about to marry.’ She smiled. ‘I hid it from the rest.’ Her voice shook. ‘Only this morning I visited Procklehurst in Iron Bar Lane. I was looking for a marriage ring for my betrothed. Go there yourself,’ she offered, seeing Kathryn’s surprise. ‘That was secret Tenebrae didn’t know. Fronzac the clerk, he’d offered to marry me. It wasn’t a passionate romance of the heart but . . .’ She plucked at a loose thread on her gown.
‘You were going to marry Fronzac?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Yes.’ Dauncey held out her hand. ‘He gave me that ring two days ago.’
Kathryn saw the band of gold.
‘Who do you think killed him?’ Kathryn asked.
Dauncey shook her head. ‘If I knew that, Mistress Swinbrooke, I’d carry out vengeance myself.’ She rose to her feet. ‘But I tell you this. Sir Raymond Hetherington and his party have a great deal to hide, as does Master Foliot.’ She smiled down at Kathryn. ‘Oh, yes, he may not recognise me, but I remember Theobald Foliot very well.’
‘Don’t speak in riddles!’ Colum snapped.
‘He’s the Queen’s creature,’ Dauncey retorted. ‘So, tell me, Master Murtagh, you who have served the Yorkist cause so well Elizabeth Woodville, before her marriage to her king, was the widow of John Woodville an ardent Lancastrian?’
Colum nodded.
‘Foliot,’ Dauncey concluded, ‘was one of John Woodville’s principal henchmen. So, God knows what he has to hide!’ She then swept out of the room.
Colum put his face in his hands. ‘We’ve hunted murderers, Kathryn,’ he said slowly, ‘people who have killed with no apparent motive, but here everybody has one!’ He straightened in his chair. ‘One thing does concern me. Tenebrae was a magus, a collector of information, a blackmailer.’ The Irishman pointed at Kathryn. ‘You, Mistress, whether you like it or not, are now a leading citizen of this city. I wonder if he knew anything about you or me?’
Kathryn pulled a face and clapped Colum heartily on the shoulder.
‘If he did, I couldn’t give a fig. But the riddle of his death continues. It would be easy to finish our accounts, draw a line and claim Tenebrae was killed by Fronzac who was later murdered himself, yet that pail doesn’t hold water. Tenebrae was alive when Fronzac left his house and we still don’t have the grimoire.’
‘Let us say, for sake of argument, that Fronzac did not kill Tenebrae. Then how did Fronzac know about Louise Condosti? Such an intimate matter, so personal?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kathryn answered. ‘Tenebrae could have told him or, perhaps, Fronzac was another of his spies.’ She breathed in deeply. ‘But I understand what you say: the first and only time Fronzac taunted Louise was after Tenebrae’s death.’
‘Perhaps Fronzac was always Tenebrae’s spy,’ Colum wondered, ‘and the magus shared tidbits of information with him. Once Tenebrae was dead, Fronzac thought he would use such juicy morsels for his own pleasure.’
‘Perhaps,’ Kathryn replied, moving towards the door. ‘Let’s have Master Foliot here and search Fronzac’s chamber for the grimoire.’
Colum hurried down and returned, Foliot behind, grinning like a cat.
‘You disturbed a wasp’s nest down there, Mistress Swinbrooke! When I return to London, I must recommend you to His Majesty’s justice. You have a sharp eye.’
‘Not sharp enough.’ Kathryn briefly described the conclusions she had reached. ‘Fronzac may have killed Tenebrae, stolen that grimoire and then used its secrets against Mistress Condosti.’ She paused. ‘Fronzac must have thought he would become the new blackmailer, but this morning received short shrift for his pains.’
‘In which case,’ Colum pulled a key from his pouch, ‘Fronzac should have the grimoire and I have the key to his chamber.’
He led them along the gallery and stopped before a chamber door which he unlocked. Inside, the room was tidy, curtains pulled neatly around the small, four-poster bed. Clothes hung from a peg driven into the wall beside a small window. The dead man’s possessions were neatly piled on a chair: a soiled, canvas shirt, a belt and a battered wallet that only contained a few coins. Kathryn lifted the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed. Inside were more of Fronzac’s possessions, but she could see nothing of the grimoire. She took out a small scroll then stood up, easing the cramp in the small of her back. She stared round the small, whitewashed chamber.
‘It truly is the Book of Shadows,’ she murmured. ‘Where could it be?’
‘Fronzac may have hidden it,’ Colum replied.
And, whilst he and Foliot pulled back the curtains of the bed, rummaging under the eiderdown and bolsters, Kathryn went and sat in the small window seat and undid the scroll. She carefully read the letter from Dionysia Dauncey. She felt a little guilty: it was a love note. It mentioned, in passing, the death of Tenebrae, but then went on to describe their nuptials, planned to take place on the Friday after the feast of Corpus Christi in Saint Mary-LeBow. Kathryn was surprised at the passion in the letter. Dionysia described her longing and her determination to buy a ring from Procklehurst, a name Kathryn recognised as one of the leading goldsmiths in Canterbury. She noticed the date at the end of the letter was the previous day. She rolled the letter up and handed it to Foliot who was staring curiously down at her.
‘It’s only a love letter,’ Kathryn explained. ‘Probably written late yesterday. A few sentences.’ She smiled and glanced away. ‘A woman like Dionysia would find it hard to express her feelings under the watchful eyes of the pilgrims.’
Colum joined them.
‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘If Fronzac had the grimoire, then it’s gone.’
‘Someone could have stolen it,’ Foliot observed. ‘After he was killed.’ He waved his hand in a gesture of despair. ‘On second thought they couldn’t have. The landlord said there was only one key to the chamber and he took it from Fronzac’s corpse.’
‘And no one else had asked for it?’ Kathryn said.
Foliot shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t, would they? The finger of suspicion would point directly at them. All we have for our trouble is another mysterious murder and a love letter from Widow Dauncey.’ He tapped this against his cheek. ‘We had better give it back to her.’
They returned downstairs. The pilgrims had gone out into the garden. Kathryn and Colum left Foliot to make their farewells and return Dauncey’s letter whilst they went into Queningate and up, through a narrow alley-way, into the High Street.
‘Does it make any sense to you?’ Colum asked. He pulled Kathryn to the doorway of a tavern to accomodate a motley collection of pilgrims who were pushing a cripple in a handcart towards the cathedral gates.
‘At the moment, no.’ She looked across the busy High Street: the stalls and booths were doing a roaring trade as droves of pilgrims left the cathedral to wander the market-place and take refreshment. Suddenly she felt hot and tired.
‘Let’s sit for a while.’
She tugged at Colum’s sleeve and led him into a low-ceilinged taproom. A scullion brought them jugs of cool, musty ale and a platter to share, containing bread, cheese and a small bowl of onions chopped and covered with parsley. Colum drew his knife and neatly cut portions for Kathryn.
‘Be of good cheer.’ He smiled across at Kathryn. ‘If we don’t resolve this mystery, Master Foliot certainly will.’
Kathryn slowly chewed on the soft, fresh cheese.
‘What happens,’ she asked, picking up another piece, ‘if Master Foliot is part of the mystery? He visited Tenebrae the morning before he died. He is strong and able enough to climb that tavern wall, attack poor Fronzac and throw his corpse into the hog pen.’
‘But that is true of all of them,’ Colum interrupted. ‘They all saw Tenebrae the day he died, whilst any one of them had the strength to drag a senseless Fronzac into the hog pen.’ Colum drained his tankard. ‘What more can we do?’
Kathryn sighed. ‘At the moment nothing. There’s no order here,
Colum. No logic to events. Tenebrae was alive when all the pilgrims left. Nobody went up to that chamber afterwards whilst Fronzac’s death is just as mysterious. However, we’ve learnt something. First, all those pilgrims have secrets they prefer to keep hidden. Secondly, once they were in Tenebrae’s net, they hated the magus. Thirdly, that grimoire, the Book of Shadows, somehow or other, fell into Fronzac’s hands. Finally, therefore, whoever killed Fronzac now has it.’
Colum rose to his feet, dusting the crumbs from his jerkin.
‘Well, physician, I have to leave you.’ He stared round. ‘By the way, where did Luberon go?’
‘Probably still back at the tavern.’
Colum nodded and they went back to the High Street. Now distracted by the problems waiting for him at Kingsmead, he absent-mindedly kissed Kathryn on the cheek and wandered off, muttering under his breath.
Kathryn watched him go, then made her way along Burghgate. She paused at the corner of Iron Bar Lane, where she caught sight of the goldsmith’s sign with Procklehurst’s name neatly painted across it. She went to the open door of the shop, carefully slipping by the stalls set out in front and manned by the apprentices. The room inside was dark and cool: the windows were shuttered and candles had been lit along the long, oval table that dominated the room. As in any goldsmith’s, nothing was on display. The gold geegaws were being sold on the outside stalls under the watchful eyes of the apprentices whilst, inside, the goldsmith would do business and only bring out those precious items customers required.
Kathryn picked up a small bell on the table and rang it. Master Procklehurst came bustling out of the chamber. His head was bald as a pigeon’s egg, his fat, jowled face well oiled and bristling. His gimlet eyes quickly assessed Kathryn’s worth. He rubbed his hands.
‘You wish to do business, Mistress? Deposit monies? Perhaps see some bauble that’s not on display outside?’
A faint smile played round his lips as if he judged Kathryn worthy of such welcome. She was tempted to say she had a purse of gold coins which she hoped to bank just to see if that smile broadened.
‘Well?’ Procklehurst stepped closer, twitching his expensive, ermine-lined robe around his shoulders.
‘I am Kathryn Swinbrooke, physician.’
Procklehurst’s smile faded. ‘Oh, the one hired by the Council?’
‘No, Master Procklehurst, the one who works with the King’s Commissioner, Master Colum Murtagh.’
Procklehurst’s smile returned. ‘Of course,’ he purred. ‘How can I help?’
‘You know Dionysia Dauncey, a widow and goldsmith from London?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The merchant’s smile widened. ‘She was here this morning.’
‘Master Procklehurst,’ Kathryn snapped. ‘I am sure you are busy but so am I.’
‘Mistress Dauncey came here,’ Procklehurst continued quickly, ‘to purchase a gold ring.’
‘And she definitely bought one?’
‘Oh, yes, then I placed it in a coffer for safe keeping. She seemed very excited, talking about her forthcoming marriage.’
‘Thank you.’ Kathryn turned and left the shop as abruptly as she had entered.
She walked down Iron Bar Lane. A legless beggar, pushing himself along the rutted track in a cart, came trundling after her, whining for alms.
‘Lost my legs!’ he cried, his dusty face twisting into a grimace. ‘Lost my legs to the Moors in Outremer!’
Kathryn gave him a coin and watched as he pushed his way back to his begging post on the corner of an alley-way. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the cuff of her gown and walked on across Saint George’s Street into Lamberts Lane near White Friars. She still felt agitated and cursed her own bad temper.
‘Think sweet thoughts,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Otherwise, Swinbrooke, you’ll become a harridan, a veritable fishmonger’s wife.’
There was a small green near the Carmelite monastery, which ran down to a duck pond where children played noisily in the shadows, splashing each other with water whilst the ducks and swans swam serenely around them. Kathryn sat down on a bench in the shade of a large sycamore tree. She leaned back and watched the children play. Her father used to bring her here as a child, pointing out the various plants and explaining how some of the birds who came there flew hundreds of miles from strange, exotic countries beyond the Middle Sea.
‘Don’t ask me why,’ he would sigh. ‘That’s one of God’s mysteries.’
Kathryn narrowed her eyes and smiled. ‘Why is it that children love water?’
She fought against the nostalgia that threatened to overwhelm her. Images of childhood tantalised her mind: the days were always warm and sun-filled, her father studying a plant whilst she played around him. When she grew older, he would take her to the great mystery plays at All Saints, or Blackfriars north of the city. Kathryn realised how faint such memories had become. Her marriage to Alexander Wyville, the drunken, wife-beating apothecary, lay like a great, black wall across her life cutting it into two. Now Alexander had gone, following the armies of Lancaster, and Kathryn did not know whether he was alive or dead. Her father had died and she had drifted, supported and comforted by Thomasina until Colum had come swaggering into her life. And what would happen if he left? Kathryn closed her eyes. No wonder she was bad tempered, she thought; brooding always produced black humours.
In the shade of a sycamore tree Kathryn forced herself to reflect on the mystery of Tenebrae. If she solved that, all would be well. She closed her mind to the sounds around her as she recalled her visit to the dead magus’s house; those broad, sweeping stairs leading to his room, the doors that could only be opened from the inside. The chamber itself, dark and macabre. Each pilgrim had left by the back door, gone along the small gallery and down the stairs where Bogbean stood on guard. The windows were all shuttered, Kathryn knew. No one could get into that room without Tenebrae’s permission. So how, in God’s name, did he die? Each pilgrim goes in, each pilgrim goes out. Tenebrae is alive. Morel spoke to him just after noon but then goes back up to the chamber and finds his master dead, shot by a crossbow bolt. And who would carry such a bulky weapon? And Tenebrae? Why didn’t he shout out? Fight back? Try to escape? Kathryn opened her eyes and shook her head.
‘Impossible!’ she muttered. She breathed in deeply and thought about Fronzac’s battered corpse being thrown into the hog pen. ‘Think,’ Kathryn muttered. ‘Fronzac goes out to the hog pen. He walks to the far side away from the tavern where no one can see him. Then what happens?’ She paused to collect her thoughts. The rest of the pilgrims were either in the tavern or out in the city. None of them were seen to leave the tavern and go into the garden whilst the gate in the back wall had been bolted. The landlord claimed it wasn’t opened until after Fronzac’s corpse had been discovered. So the killer must have climbed the wall. And who was able to do that? Foliot? Brissot? Neverett? Or even Greene or Sir Raymond? But was the gate locked?
‘Kathryn?’
She looked. Father Cuthbert stood in front of her, a basket slipped over his arm.
‘Kathryn?’ He drew closer. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Oh.’ She laughed. ‘Just resting. And I could ask the same of you, Father.’
The priest nodded towards the walls of the Carmelite monastery.
‘I have just been to see the Prior. He kindly agreed that the sheets and blankets of the hospital be washed in his laundry.’ He tapped the basket. ‘In return I always take him some herbs and potions for the infirmary.’ Father Cuthbert sat down beside Kathryn. ‘He died, you know.’ His gentle eyes studied Kathryn. ‘The man you visited. John Paul, I won’t use the diabolical name he gave himself. He died with his face towards God: I am sure the good Lord will have compassion.’
Kathryn remembered the man lying against the white sheets: his determination to find and destroy the Book of Shadows. She looked at Father Cuthbert.
‘Do you believe in black magic, Father? That men like Tenebrae can call up Satan?’
>
The old priest put the basket down and pointed to the children playing in the shallows.
‘I believe in the good Lord,’ he said. ‘Sunshine, children laughing and playing. That’s the way the world should be, Kathryn. But to answer your question bluntly, men like Tenebrae, through the evil of their lives, can attract dark forces. In their arrogance, witches and warlocks believe they can use such powers, but the sad truth is, it is they who are being used. Now . . .’ He got to his feet and stretched his hand out at Kathryn. ‘You should stop brooding, Kathryn. Go back to Ottemelle Lane, talk to Thomasina, listen to Agnes’s chatter or play with Wuf. Lose yourself in the ordinary, calm current of your life.’
Kathryn smiled and got to her feet. ‘If only everything was so simple, Father.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ the priest replied, his smile faded. ‘It is we who twist and make things difficult.’
Chapter 8
As Kathryn made her way back to Ottemelle Lane, ruefully reflecting on Father Cuthbert’s advice, Morel stood in a derelict corner of the graveyard of Saint Mary Bredman church. He stared down at the freshly turned heap of soil that marked the grave of Master Tenebrae. Morel was puzzled. The clerk Luberon had arranged for his master’s corpse to be buried here without bell, book or candle. No Masses had been sung. No prayers recited. Instead, the city bailiffs had brought the cheap, wooden coffin into the graveyard, dug a hole, lowered it and left Morel to cover it up. The magus’s servant scratched his head. His master would agree with that; he never did like the power of the priests and, in Morel’s experience, had never darkened the door of a church. But what would happen now? Should he come back at night and sacrifice a black cock above the grave, allowing its fresh blood to soak the soil? Would his master need such power? Morel shuffled his feet impatiently. He stood, eyes closed, and then he recalled Mistress Swinbrooke. He opened his eyes and smiled. His master had told him what to do.
Kathryn’s hopes of a quiet afternoon to prepare a meal to celebrate the granting of her licence were rudely dashed as soon as she entered the house. Rawnose was sitting in the kitchen. The beggar’s mutilated face glistened with sweat as he delivered his news to Thomasina, Agnes and a wide-eyed Wuf.