by Paul Doherty
Cranston took another gulp from his wine skin, gathered his cloak and left. The coroner was pleased that his little friend wished to be by himself. That enigmatic friar, like any good lurcher, was casting about for a scent. The hunt had begun!
After Cranston had left, Athelstan emptied the contents of the sack on to the table, the manuscripts from Humphrey Warde’s house, ledgers, bills, memoranda and the beautiful calfskin-bound psalter. Athelstan opened this and was immediately intrigued. Warde had been a spicer, and had apparently commissioned this especially for himself. The author and illuminator of the psalter had described the history of spices, especially the mystical qualities of certain herbs and plants as well as the role spices played in Man’s constant war against the demons. The miniature bejewelled pictures depicted devils bubbling in a huge cauldron containing, according to the inscription written beneath, oil, resin, garlic, myrrh, cloves and cinnamon. In one picture a flying serpent-devil with scaly wings was being pierced by shafts of henbane and hemlock. Next to this a miniature displayed Satan’s eye, huge as a fist, open and luminous, flaring with malevolent life, being assailed by thick clouds of frankincense from a golden thurible. Another picture showed a demon in a shape of a huge slug tortured by the holy oil poured over him while a fellow demon was being showered with sacred chrism. Athelstan read on, fascinated, turning the stiffened leaves as he half listened to the sounds of the garrison and the eerie noises of the Tower. At one point he rose and pulled across the wheeled brazier for greater warmth. He glanced around. The juddering candlelight made the shadows shift and rise as if another world, a secret one, thrived here in this bleak stone chamber. Athelstan rubbed his fingers over the spluttering coals. ‘Yet there is another reality,’ he whispered to his own shadow. ‘This straight and narrow place shelters an assassin, a soul throbbing with hatred, who exults in dealing out sudden and mysterious death.’
The attacks on the Flemings he understood, the murder of Warde was brutal yet logical, but why the Straw Men? Athelstan returned to the psalter, leafing through the pages till his eye was caught by an exquisitely illuminated full page picture of Lucifer falling from Paradise. Athelstan stared, shivering at the chill which abruptly seized him. ‘Jesu Miserere.’ He prayed softly. ‘Jesus, have mercy on us. Is it possible?’ Athelstan put the psalter aside and pulled across the bills and memoranda. He sifted through these, searching for items bought and sold while listing Master Warde’s customers. Athelstan revised what he had written, looking for a pattern, and eventually found it. He threw the quill pen down, staring at what he had written. ‘Warde was a spy,’ he murmured. ‘He was sent into my parish to listen, collect and report, but he was not the hand which wielded the dagger – he was only the glove.’ Athelstan beat his breast. ‘Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! My fault entirely, I was too quick to judge those two rogues, God bless them. Watkin and Pike were correct. A Judas man did, and is, sitting at the heart of our community.’ Athelstan rose and carefully collected his papers, now determined to join Sir John in the White Tower. ‘I will not tell him my suspicions,’ he murmured, ‘not here in this murky, treacherous place where the walls listen and deceit flourishes thick and rich as any tangle of weed.’
Athelstan took his cloak and braved the freezing weather. Night was edging in. Daylight was swiftly fading. The Tower garrison was preparing for sleep. Figures and shapes slid through the ever-present mist. Athelstan glanced towards Beauchamp where torches flared above the doorway, gleaming on the armoured mail of the guards. ‘I wonder who you really are?’ Athelstan whispered to himself. He made his way across the icy ground into the White Tower, up the stairs and into St John’s Chapel. Cranston, Lascelles, Cornelius, Rosselyn and the Straw Men were gathered there. Athelstan smiled to himself. The coroner had exercised his authority. The chapel itself hadn’t changed much since the day of the killing. The heavy tapestry curtains still hung between the pillars on either side, screening off the aisles or transepts where the food tables had stood. The bloodstained turkey carpet and matting had been removed but Hell’s mouth still stood wedged into the entrance of the rood screen. On either side of this hung the heavy arras concealing the left and right aisles flanking the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around and, ignoring the hubbub of conversation, walked out of the chapel, down the steps and into the cold darkness of the crypt. He took a cresset from its holder and went along to the far window. He stared at this then crossed to the small recess where Barak’s body must have lain. Athelstan was convinced Barak was no assassin. He’d either been killed or felled unconscious here, then swiftly dragged up, the arbalest and war belt used to depict him as such. Those shutters had been opened and Barak’s body violently hurled out. He heard raised voices so he walked back up the steps to join the rest in St John’s Chapel.
Cranston had persuaded Rachael to act as Oudernarde, Samuel as Lettenhove. The rest of the Straw Men were arguing about where they were on that day. The others were just as vague about their whereabouts, especially Rosselyn and Cornelius, who never mentioned anything about their swift departure from the chapel to check on Beauchamp Tower. Eventually Cranston imposed order. He reached a consensus that Oudernarde and Lettenhove had been standing on opposite sides of the chapel.
‘As were the two braziers when the small explosions occurred,’ Cranston declared. ‘They caused the first confusion, then Lettenhove was struck, followed by Oudernarde. Yes?’ They all murmured in agreement. ‘And the assassin,’ Cranston pointed down the chapel towards the door, ‘could not have stood or knelt there; he would have been glimpsed by the guards or the musicians, yes?’ Again, everyone agreed.
‘In the aisles either side,’ Samuel offered but then shrugged as he realized the foolishness of what he had said.
‘The killer,’ Cranston answered, ‘if he had stood in the aisles, would be in full view of all those pressing around the food tables. The assassin first loosed at Lettenhove then somehow moved across the chapel to release a second bolt at Meister Oudernarde. And that,’ the coroner wagged a finger, ‘is the mystery. How could this assassin carry, prime and loose not one crossbow bolt but two then hide his weapon, all without being seen?’
‘Not to mention producing those two severed heads,’ Athelstan intervened. He walked to the rood screen, gesturing with his hands to either side. ‘Both are found halfway along either side of Hell’s mouth. Of course,’ Athelstan pulled at the arras on the right side of the rood screen, ‘the assassin may have hidden behind this, loosed the bolt then moved swiftly across the sanctuary behind Hell’s mouth to the other arras and done the same again, then pushed out those two heads. And yet for one person this would be difficult, very difficult.’
‘And we were there,’ Rachael spoke up. ‘I’m sure we were, collecting costumes, masks and other items.’
‘And I went behind to check all was well.’ Rosselyn, crouching at the foot of a pillar, spoke up. ‘I saw nothing untoward.’ He rose clumsily to his feet. ‘And remember the crossbow was never found.’ Athelstan did not answer him; he was desperately trying to recall what had been happening when those crossbow bolts had been loosed. He pointed to one of the polished oblong tables on which the food had been served.
‘Please, if you could bring one of those over here.’
Samuel and Rosselyn did, moving chairs and putting the table down in the centre of the chapel. Athelstan asked them to gather around.
‘Look,’ he smoothed the top of the table with his hand, ‘the chapel of Saint John is a rectangle stretching west to east. On the eastern side here,’ Athelstan pointed to the top of the table, ‘stretches a line which includes the rood screen and the arras hanging either side. The entrance through that rood screen is blocked by Hell’s mouth.’
‘Are you sure,’ Lascelles intervened, ‘that the assassin did not hide there? You can survey the room from it, prime a crossbow then loose.’ Lascelles shrugged. ‘I know it can be done – we tried that. I appreciate your objections but it remains the only possibility.’
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sp; ‘I suspect the assassin wanted us to believe that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But for the crossbow to be used correctly, Hell’s mouth would have to be prised loose and pulled back. No evidence exists that took place. When we did pull it back, the tight fastenings were broken. If the murderer had done that, it would have been obvious; someone would have noticed.’ The Straw Men loudly agreed, adding that they had all worked to place it there.
‘Hell’s mouth,’ Samuel spoke out, ‘is our pride and joy. In the main it can be wedged in the door of most rood screens. Rachael here always polishes and paints it. To move it as you describe, Brother, would have been nigh impossible. The paint work would have been scuffed, the fastenings would have been broken and the noise alone would have attracted attention.’ Athelstan, nodding in agreement, gestured to the side of the table.
‘These are the aisles or transepts. On that day they were busy, food and drink tables stood here, guests and servants moved about. The same is true here.’ Athelstan grasped the end of the table. ‘This is the entrance – guards stood there. Musicians were busy in the recess, people were coming and going.’ He shook his head. ‘So where did our assassin lurk and successfully and secretly loose two crossbow bolts?’ His question was greeted with silence. The friar shrugged. ‘Sir John, my apologies but my sermon may have proved too long. I am even sorrier that all it did was pose questions.’
The coroner grinned, picked up his cloak and bowed at the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, Mistress’ Rachael and Judith, I thank you for your attention.’ And the coroner, taking a sip from his wine skin, headed for the door. Athelstan swiftly sketched a blessing and hurried after him.
‘Sir John?’ Once they were outside Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve. ‘I apologize, but this mystery hounds me . . .’
‘No need to apologize.’ Cranston clutched Athelstan’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I am baffled, you are baffled, we are baffled. All that you said in there is what I was trying to express.’ He let go of the friar’s hand. ‘Anyway, what brought you up? I thought you were busy with Warde’s manuscripts. Did you find anything which might explain the massacre of him and his family?’
‘No,’ Athelstan replied evasively. ‘Perhaps the Upright Men were involved? But come, Sir John, while we are braving the cold, let us visit Eli’s chamber.’ They trudged through the snow. The guard inside the Salt Tower allowed them up to the death chamber. Carpenters had been very busy. The door had been rehung on new freshly oiled leather hinges with gleaming bolts and a new lock. Cranston remarked on the speed and skill of the repairs as Athelstan began to search around. There was very little. Eli’s possessions had been removed. The chamber was cold, empty and bleak. Athelstan returned to the door. He closed it over, drew the bolts and turned the well-greased lock. He then crossed the chamber to examine the window shutters but swiftly deduced that these had not been opened since late summer or early autumn: the bar was secure and covered in dust. Athelstan, puzzled, stood chewing his lip. This chamber has no secret entrance, so how had Eli been killed? He returned to the door and examined the eyelet. The slit looked unchanged, about six inches long and the same in breadth; the small wooden shutter had been replaced and now slid easily backwards and forwards. Athelstan pulled this open and stared into the darkened stairwell.
‘An assassin with a small hand arbalest could loose a bolt quite easily through that slit,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Except . . .’
‘Except what, my dear friar?’
‘Except when Eli was murdered that shutter was firmly stuck.’ Athelstan stamped his feet against the gathering cold. ‘And even if it hadn’t been, Eli would have surely been cautious. I mean, that’s the whole purpose of an eyelet, isn’t it, to determine friend or foe? Eli was young, alert and vigorous; even if that shutter could slide back, problems remain. Let us analyse it,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘causa disputandi – for the sake of argument. Let us suppose that the shutter could be moved. Now, logically the assassin standing outside would have knocked, perhaps even called out, yes?’
Cranston nodded.
‘Eli must have asked who it was? Satisfied with the answer, Eli pulled back the shutter. He would certainly flinch at an arbalest being pushed up to the slit and move very swiftly out of danger. Yet in the end all this is fiction,’ Athelstan closed the door, ‘that couldn’t have happened, as the shutter was held fast, stuck.’ Athelstan laughed sharply. ‘Even if it hadn’t been, and Eli was satisfied with his visitor, why not just open the door? Why bother peering through the eyelet in the first place?’
‘Brother, one question?’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Can we resolve these mysteries?’
‘At first sight, Sir John, no, though logic dictates, and God demands we do so.’
The mournful tolling of the Newgate bell was answered by that of the nearby church of St Sepulchre; the bells boomed out across the sleet-swept, blood-strewn concourse in front of the soaring iron-bound gates of London’s greatest and grimmest prison. Despite the harsh winter’s day, fleshers, butchers and their minions were busy hacking and hewing the carcasses of cattle, pigs and birds of every kind. Apprentice boys raced about with tubs and buckets crammed with steaming entrails, giblets and offal. The morning air was rich with the raw stench of slaughter, heavy with the tang of salt and brine. Scavengers, human, animal and bird, flocked to fight over globules of flesh and the occasional chunk of meat. Around these surged a crowd, leather boots, wooden sandals and, in some cases, bare feet squelching in the gory mess of blood, snow and filthy mud. Citizens hoped to buy a bargain though at the same time the great gates of Newgate were kept under close watch. When these abruptly swung open, people surged forward to greet the death carts which came rumbling out, escorted by men-at-arms wearing the city livery. Cranston and Athelstan, who’d been sheltering in the porch of the aptly named tavern The Roast Pig, stepped out and waited. Duke Ezra had insisted that the pardon for the three plungers be served here.
‘So everyone can see his power,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A better mummer than any of the Straw Men, Ezra loves a spectacle. We have to do what he says – the Herald of Hades will be watching, hah!’ Cranston pointed at the black-garbed executioner, his face concealed by a red mesh mask, sitting by the driver of the first cart. ‘Your friend the anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Cranston marched across. The line of carts now stood still as the undersheriffs in fur-lined cloaks organized their posse or comitatus to divide; three carts for the Elms of Smithfields, three for the gallows at the Forks by Tyburn stream. Cranston took off his beaver hat and pulled down his muffler so he would be recognized, then handed one of the undersheriffs the three pardons. Athelstan could only stand and pray for all he saw and heard was most pitiful. Some prisoners lolled half drunk in the carts, others protested and yelled their innocence, a few sobbed bitterly as family and friends gathered to make their final farewells. The reeking stench of unwashed bodies clothed in filthy rags all coated in Newgate slime was nauseous. Athelstan, whispering his Aves, moved to where the hangman sat.
‘Good morning, Giles.’ Athelstan deliberately used the anchorite’s real name. ‘God have mercy on you.’
‘Soon done, soon finished,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I’ll visit Tyburn first then a city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.’
‘You’ll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwald’s?’
‘And to my painting, Brother.’
‘You and Huddle?’
‘Father,’ the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, ‘we could transform your church. I mean . . .’ He broke off as cheers and cries broke out. Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra had insisted it be so – a public demonstration of his influence and protection for those he called ‘his beloveds’. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped by a small mob who h
urried them away lest any official might change his mind.
‘You must go,’ Athelstan grasped the hangman’s black gauntleted hand, ‘to make sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.’
‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ the hangman replied, ‘from this vale of tears to Heaven’s gate before they realize.’
The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstan’s wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or alms.
‘God knows,’ Cranston growled, ‘when the Herald will make his appearance, but it’s the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince beef pie.’
They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams, cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir John’s favourite window seat. They’d hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.