by Paul Doherty
The bailiff joined his hands together as if in prayer.
‘Sir John, that’s all I can tell you. For the life of me, even on oath, I would not be able to recognise or recall the look of that man or his voice.’
Athelstan dismissed him.
‘So, Master Keeper, you brought the pie to the prisoner?’
‘Yes, of course I did, Brother. I thought the same as the bailiff. A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be interfered with.’
‘What was he doing when you entered the cell?’
The keeper pointed towards the rusting manacles hanging from a clasp in the far corner. ‘Like other prisoners, whiling his time away carving the wall. I’ve looked at it but can’t make sense of it.’
Athelstan picked up the lantern horn, gave it to Cranston and went across. The Misericord’s carvings were fresh, different from the rest. A Latin quotation, ‘Quern quaeritis?’, and beneath it the numbers ‘1, 1, 2, 3, 5’.
‘What does that mean?’ Cranston asked. ‘I understand the Latin – it’s a question, “Whom do you seek?” But what does it mean? And the significance of the numbers?’
‘God only knows,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and the Misericord, but he too has gone to God. Remember, Sir John, the Misericord probably didn’t tell us everything. He must have been holding something back.’
Athelstan returned to the keeper.
‘So, then you left. What happened?’
‘I went back down the passageway. Suddenly I heard this gut-wrenching screaming. Now I’m used to that. What happens, Brother, is that when prisoners are brought here, they often don’t realise what is happening, then something occurs, and it can be something pleasant like food, a cup of wine or a visit, and they realise where they truly are and what has become of them.’ The keeper looped his clutch of keys back on his belt. ‘If I opened the door to every prisoner who screamed I would spend all day doing it. The screaming went on, then it began to fade.’ He jabbed a finger at the wall to his left. ‘Then the prisoner in the next cell, he’s usually quiet, he began to shout that something was wrong.’
‘Who’s in there?’ Cranston asked.
The keeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah yes, that’s it. Number 35, Spindleshanks.’
‘Ah!’ Sir John smiled. ‘The relic-seller! Master Keeper, let’s have a word with him.’
The gaoler led them out and opened the next door. A little man, sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet. He was so small and thin in his torn shirt, patched hose and boots apparently far too big for him that Athelstan could see why he was named Spindleshanks, for his legs were as thin as needles. The prisoner walked into the pool of light. A mournful face, even his eyes seemed to droop. He reminded Athelstan of a professional mourner; an impression heightened by the lank grey hair which hung down either side of his face.
‘Oh, Sir John Cranston,’ Spindleshanks whined with a gap-toothed smile. He clasped his hands together. ‘What a great pleasure, what a great honour, a visit from the Lord Coroner.’
‘Innocent or guilty?’ Cranston barked.
‘Oh, guilty, my Lord Coroner. I won’t tell a lie. As felonious as Judas.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Oh, the usual, Sir John, relics, they’ll be the death of me.’
‘How many times is it now, Spindleshanks?’
The prisoner tapped his chin, staring up at the ceiling. ‘My sixth, no, it’s my seventh time, Sir John. It’s bound to be a flogging this time,’ his face grew more mournful, ‘or my ears clipped.’ His lower lip trembled as he fought back the tears. ‘Maybe even a brand mark on my cheek.’
‘What were you doing this time?’
‘Dead dogs, Sir John.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Dead dogs. I was boiling their corpses, crushing their bones in a maer . . . a handmill.’ Spindleshanks answered Athelstan’s puzzled look. ‘I ground the bones down, bought some little gilt cases and a roll of linen, which I cut into ever so small strips, and sold them as relics.’
‘Whose?’ Athelstan was genuinely intrigued by this funny little man.
‘St Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins martyred by the devilish Huns.’
‘And how were you caught?’ Cranston asked.
‘My neighbours, they alerted the watch complaining about the smell.’
‘Well, at least it was only relics and not those potions you were selling. Why have they put you in the Netherworld?’
‘Hermisimus!’
‘What?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Have a smell, Brother.’
Spindleshanks drew closer to Athelstan, and the friar recoiled at the foul stench from the old man’s clothing.
‘Hermisimus, Brother,’ Spindleshanks said proudly. ‘Sweaty armpits.’
‘Even the other prisoners object,’ the keeper explained. ‘We had to put him here for his own safety.’
‘You should wash your armpits,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Use a mixture of mint and wild strawberries, it will help to clear up your condition.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea, Brother. I’ll be able to sell it as a genuine cure, won’t I?’
‘And if you are helpful,’ Cranston stooped down, pinching his own nostrils, ‘I’ll set you free. I’ll write a writ under my own seal.’
‘Oh, Sir John,’ Spindleshanks closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure, ‘that would be most kind.’
‘You’ll give up the dog bones?’
‘On my soul, Sir John.’
‘Tell me then,’ Cranston urged, ‘what did you hear from the adjoining cell?’
‘Oh, I heard the clank of the manacles, so I knew he was carving the wall.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir John urged, ‘but what happened next?’
‘I heard the door open, the keeper’s voice, and then all went silent. Oh, it must have been some time, then low moans, followed by terrible screams. Sir John, they cut me to the heart. He was also shouting something.’
‘What?’
Spindleshanks opened his eyes. ‘I’ll go free?’
‘What?’ Cranston persisted.
‘He was shouting “Askit, Askit,” or something like that. Sir John, that’s all I can recall. I swear if I remember anything else, I’ll visit you personally.’
‘Only after you have washed your armpits!’ Cranston dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the prisoner’s hand. ‘Now go and wait in the press yard. I’ll send a writ across to the keeper.’
‘Oh, my Lord Coroner.’
Spindleshanks would have sunk to his knees, but Cranston gripped him by the shoulder and thrust him towards the half-open door.
‘Oh, Sir John.’
‘What?’
‘Would you have any need for a thousand relic cases?’
‘Bugger off.’
‘Very good, Sir John,’ and Spindleshanks scampered down the passageway.
‘Have the corpse taken to Blackfriars,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Put it in a proper brandeum . . . a shroud,’ he explained. ‘My good brothers will put him in a coffin until his sister decides where he should be buried.’
They left Newgate. The area outside the prison had now been turned into a makeshift fair, drawing in the crowds to watch a mummer’s play, an old story, with two central characters wearing the mask and horns of a cow. First, Chivevache, a lean, ugly cow, who fed on patient women; consequently it was always thin and hungry. Next, Bicorne, a large fat cow, because it fed on patient husbands. In between these two danced a character dressed in a leather hood who assumed the role of the ‘Digitus Infamus’, the ‘Middle Finger’, who kept up lewd commentary on why these two cows existed and were so different. Of course, this provoked the ribald interest of the spectators, who quickly divided into male and female, hurling obscenities at each other as the Digitus Infamus explained why wives lacked patience whilst husbands were models of virtue. Every so often the mummer would break off from his commentary to sing an even more ribald song about a gentle cock residing in its lady’s chamber. Nat
urally, when a boy in tattered rags ran round the crowd with a pannikin for pennies he received plenty of coins from the men and raucous refusal from the women.
‘I’ve seen that play a hundred times,’ Cranston murmured, as he led Athelstan through the milling crowd. ‘The effect is always the same. The men relish the joke and pay the money; next week they’ll return, and the lean, ugly cow will feed on patient husbands and consequently go famished, whilst the fat cow will be the result of patient wives. It’s a clever way of drawing in money.’
They left the great forecourt, and the salacious mummer’s play, and entered the dark coolness of an ale house, ducking to avoid the great green bush hanging above the doorway. Cranston took a window seat and immediately ordered two tankards of ale, while he dictated a letter on behalf of Spindleshanks to the Keeper of Newgate, and sent it back to the prison courtesy of a pot boy. When this was done he toasted Athelstan, took a deep draught and leaned back against the wall.
‘Who killed the Misericord?’ he asked.
‘Somebody who followed us to Newgate and watched us leave,’ the friar replied, ‘and decided to act immediately. All these killings, Sir John, I am sure have their root in what happened twenty years ago. The Misericord discovered something, or was told something by those two girls. They had to die and so did he. But the question is what?’
‘The Night in Jerusalem,’ Cranston observed, ‘lies in Southwark. Somebody must have crossed the river, walked up Cheapside, bought that pie, poisoned it, left it in Newgate and then returned. Hey, lad?’ He called across to the pot boy, who had appeared in the doorway, still breathless after his errand to Newgate. ‘Come here.’ Cranston seized him by his thin arm and pressed a coin into the boy’s dirty little hand. ‘Here’s a shilling, boy. Go to the tavern known as the Night in Jerusalem – it lies in Southwark, not far from the bridge. Tell mine host I wish to see him, all the knights and Mother Veritable, within the hour.’
The boy glanced across at the ale-wife, who stood near the barrels. She nodded.
‘Repeat the message,’ Sir John urged.
The boy, used to such tasks, closed his eyes, faithfully repeated what Cranston had told him, then hurried out into the street.
‘One of those,’ Cranston murmured, ‘must have left Southwark.’
‘One person whom we know little about,’ Athelstan distractedly observed, ‘is the man who was with Culpepper the night the Lombard treasure was stolen – what was his name? Oh yes, Edward Mortimer. In fact, Sir John, we know very little about this treasure or its stay in the Tower. Could you make discreet enquiries?’
Cranston agreed.
‘And I,’ Athelstan offered, ‘will find out more about the Lombards, the name of the banker responsible; I’ll also ask Moleskin if he knows anything about the two bargemen who disappeared.’
Athelstan finished his ale and picked up his writing satchel, cradling it in his lap.
‘I wonder what the Misericord meant,’ he mused, ‘about those numbers and that Latin tag. And what was he shouting? What did he mean by “Askit”? An educated man, Sir John, the Misericord was holding something back; perhaps he recognised that and left such a message on the wall just in case something happened.’
‘Could the Judas Man have killed him?’ Cranston drained his tankard.
‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘He, too, is a man surrounded by mystery, gleeful at the Misericord’s capture. He may have murdered him, fearful lest the Misericord’s quick-silver wits allowed him to escape either Newgate or the hangman’s noose. Which, in turn, provokes another question. Was the Judas Man hired by someone we’ve met, or by a complete stranger? And did that person, whoever it was, instruct the Judas Man to ensure the Misericord was not only captured but killed? Ah well, Sir John, the hour draws on.’
They left the ale house and, avoiding the crowd, went down Dean’s Lane, past Athelstan’s mother house of Blackfriars to East Watergate. The day was clouding over, the crowds intent on finishing trading and escaping the biting cold. The quayside was fairly deserted as it was too early for the fishing folk to prepare for the night’s work. The barges had finished bringing their produce and now stood moored, waiting for the evening. Bailiffs and beadles patrolled the quayside, vigilant against any trader trying to sell or buy without the blessing of the Corporation or the guilds.
They hired a barge, Athelstan was disappointed that he couldn’t find Moleskin, and went upriver, fighting the choppy current. A mist was creeping in. Athelstan huddled in the stern, his cowl pulled tightly about him, whilst Cranston, ever curious, kept up a constant commentary on which barges belonged to which noblemen, as well as those dignitaries of the city travelling to and from the Tower or Westminster.
‘Thank God we don’t have to go under London Bridge,’ Cranston remarked. ‘The river is running heavy and fast, and in this mist I can hardly make out the top of the bridge.’
Athelstan half listened as he closed his eyes and fingered his Ave beads. He was always wary of the river; a good portion of St Erconwald’s cemetery was reserved for the corpses of poor souls who had drowned on the Southwark side . . .
‘That’s it!’
‘What?’ Cranston asked.
‘Nothing, Sir John. It’s just that . . . I wonder if the river was searched for the corpses of Culpepper and Mortimer, not to mention those bargemen. I mean properly searched by the Fisher of Men.’
‘Was he here then?’ Cranston asked.
He’d met the person Athelstan was referring to, a sinister, skull-faced man hired to search the river for the bodies of the drowned.
‘I think he was,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but we’ll see.’
They landed near the Bishop of Winchester inn, a little further down from the infamous bath houses which Athelstan knew were a mask for prostitution and other secret sins. Once he was on the quayside he looked around for Moleskin, only to be informed by the boy guarding his barge that the boatman could be found in the cookshop next to the Piebald tavern, where he had business with Master Merrylegs, the owner. On the way to the Night in Jerusalem, Athelstan and Cranston stopped there. Moleskin was sitting in the far corner deep in conversation with Merrylegs, who supplemented his income with the sale of goods stolen by Athelstan’s parishioners from the stalls in Cheapside. Once Cranston’s huge form was seen bearing towards them, Merrylegs and Moleskin hastily drew apart, sweeping whatever was on the table before them into a leather bag.
‘Oh! God bless you, Brother Athelstan.’ Moleskin tried to hide his guilt behind a smile whilst Merrylegs hurried away. ‘And you, Sir John, do you want some ale?’
‘I would love to know what you have in that bag,’ the coroner replied, ‘but instead I’ll give you a task. You recall the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’
‘Of course, your grace,’ Moleskin hastily replied. ‘All the river people knew about it.’
‘The boatmen, they left widows, families?’
‘Just widows.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘And one of them has died too, drowned washing clothes! Silly woman, she always insisted on drinking ale.’ He wagged a finger in the coroner’s face. ‘Ale and the river don’t mix.’
‘And the other widow?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, that’s fat Margot. She’s left Southwark, sells fish in Billingsgate.’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan declared, ‘after Mass, bring fat Margot to see me.’
Moleskin agreed. Athelstan and Cranston continued their journey. When they arrived at the Night in Jerusalem, Master Rolles was acting all busy in the tap room. He was surly in his greeting, muttering under his breath at how busy he was.
‘I have gathered the rest,’ he declared, wiping his hands. ‘They’re in the solar. Sir John, what is this all about?’
The taverner’s black eyes were almost hidden by creases of fat; his annoyance, however, was obvious, in his petulant whine and the way he kept looking longingly towards the kitchen, where cooks and scullions were busy preparing for the evening
’s entertainment.
‘Why, Master Rolles, it’s murder!’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ the taverner muttered.
‘Mine host,’ Cranston slapped him hard on the shoulder, ‘four corpses have been found in your tavern, whilst the Misericord is dead.’
Master Rolles gaped.
‘Dead?’ he spluttered. ‘But he was taken safe to Newgate.’
‘He was safe,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but now he is dead! Poisoned in his cell.’
Rolles immediately ushered them into the solar. The knights were there, surly-eyed and bitter-mouthed, openly seething at Cranston’s peremptory summons, as was Mother Veritable, who made her annoyance obvious by turning away, more interested in what was happening in the garden beyond.
Cranston sat at the top of the table, Athelstan beside him.
‘You seem impatient with us,’ the coroner began, ‘so I’ll be blunt. I’m in no mood for niceties. Where were you all this afternoon?’
He paused while Athelstan undid his writing satchel and laid out a piece of vellum on the table along with his writing instruments.
‘Well?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Where were you all?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Maurice Clinton broke in. I can vouch for that, as can Master Rolles.’ The knight gestured at the taverner. ‘I can also vouch for him.’
‘And you, Mother Veritable?’ Cranston asked sweetly.
‘Why, Sir Jack,’ her voice was rich with sarcasm, ‘I have been here since noon at Master Rolles’ request. We were discussing the burial of poor Beatrice and Clarice.’
‘And none of you left?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The gentlemen,’ Master Rolles declared, ‘rose late, broke their fast, and either stayed in their chambers, sat in the garden or, after noon, dined here. Ask any of the maids or scullions. You had best tell them, Sir John, what has really happened.’
‘The Misericord is dead,’ Cranston declared. ‘He was kept safe in a cell at Newgate, but someone passed him a pie claiming it was a gift from me. The pie was poisoned . . .’
Athelstan watched their faces for any reaction. The knights seemed unconcerned, whilst Mother Veritable just shrugged, a bitter twist to her mouth.