by Paul Doherty
‘This is preposterous,’ Sir Maurice broke in. ‘You have no proof.’
‘You don’t deny it,’ Cranston barked, ‘you simply ask for evidence.’
‘I’ll supply that soon enough.’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘We’ll find the corpses, then there’s Mother Veritable: she’ll be about to take the oath now, provide the Crown and its lawyers with all the proof they need.’
‘But this treasure . . .’ Sir Reginald Branson spoke up.
‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’ll come to it by and by. What were you planning to do with that treasure? Break it up, hide it away until you returned?’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile. ‘But you couldn’t do that, could you? In the end all you had to do was hide the corpses, and let those poor men take the blame. The perfect crime, except for Mother Veritable. She has already confessed to killing Guinevere the Golden. She was supposed to destroy all that poor woman’s possessions, make it look as though she had packed all her bags and vanished without a trace, but she was greedy. She kept a small coffer owned by Guinevere.’ Athelstan leaned under the table, brought out the small casket and placed it carefully in front of him. ‘The years passed, the casket became tawdry. Mother Veritable grew careless or her conscience pricked her. She gave the casket to Beatrice and Clarice, not realising the terrible mistake she was making.’ Athelstan tapped the broken clasps. ‘Look at that, gentlemen, do you see the insignia? Dark blue Celtic crosses on a tawny background. Don’t you remember whose insignia it was?’
‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice leaned forward, hands shaking.
‘Ah, Sir Maurice, you have reached the same conclusion as I have, hasn’t he, Brother Malachi?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Aren’t those the personal insignia of your brother, as opposed to your family escutcheon? A dark blue Celtic cross on a tawny background. I noticed that in the Tower when I scrutinised the indenture. Your brother Richard always signed a cross like this next to his name, while Mortimer used a lion, the heraldic device of his family. You had forgotten that, but the Misericord didn’t. He became very friendly with Beatrice and Clarice. One day he saw this coffer and, being keen of eye and sharp of wit, realised it must have been a personal gift from Sir Richard, a fact Mother Veritable had overlooked. The Misericord would wonder why their mother Guinevere, supposedly so devoted to Sir Richard, would vanish but leave that here. He began to reflect, racking his memory, recalling the events of that night. Did he remember something amiss? An item he had glimpsed? Did he grow suspicious of the accepted story? Eventually he shared his secret with Beatrice and Clarice whilst enigmatically hinting to his own sister what he had found. Something which could also be found on Edith’s person, namely a cross. When I visited Edith at the convent of the Minoresses she was wearing a cross similar to this one.’ Athelstan tapped the casket. ‘The Misericord must have told those two young women to be careful, to entrust the casket to someone else, which they did, their friend Donata. After their murder, Donata suspected something was wrong and decided to flee Mother Veritable’s, entrusting this to me.’
‘Is this true?’ Sir Reginald Branson shouted, glaring at Brother Malachi.
‘You know it is,’ the Benedictine spat back.
‘Of course you do,’ Athelstan declared, pushing the casket further down the table.
Malachi’s hand went out, as if by caressing it he could somehow touch his dead brother.
‘Let me continue my story,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Once the vile deed was done, you warriors of Christ went to Outremer, Master Rolles returned to looking after his tavern, whilst Mother Veritable followed her own evil path. But sin, like a beast at the door, crouches and waits, doesn’t it, Brother Malachi? You see,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Brother Malachi was very anxious about his brother. For a while he believed the accepted story, that his brother, with Mortimer, had stolen the Lombard treasure, and disappeared with his leman, Guinevere the Golden. Now the Crown, not to mention the Lombard bankers, had circulated a list of the missing treasure to the goldsmiths’ guilds in all the principal cities of the kingdom. Brother Malachi did likewise.’
Athelstan opened his writing satchel and took out the two documents Cranston had given him the night before.
‘There are two lists here, one circulated by the Crown, the other by Brother Malachi. There’s one difference. On yours, Malachi, you added an item not found on the other.’ Athelstan undid his wallet and brought out the small velvet-lined box which held the Erconwald ring. ‘Your brother owned this. It may be Saxon but I suspect he bought it because the crosses inside the ring are very similar to those of his personal insignia. Did he buy it in London, Brother Malachi? He certainly showed it to you before he gave it to Guinevere the Golden as a token of his love.’ Athelstan paused. The silence now weighed so heavily that every sound from the garden echoed through to the solar. ‘None of the treasure ever reappeared,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but this ring did. A goldsmith contacted Brother Malachi. Once he saw the ring, he realised that Guinevere was dead, and so was his brother. When Mother Veritable killed Guinevere, greedy as ever and disappointed at what was found in the Lombard treasure chest, she kept the casket, but sold the ring. It was only a matter of time before some goldsmith recognised it and, hoping to claim the reward, wrote to Brother Malachi. This ring has already made Mother Veritable confess.’
‘I told you!’
Master Rolles’ outburst surprised even Cranston. The taverner leaped to his feet, dagger already drawn, and lunged across the table, the point of the blade narrowly missing Sir Maurice’s face. The knight pushed his chair back, hand going to his own dagger, but Rolles, face white and tight, eyes glaring, now lunged at Athelstan, his tormentor. Cranston, even swifter, lashed out with his hand and knocked Rolles’ wrist, sending the dagger flying. Athelstan could only sit as the taverner, backing away, drew the evil-looking Welsh dagger from the top of his boot. He turned on Cranston, lips moving soundlessly, one hand going to brush the sweat from his cheek.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Cranston rose, drawing his own sword in a hiss of steel, his other hand expertly plucking a dagger from its sheath. ‘Come, Master Rolles, this is no way forward, whatever charges you face.’
‘Charges?’
Rolles wiped his face with the back of his hand. He had lost all sense of where he was and what was happening, trapped by the mistakes of the past.
‘You stupid bastard.’ Rolles turned on Sir Maurice. ‘It was your scheme from the start. I should have known better. And what for? All that blood, for what? And that stupid bitch Veritable, greedy as a jackdaw.’
Sir Maurice still sat in his chair, slightly pushed back from the table. Sir Reginald’s hand edged slowly towards his own dagger.
‘All this,’ Rolles shouted so loudly the guards outside became alarmed and burst in, only to be waved away by Cranston, ‘all this,’ he screamed again, a white froth appearing at the corner of his mouth, ‘lost because of you.’
‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston warned, ‘put down your knife.’
‘And you,’ Rolles took a step forward, ‘fat Jack Cranston, come to take my profits, have you? I never did like you, with your prying eyes, all bluff and merry, ever righteous.’
Cranston took a step back, raising both sword and dagger. Rolles was lost in his own fury, mad with rage at what was about to be revealed. Athelstan had calculated that the disappearance of Mother Veritable would disconcert Rolles, but not to this extent.
Suddenly there was a tap on the window. Flaxwith, alarmed, was peering through. Cranston lowered his sword; Rolles seized the opportunity, turning slightly sideways like the fighting man he was, and lunged, his dagger making a feint for Cranston’s face, but moving just as quickly, he brought the dagger down, aiming for his true mark, the coroner’s broad chest. Cranston, despite his bulk, acted even more swiftly. Instead of retreating, he moved to the right. His dagger hand blocked Rolles’ blow, whilst he thrust his sword de
ep into the soft flesh where stomach and chest met. The force of Rolles’ lunge made him take the blade deeper, and for a while he just rocked backwards and forwards on his feet, a look of pained surprise on his face as he dropped his dagger.
Sir John pulled his sword out. Rolles tried to speak, moving forward even as the blood frothed between his lips. He made one last effort, then fell to his knees, gave a sigh and collapsed to the floor. Flaxwith threw open the door, others of his company thronging in behind, Cranston roared at them to withdraw.
‘But Sir John, I’ve—’
‘Never mind,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You saw it all, Henry. I had no choice.’
Flaxwith nodded. ‘It’s treason, Sir John, to draw a weapon on a King’s officer who is about to make an arrest.’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
Cranston gestured to the door. The bailiff withdrew, and Cranston ordered the rest to stay where they were and keep their hands on the tabletop. He knelt down, pressing his fingers against Rolles’ neck. Athelstan joined him. By now the blood was gushing out of Rolles’ mouth and the gaping wound in his chest, forming a dark red puddle on the floor. Neither Cranston nor Athelstan could find the life beat. The friar whispered a prayer, but Cranston was more practical.
‘He’ll have to wait. Let his corpse sprawl there and his soul can hear our judgement.’
‘Are you sure?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Sit down, Brother,’ Cranston ordered.
The friar returned reluctantly to his chair. Malachi was smiling to himself, as if savouring the moment.
‘You celebrated Mass in my church,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You condemned these men because they consorted with whores, yet you smile because an enemy lies dead a few paces in front of you.’
Malachi’s response was to turn and spit at the corpse. ‘He was an assassin,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘You know that and so do I. He was lawfully executed by a King’s officer in pursuit of his duty. Rolles had a hand in the murder of my brother.’
‘Aye, and others.’
Athelstan stared across at the two knights. Both men looked beaten, faces grey with fear.
‘And so we come to the night of the Great Ratting,’ Athelstan continued. ‘All of you, the knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable, had decided that the Misericord was too great a danger to ignore; his friendship with Beatrice and Clarice posed a threat, whilst the knights, especially Chandler, had other grievances against him. Mother Veritable had heard rumours, and God knows what questions the Misericord may have been asking. The Misericord moved about in the twilight of the law; he could piece information together, reaching the conclusion that you, Malachi, were innocent but the rest were a coven of assassins. He would keep such knowledge close, fearful of reprisal, unable to approach the law but greedy for what wealth blackmail might bring. He wouldn’t have learned everything, but enough to feed suspicions. Once this were known, his death, and those of the two women, was decided upon. Beatrice and Clarice were easy prey; it was just a matter of time, of waiting for a suitable occasion. The Misericord was different; a man of keen wit, he would have to be hunted down, so the Judas Man was called in. He was, in fact, hired by all the assassins.
‘On the night of the Great Ratting, Beatrice and Clarice were lured here and sent to the hay barn. The Misericord was to be killed by the Judas Man, but he escaped and fled to the last man he should have approached, Master Rolles. The taverner sent him to the hay barn, either to be killed with Beatrice and Clarice or trapped and depicted as their assassin. The cunning man’s stomach saved him: he was desperate for the privy. He was fortunate, blessed by that luck which had always kept him one step ahead of the law. He wasn’t there when the assassin entered the hay barn.’
‘Who was it?’ Brother Malachi asked.
‘Oh, I suspect Master Rolles. He had sent both the girls and the Misericord to the hay barn. He must have known that the Judas Man had trapped the wrong felon, but he didn’t really care. He pretended to be busy in the kitchen to distract the likes of harassed Tobias, then slipped through a side door, out across the yard. Sir Stephen Chandler was waiting in the shadows. He would act as sentry, whilst Rolles committed the deed. Broomhill also came down to keep an eye on matters.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Rolles crept into the hay barn, killed those two women, but realised what Chandler may have told him, that the Misericord wasn’t there. He bars the hay barn door and returns to the kitchen. Chandler, drunk and maudlin, goes into the barn to view the corpses before staggering back to the tavern. If anything went wrong, Chandler and Rolles could vouch for each other. The Misericord had escaped, but he could wait for another day, and that day came sooner than he thought.
‘The Misericord is arrested and taken to Newgate. He now realises what the deaths of Beatrice and Clarice mean. Whilst locked in Newgate, he leaves further clues about what he suspects. He scratches on the wall “Quern quaeritis”, “Whom do you seek?” It comes from the Gospel at Easter; when the women arrived at Christ’s tomb to anoint His Body they met angels who asked the same question. It’s a reference to the Crusaders, soldiers who vow to fight for the sepulchre of Christ. In a subtle way the Misericord was naming those knights who, twenty years earlier, had robbed the treasure intended for that crusading fleet. Such an allusion would appeal to the Misericord, with his knowledge of music and liturgy, as did the second-clue, the reference to numbers – 1, 1, 2, 3, 5. He was actually numbering the assassins – the five knights staying at this tavern. In fact he was doing more than this. The numbers 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 come from Signor Fibonacci’s work on geometry, Practica Geometriae. The writer demonstrated a sequence of numbers, each of which, after the first, is the sum of the two previous. The Misericord, a scholar, had to show off: he was not only listing you knights, but demonstrating how you were all bound up in one murderous coven. Finally,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘as he died, the Misericord became more explicit. He tried to scream the source of his suspicions. The prisoner in the adjoining cell thought he was shouting “Askit”. In truth, it was “casket”.’
Athelstan stretched out and brought the casket towards him.
‘You had decided on his death, hadn’t you, Sir Maurice? You and your companions, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable. You were a coven of conspirators, who could vouch for each other whatever pretended quarrels occurred between you. When Sir John came with his questions, you could act all innocent, and claim that no one left the tavern, but one or more of you certainly did slip across to Cheapside and, cowled and cloaked, arrange for that poison pie to be sent in to the Misericord. I suspect two of you went. Mother Veritable bought it, and one of your company gave it to the keeper. You knew we were going there. You simply watched and waited for us to leave, then carried out your murderous design. You must have known a gift from the Lord Coroner to a prisoner in Newgate would be handed over immediately.’
Athelstan paused. In the garden outside the window the bailiffs were gathering around a deep pit, talking excitedly at each other, pointing down to something. Athelstan half rose to get a better view, and realised that the bailiffs had been digging near the small flower arbour where he and Rosamund had sat.
‘In a while,’ he murmured, ‘all will be revealed. By now . . .’ he continued. Sir Maurice seemed not to be listening, leaning on the table, head in hands, whilst Branson gazed at the wall like a man who had taken a blow to the head. ‘By now you had decided on other deaths. The Judas Man was a danger, narrow of soul but with a razor-sharp wit. He grew suspicious; indeed, anyone would have. During those long hours in St Erconwald’s cemetery, he would ask himself questions like, why the Misericord? Who had hired him? Why the great secrecy? He would learn about the Lombard treasure and the mysterious events of twenty years ago, and, of course, he was a suspect over the killings of Beatrice and Clarice, even though he was involved in a brawl on the night they were murdered. I searched his chamber and found a scrap of parchment where he had written “4 not 5”.’
‘He was talking about this present compan
y, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, he was,’ Athelstan agreed.
‘He had met you, hadn’t he, Sir Maurice? He knew all about the five knights and their chaplain. He was keen-eyed, and on the night of the Great Ratting, he came down into the tap room. He must have met you, did he not?’
Sir Maurice refused to look up.
‘He noticed one of you was missing around the very time that those two young women were murdered. He noticed Chandler wasn’t there. This is pure deduction,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘but the Judas Man would be intrigued: what important event where only four of the knights, not five, were present? The only significant occasion, the only murders which occurred when he was close by, were those of Beatrice and Clarice. He must have heard the gossip about Sir Stephen quarrelling with those women as well as being seen in the yard afterwards. Above all,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the corpse stiffening beside him, ‘he wondered why Master Rolles never interfered with his confrontation with that poor miscreant Toadflax. Was Rolles so busy in the kitchen he couldn’t come out? The Judas Man started asking questions, so one of you killed him, very close, with a crossbow bolt. The Judas Man was a soldier, a hunter; he would have to be caught unawares. I could imagine Master Rolles tapping on his door, the primed arbalest well concealed. The Judas Man flings the door open, and in a few heartbeats he is dead.’
Athelstan glanced at Malachi, lost in his own thoughts, beating his fingers against the table edge.
‘Master Rolles must have been involved. You would need his cart. The Judas Man’s corpse, stripped naked, was concealed under mounds of rubbish. At dusk Master Rolles took it out to the lay stall, the great refuse mound on London Bridge. Nobody lingers to watch refuse, ordure and other unmentionables be unloaded. The Judas Man’s corpse became part of the midden heap, and along with the rest was tipped into the Thames.’