by Paul Doherty
Benjamin paused, finger to his lips. 'Roger, do you remember when you were at Windsor and you discovered that secret chamber? What happens if there was a similar room here in the Tower? And, let us say, someone found a pouch or casket in that chamber bearing the seals of this long-dead Prince? What better person than the surveyor of the King's works, whose job it is to know every nook and cranny of this sinister fortress?'
Benjamin stopped speaking as Ragusa came screaming across the green, rags flying out like banners behind her. Her stiff, vein-streaked hands were beating the air like the wings of a pinioned bird; behind her hurried Mallow. The old woman's mad gaze caught mine and she stopped.
‘You are the handsome youth who visited me,' she screamed. ‘You came to ask old Ragusa questions. Remember?' She drew closer: in the daylight she looked even more hideous, and made the air about her foulsome. 'Help me!' She turned as Mallow caught up with her. 'Go away!' she screeched. 'Go away, leave old Ragusa alone!'
Mallow stopped, hands on his hips, chest heaving. 'For the love of God, woman!' he grated, 'we will pay you well.' He glanced at us. 'Someone has to dress poor Wormwood's body for burial.' 'All flesh and gore! All flesh and gore!' Ragusa shrieked. She held up her hands. 'Stiff and cold they be, stiff and cold! They can't feel flesh, be it alive and quick or cold and dead.'
I grasped her hands: they were cold and hard, like stones on a freezing winter night. ‘You'll be paid well,' I said.
Her mad eyes caught mine. ‘It'd best be me,' she muttered. She turned on Mallow. 'For two silver coins,' she demanded.
Mallow, swearing she would get all she wanted, thanked me and led her away. I watched them go. Something pricked my memory, but I was in too much of a hurry to leave to recall what it was. We were to meet Pelleter: I hoped against hope that young Miranda would be there waiting for us.
We packed our belongings and made our way down to the Wool Quay. At Custom House we hired a skiff to take us across to Southwark. The river was busy with barges and ships, so the morning was half-way through before Benjamin and I reached the Tabard to find Pelleter and the beautiful Miranda waiting for us.
‘I got your message,' the under-sheriff growled. 'My bailiffs are out looking for this Dr Quicksilver.' Benjamin thanked him. 'And I have hired horses,' the under-sheriff continued.
Again, Benjamin absentmindedly murmured his appreciation, though, like me, he only had eyes for Miranda, who sat on a gentle brown cob looking more beautiful than ever. There was the usual hurly-burly as our horses were saddled, panniers thrown across and directions taken before we left. The old jealousy sparked in my heart. I found myself riding next to the under-sheriff whilst, in front of us, Benjamin escorted Miranda. I won't bore you with the details of the journey. A beautiful, sun-filled golden day. The trees and flowers were in full bloom, but there was a touch of autumn, a glimpse of gold amongst the green as we trotted down the old pilgrim way towards Canterbury. Our pace was brisk. We were not travellers set for the Becket shrine. We did not stop and tell each other tales. Nor were we hindered by pack animals. Pelleter was eager to help, and Miranda, God bless her, was fascinated by Benjamin's discourse. And old Shallot? Well, just to be with her was pleasure enough. If I'd had my way, we would have ridden all the way to Canterbury and worshipped before Becket's tomb and seen that brilliant diamond, the Regal of France, dazzling in the darkness. (It's all gone now. The Great Beast put paid to that. He destroyed the tomb, seized the gold and the Regal of France. Well, to be honest, I have that, but I won't tell you how, that's another story!)
By late afternoon we'd reached St Thomas's Watering Hole on the Canterbury road. Pelleter took us to where the Sakkers' tavern once stood: now it was nothing more than a blackened piece of land littered with scraps of timber and burnt plaster. A cold, eerie place, full of ghosts, a blight on that golden day. Pelleter pointed to where the scaffold posts had stood. The under-sheriff then took us off the road and into the forest. We were hardly in the trees when we met a party of royal verderers, all dressed in lincoln green.
'Where are you going?' the leader asked, planting himself in front of us. Pelleter leaned down and explained.
'Sakker!' the verderer exclaimed. 'Robert Sakker! Are you witless, man?' ‘What do you mean?' Pelleter snapped.
'Why, sir,' the fellow replied, 'Robert Sakker was killed eight months ago outside Maidstone.'
Chapter 12
Despite Pelleter's insistent questioning, the verderer was adamant.
'It's well known,' he explained. 'Sakker became a poacher. We often hunted him; fleet of foot, he was. Then one day a chapman, making his way from Dover, stopped at one of the hostelries on the road and told us the news: Sakker was slain in a tavern brawl.' He shrugged. That's all I know.'
Pelleter thanked him. We rode on, following the track deeper into the forest, its dark greenery filled with birdsong and the occasional bright spots of sunlight. We rode silently, listening to the chattering birds: all the time I kept my eyes on the fair Miranda's slender neck. So close! So soft! I felt like stretching out my hand and touching her. But, of course, Shallot could not. Instead I was drawn into conversation with the under-sheriff about what the verderer had told us, whilst the light of my life talked to Benjamin. Now and again I caught her gaze, I glimpsed the admiration in her eyes as Benjamin explained to her the mysteries of alchemy, or made her laugh with the stories from the schoolroom at our manor.
At last we entered a clearing larger than the rest. In the centre stood the ruins of an old hunting lodge which, Pelleter explained, dated from the days of Henry VI. The stockade fence had long disappeared, as had the bothies, byres and stables. The lodge itself still stood, but the roof was holed and the windows were mere gaps in the wall. We hobbled our horses and went inside. The stairs were usable but there were gaps in the roof and puddles of mildewed water on the floor.
This is where Sakker and his gang often hid,' Pelleter explained. 'I now know the woodland path, but it's easy to get lost in the forest. The Sakkers would gather there, plot their ambuscades and retreat from any possible pursuit. Young Robert stayed at the tavern, shielding the rest of his family' He took us across and pointed to where the floorboards had been ripped up. This is where we found most of their plunder.' He smiled thinly. 'God knows what happened to that: the King's commissioners probably took it.'
(Oh aye, I thought and, knowing the Great Beast as I do, I doubt if any of it found its way back to the rightful owners.)
At first I couldn't understand why Benjamin had insisted on coming here. True there were scorch-marks on the floor, bits of rotting food, traces of people having lived there, but these could have been due to the verderers or any of the forest people. Nevertheless, Benjamin began to search the house carefully, scrutinising every nook and cranny. At last he paid heed to my insistent questions.
‘Roger, we know this place is now the haunt of owls and bats -' he looked round and shivered – Taut it was also the lair of the Sakkers. People never change. Old habits die hard. Robert Sakker must have come back here. Even if it was just to search for some of the plunder his family had hidden.'
I glanced across where Pelleter and Miranda were sitting on a crumbling doorstep, leisurely eating the provisions they had brought.
'Master, what is the use? You heard the verderer. Sakker is dead and I am hungry!'
Benjamin plucked at my sleeve. 'I don't think Robert Sakker's dead,' he replied, then cautiously climbed the battered wooden staircase.
I groaned and reluctantly followed. The second floor was positively dangerous, with gaps and sagging timbers. Benjamin went into the chambers on either side. I still did not know what he was looking for. As our search continued, the shadows grew longer and that old hunting lodge creaked and groaned. A tingle of fear ran up my spine. After all, this was an ancient house. God knows what terrible things the Sakker gang had done here. Were their ghosts peering at us from a corner? Did their shades follow us, ghoul-like, from room to room?
(I see my litt
le chaplain snigger. Oh, sitting at the centre of a maze in the glorious sunlight, the little curmudgeon can titter and giggle. Nevertheless, I have seen him tremble down at the edge of the marshes when the sun sets and the darkness creeps in from the forest! And yes, before he asks, I have seen ghosts. I have been along the great gallery at Hampton Court, just near the royal chapel where Catherine Howard, the Great Beast's fifth wife, ran screaming and shrieking, begging her base, syphilitic husband to spare her the headsman's axe. I have sat in a window-seat on the anniversary of her death. I have heard her terrible ghostly scream and the patter of high-heeled shoes which stops abruptly, just before the chapel door. Oh, I have seen ghosts! More than I like to recount. Indeed, my stories gave Will Shakespeare the idea of Brutus seeing Caesar's shade before the battle at Philippi.)
Now in that old hunting lodge I felt the ghosts throng round me. I was about to leave my master to his searches when I heard his triumphant cry. I found him in a small chamber, crouched beside a battered fireplace. 'Look, Roger!'
He held up two huge pots, put these on the floor and pointed to the hearth piled high with burnt rags and grey dust. I picked up a stick and sifted amongst the remains in the hearth.
'They're clothes,' I declared. 'Someone has burnt clothing here.' 'And look at this, Roger.'
Benjamin thrust one of the cracked bowls into my hand. The inside was stained black with a little liquid still in the bottom, like a piece of slime from a pool. I dabbed at it with my finger and sniffed.
'It's paint,' I declared, rubbing it between my fingers. I sniffed again. Though rather odourless.' 'Look at my hair, Roger!' 'Master,' I replied, 'are you witless?'
Benjamin grinned and pointed to his temple. The hair was usually a premature grey: now it was as black as night.
'It's dye,' he explained. 'Robert Sakker came here. I suspect Sakker killed a man in Maidstone and left evidence to make others think it was he who had been slain, then he came here. Perhaps to collect booty Master Pelleter and his bailiffs failed to unearth. He also changed his clothes and dyed his auburn hair dark.'
'Of course!' I breathed. 'And the cunning bastard had probably grown a beard and moustache to cover that scar on his chin.' I sat down, my back to the wall, desperately trying to recall all whom I had met in the Tower. 'Allardyce!' I exclaimed. 'Philip Allardyce, the clerk to the stores. Don't you remember, Master? Tall, deep-voiced, black-haired, with a luxuriant moustache and beard; that's the description we were given.'
'But he's dead,' Benjamin explained. 'Others saw him ill with the plague. The old woman felt for the life pulse in his throat. The bailiff who examined the corpse in the death-cart pronounced him dead as a stone.'
I recalled old Ragusa screeching at me earlier in the day: her numb, vein-streaked hands pressing into mine.
'Ragusa's an old mad crone,' I replied slowly. ‘I’d wager if she felt my pulse or yours she'd pronounce us dead. I have suffered the sweating sickness, Master; it would be easy for a cunning man to simulate it. Sweat, fever, retching and choking. Allardyce wasn't tended by a physician, but by a mad old crone who doesn't want to be turned out because she is inept at what she does.' ‘But the bailiff on the death-cart?’ Benjamin asked.
What happens if it was not Allardyce's corpse taken out? If he'd been alive, the soldiers would have suspected as much when they dragged the corpse down to the Lion Gate.'
'So you are saying that Allardyce was really Sakker? He gains employment in the Tower, simulates the sweating sickness and pretends to die?' Benjamin nodded. ‘I can accept that. Few people would go near him. Moreover, once the body was sheeted, no one would care. But who could smuggle a corpse into the Tower as a substitute?' Why not ask one of our hangmen?' I replied. 'Aren't they responsible for the corpses of their victims?' Benjamin agreed.
'And so, Master.' I continued, staring at the pot of black dye. 'Sakker is in the Tower, pretending to be Allardyce. I suspect the real Allardyce was the man our villain killed in Maidstone. Later, before the sweating sickness really takes hold in the city, Sakker slips out of the Tower. He is now free to deliver letters to Westminster, or post proclamations at St Paul's and St Mary's, Cheapside. He can lay a trail of gunpowder and seize that gold the King is now so furious at losing. Because we are not looking for him, he can wander the city at his will, baiting and taunting us. When he wishes, now under a new disguise, he slips back into the Tower to kill Horehound and Wormwood as he did Hellbane and Undershaft.' 'But who is his accomplice?' Benjamin asked.
'Ah, Master, there's the rub.' I put the pot down on the floor. 'How do we know he has one? What happens if he is the sole villain?'
'But how can he re-enter the Tower if he's a soldier or member of the garrison?' Benjamin asked. ‘People would remember a stranger. He must have an accomplice.'
I sat and thought for a while, closing my eyes as I remembered the Tower as I had seen it: the soldiers, their women, the children, the officers, old Ragusa, the hangmen.
'Don't forget, Roger, the day we returned to the Tower from St Paul's, everyone had been locked in and could account for their movements when old Horehound was crushed to death in the basement of the Beauchamp Tower. Everyone except-'
'Except the hangmen!' I cried. They had all been drinking that afternoon and gone their separate ways. One of them must be Sakker's accomplice.'
Benjamin wiped his fingers and sat back, rocking on his heels. 'If so, how does Sakker communicate with him?' He chewed his Up. 'And who told Sakker when the real Allardyce was travelling to London so he could be ambushed in Maidstone? One of the officers or hangmen? Any of them could easily find out when the real Allardyce was to be at the Tower-'
'Or there again, Master,' I interrupted, 'once Sakker knew Allardyce was to leave Dover Castle, he'd simply wait there and follow him to Maidstone.'
Benjamin nodded. 'Roger, the web begins to unravel.' He kicked the cracked bowl with his foot and clapped his hands. 'I was sure Sakker was at the root of it all. Our visit here was worth while.'
We hastened downstairs and told the under-sheriff what we had found. He became excited as us and vowed that a swift return to the city was essential. 'If Sakker knows that we are now hunting him and have some idea about his disguise, perhaps we can tighten the net around him,' he exclaimed.
Miranda clapped her hands, eyes shining with delight. She leaned on tiptoe and kissed Benjamin on both cheeks. He blushed and stammered, pointing to me. Of course, I received no kiss; nothing but her brilliant smile.
In the end we did not reach London that day. The sky became overcast; one of those summer black storms swept over the flat Kent countryside. We were forced to take shelter in one of the many great taverns which line the pilgrims' way. We ate and drank well. For a while we forgot Sakker whilst Benjamin regaled the Pelleters with stories of our earlier exploits at the manor outside Ipswich. Even a blind man could have realised that Benjamin and Miranda had fallen deeply in love. They only had eyes for each other, and it was not a friendship which Master Pelleter opposed. Oh, Benjamin was a gentleman. He bade her a gallant goodnight, but only after spending hours with her in the corner of a taproom chattering and whispering. I sat like a ghost at a banquet, engaging Miranda's father in desultory conversation about the city and the effects of the sweating sickness. I did not sleep that night. Instead I tossed and turned on my pallet-bed, not because of the fleas which infested the blankets or the rats which came out to nose at my boots: all I could do was gaze at Benjamin sleeping in his bed like a child, lost in golden dreams about a woman I loved but who barely recognised my existence. Only then did I realise why people murder! How the red fury can cloud the mind, kill the soul, and turn one's being into a single thrust of a dagger. Of all the men I have ever known, Benjamin is the only one I have loved; yet, that night, the thought of murder crossed my mind!
(Ah, I see my little clerk has stopped writing. Ever since I mentioned the name Miranda, he's had a look of puzzlement on his moon-like face. He sits, tapping the quill against his
podgy nose, and squirming his fat little rump. He abruptly remembered the picture in my secret chamber, the letters in my coffers, and now he announces it. I can mouth the words for him: ‘But Miranda was your wife, your first wife? I have seen her picture!' Oh, he looks at me, the little man, his head cocked to one side, a look of puzzlement in those blackcurrant eyes of his. 'Explain! Explain!' His squat body throbs with curiosity. Well, the little turd will have to wait. He’ll have to find out how this woman, so beloved of Benjamin, so deeply enamoured of my master, became my wife. But not now. Ah no! As the good book says, there is a time and a place under heaven for everything and my little clerk will just have to wait. Enough about love!)
The next morning we rose early. Our horses, now rested, took us swiftly back into London. As we crossed London Bridge, going on towards Catte Street, Pelleter explained that perhaps his bailiffs and spies may have found out something about Quicksilver, and invited us to join him at the Guildhall. Benjamin accepted. Anything to stay as long as possible with Miranda! They had been talking ever since we left the tavern, and continued to do so as we forced our way through the busy, smelling streets. The traders, taking advantage of the good weather and the disappearance of the sweating sickness, now shouted boisterously, drawing the crowds to throng around their stalls. The city had come back to life: the naps and foists, the rogues, the bawds, the apple-squires thronged the mouths of alleyways or the doors of taverns. The kennels and runnels stank as richly as ever. I gazed around, drinking it all in, and suddenly, in my bones, I knew Quicksilver would be back to float with the rest of the scum of London's underworld. At the Guildhall, Pelleter dismounted and told us to wait. He was gone a few minutes, barely giving me time to attempt a fruitless flirtation with Miranda, before he came trotting back, a burly, thick-set bailiff in tow.