by Paul Doherty
‘We can leave the horses here,' he exclaimed. 'My men have found Quicksilver.'
Oh, I grinned to hear the news! My heart leapt with joy! The blood sang in my body! I even forgot my disappointment over Miranda at the prospect of seeing my old friend and shaking him warmly by the neck! As we hurried through the streets up Aldersgate towards Charterhouse, I imagined what I would do to him. Fingernails or toenails first, I wondered? Now Pelleter had told Miranda to return to their house: of course he might as well have told the breeze. She wasn't disobedient: she just smiled prettily, blinked, and, like many women, acted as if she hadn't heard. Pelleter looked wryly at her, but all he received was a beaming smile – and so she came with us.
As we went, the bailiff told us in hushed tones how the clacking tongues amongst the rogues and villains had described Quicksilver's new haunt: a little house on Beech Lane, between Red Cross and White Cross Street, opposite the Ramsey inn.
‘He's doing a roaring trade by the sound of it,' the fellow muttered. 'Believes he has found a concoction to cure the sweating sickness.'
'Of course,' I nodded. 'Now the bloody thing's gone, he's probably claiming the credit for it. You have not approached him, have you?'
The fellow grinned in a show of cracked yellow teeth. 'Master Shallot, we have more sense than you think. If Quicksilver suspects there's a trap set, he'll be in Dover by dusk.'
I congratulated the man on his wisdom, and slipped a coin into his hand. At last we reached the corner of Beech Lane. It was a clean thoroughfare; the houses on each side were screened by huge copper beeches, their branches spread out, intertwining together to form a natural arch. A sweet-smelling, restful place, where the houses were painted smartly in black and white, mullioned glass filled the bay windows, doors hung straight and the red-tiled roofs gleamed in the sun. The Ramsey inn was a prosperous-looking hostelry, its sign and woodwork freshly daubed. Inside the herb-scented taproom were the sheriff's men, a motley group of rogues busily drinking ale and beer whilst keeping an eye on the house opposite. Pelleter would have cursed them for wasting the city money, but Benjamin intervened. He understood my hatred for my old friend, and offered to pay the men even more if Dr Quicksilver proved to be at home.
Well, we don't know,' one of them replied. ‘He was there last night. This morning a fine, tall lady, her face veiled, came trotting along for an assignation.'
'Probably needed some mercury or cure for the pox!' another exclaimed.
I just stared across the street at the broad, black-painted door.
Well, let's see,' I muttered, and before Benjamin or Pelleter could stop me, I was across the street, hammering on the door. I had my cowl above my head, so if there were any spy-holes, Quicksilver would not see it was me and try to flee over the back fence. I knocked again but there was no reply, so I pulled down the latch and the door swung back on its hinges. My first impression was that old Quicksilver must have made a merry pile: the passageways looked swept and clean, there were pots of herbs upon the table, whilst the hooks screwed into the wall were of pure brass, polished till they shone.
'Dr Quicksilver!' I called, disguising my voice to make me sound like some pompous merchant.
There was no reply. Now at first that did not disconcert me. Perhaps Quicksilver was involved in some assignation, or toasting his new-found wealth by lying in a drunken stupor. There would be no slatterns or servants. A man like Quicksilver does not like anyone around him who might see through his trickery and either blackmail him or proclaim him to be the charlatan he was. I went further along the passageway, past a small parlour. Staring through a crack in the door I could see no sign of life. I entered the kitchen: at first I smiled, I thought I had caught my victim napping. Quicksilver sat on a chair with his back to me, head on his arm, resting on the kitchen table. I thought he had been drinking, and that the sticky red substance dripping on to the floor came from a spilled goblet of wine. Then my elation gave way to anger. Quicksilver was dead. Someone had come up behind him and slashed his throat from ear to ear. Behind me, Benjamin and Pelleter entered the house. They came crashing into the kitchen even as I pulled Quicksilver's head back by his greasy white hair. His eyes, sunk in their sockets, stared sightlessly up at me; those lips, so skilled in knavery, were now silenced for good. I took one look at the blood splashed on the front of his velvet jerkin and let the head go. 'Dead as a doornail,' I pronounced. 'Perhaps he tricked people once too often,' Pelleter declared.
Benjamin crouched down beside the corpse, studying it carefully.
‘I don't think so.' He glanced up at me. 'Roger, we made a mistake in mentioning Dr Quicksilver in Kemble's chamber at the Tower.'
Of course I objected loudly, pointing out that I was not the only one after the old charlatan's blood. Yet in my heart I knew I had made a dreadful error. Of course, the assassin in Kemble's chamber would not want me to interrogate Quicksilver, and so had taken matters into his own hands. We went out and spoke to Pelleter's bailiffs who had been guarding both the back and front of the house.
'Oh yes,' their leader declared, 'Quicksilver had only one visitor: that was the tall, masked lady. Looked like a widow, she did. She must have been there for about an hour, and then left.'
Benjamin thanked the man, then quietly persuaded Miranda, standing in the passageway, that this was not the best place for her, and perhaps she had best return home. She did so and, as I turned away, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Benjamin tenderly on each cheek. She whispered something to him, and then allowed one of her father's men to escort her back to Catte Street. I stood, seething with fury and jealousy. However, though I am a rogue, I have no malice, and I quickly joined my master, Pelleter and the other officials in a thorough search of Quicksilver's house. Now you know what happens on such occasions: it's every man for himself. Pelleter was honest, but the rest… Well, you can't blame the lads. The city corporation paid them little and so, if it moved, they took it: candlesticks, pill-holders, whatever. I even saw one stuff a bolster-cover up his jerkin. Benjamin turned a blind eye to this, declaring that if Quicksilver conned the poor people, then everything in this house belonged to them. However, he gave strict instructions that any manuscripts or documents were to be brought to the kitchen. We went back there. Benjamin lay the blood-soaked corpse out on the floor and slit the thick, ornate cuff hiding Quicksilver's right wrist. The scar beneath was a broad, dark purple weal. 'It looks like a sword cut,' Benjamin declared.
I glanced at old Quicksilver's face. 'He was an ugly bugger in life,' I observed, 'and now he's dead.' I covered his face with a rag and glanced at my master. 'Do you really think he's Greene?' I asked. 'The man whom Sir Thomas More mentions as being responsible for the Princes' murder?'
‘I think so,' Benjamin replied. 'And that scar proves it. Greene must have been a mere stripling, though ancient in knavery, some forty years ago. He must have had a hand in the death of the Princes.'
Benjamin got to his feet and walked away from the corpse, beckoning me to follow. He closed the door and we sat on the stools. Above us we could hear Pelleter's bailiffs crashing about.
'After 1485’ Benjamin began, "when the Tudors came to the throne, Greene went into hiding.'
‘Yes, yes, that's true’ I replied. 'Quicksilver once told me he had spent many years on the Welsh March’
'Aye’ Benjamin replied. Then he returned to London as Dr Quicksilver. A born charlatan, he took up quackery. His only problem was that scar on his wrist.'
‘Do you think he could have been involved in the blackmail?' I asked.
‘I doubt it’ Benjamin replied. 'A born rogue, Quicksilver would not wish to excite attention. Which brings us to the intentions and true motives of the men we are hunting.' He ran the nail of his thumb round his lips. 'Sakker is definitely involved. An Oxford-trained clerk, he would know all about the Chancery and how to draft and publish a letter.' Benjamin tapped me on the knee. ‘I’m sure your theory is correct. He probably worked in the Tower for a while as Philip Al
lardyce, clerk of the stores. Somehow he faked his own death, which left him free to run about the city issuing proclamations, killing Undershaft and the rest.'
Benjamin paused, staring into the cold ash in the fire hearth. 'A man like Sakker would love that, cocking a snoot at authority whilst carrying out his own private war against the hangmen who executed his family. But -' he held up a finger – the mystery still remains. Who is his accomplice?’ Benjamin paused. "We know Sakker must hate the hangmen, yet, out of fear or some other motive, one of them might be his accomplice.' He sighed. ‘Whatever, Sakker seems to move in and out of the Tower as he pleases.' He stood up. ‘But come, let's find out what our friends have discovered.'
So far, it transpired, very little, but then old Shallot became involved. One of the great virtues of being a rogue is that you know where people hide things. Oh, the bailiffs had found potion books, elixirs, even a grimoire of black magic, but nothing to prove that Quicksilver was really Greene, or that he had a hand in any dark deeds at the Tower. Nevertheless, I soon corrected that. You see, people always hide things in the same place: they also believe that their bedchambers are, somehow, the safest place: the receptacle of all their great secrets. (Even my little chaplain here, I know he has been moving my great four-poster! He will find nothing there! I have, over the years, learnt never to hide anything in my bedchamber.)
Quicksilver was not so fortunate. His bedchamber had already been plundered, but I pulled the bed aside. I ignored the bailiffs' sniggers as I failed to find any loose board beneath, and I turned my attention to the bed itself. The headboard and posts proved solid, but I pulled the mattress off and beneath found a secret pocket cleverly sewn into its base. I rummaged about and drew out a sheaf of documents. My master cleared the chamber and took these over to the window to examine. The vellum had turned yellow and greasy with old age and the ink had faded. One was a love letter to Greene, probably from some long-dead doxy. Another was an indenture between Robert Brackenbury, constable of the Tower, and Edward Greene, yeoman; the date was January 1484. The third document was much more exciting: it was a plan of the Tower, or at least its walls, showing all the postern-gates and doors. Benjamin studied this closely and became excited.
'Look, Roger, here! In the wall near the Flint Tower, there's a small water-gate. I am sure this was not on Spurge's map.' He rolled it up. ‘We are finished here,' he announced.
He called Pelleter and told him we were leaving, and fairly hustled me out of the house. We hurried down to East Watergate, where we hired a skiff to take us back to the Tower. Once we were there, Benjamin immediately called a council with Kemble, Vetch, Spurge, Mallow and the hangmen. We met in the constable's chamber. Benjamin demanded Spurge's map and spread it out on the table, alongside the faded, greasy one taken from Quicksilver's mattress. 'Study them!' Benjamin exclaimed.
Spurge leaned over the table and did so. 'Where did you get this from?' he asked.
'Never mind! Never mind!' Benjamin replied. Tell me, Master Spurge, can you see any difference?'
For a while we sat in silence. No one dared object: Benjamin's face and curt, clipped words being a stark reminder that he was the King's commissioner in this matter and had to be obeyed. We all waited whilst Spurge ran his finger round both maps; taking eyeglasses out of a velvet pouch, he put these on, whispering to himself. Now and again he would glance up anxiously at Benjamin who was sitting opposite. They are similar,' he muttered. 'Except-' 'Except what?' Benjamin snapped.
'Here, near the Flint Tower, there's a small water-gate I have never seen before.' He glanced anxiously up at the constable. 'Nor was it on the maps I saw when I came here.'
Kemble just shook his head. Benjamin cut any discussion short and we all accompanied him down to Tower Green. After a great deal of searching, we found the water-gate carefully concealed by long grass and bushes which sprouted along the wall on either side of Flint Tower. The gate, or small portal, was no more than three foot high, built in the base of the wall. Nevertheless, despite it being hidden, Benjamin could lift the latch easily, open it, and look down to where the green slime of the moat gently swirled backwards and forwards.
"The gate's been used,' Benjamin said. The hinges and lock are all greased and oiled to make no sound.' He crouched down and peered across the moat. 'Somewhere, in the reeds i on the far side, I am sure we will find a small, flat boat which could be poled across in the darkness’
That could be done very easily,' Vetch interrupted. There are few guards on the ramparts above; we did not believe there was any gate or entrance here to guard’
‘Nor can it be seen from the other side,' Snakeroot spoke up.
We all looked at him expectantly. Well’ he stammered, 'across the moat is a good place to take a doxy. I have never seen the gate.'
The others chorused their agreement. Benjamin listened, then opening the gates, slipped through. We waited a while, then heard a knock on the gate. We reopened it and Benjamin, his coat all covered with mud and slime, stood there grinning from ear to ear.
'If you go out,' he said, 'you'll find gorse and bushes growing along the muddy bank, on this side of the Tower. It's quite simple: when the person left or entered, they pulled the vegetation across, so from the far side of the moat, all you saw were bushes and gorse growing at the base of the wall. Whilst this side was hidden by the same device.' He straightened up, shaking the mud from his gown. Philip Allardyce was clerk to the stores?' he inquired. His question was directed to the constable, who nodded quickly. 'And who hired him?' Benjamin continued. Why?’ Kemble replied.
'Master Constable, the Allardyce who came here was really Robert Sakker!'
Well, Master Daunbey, I did.' Kemble stuttered. ‘I thought he was who he claimed to be.' 'But why him?'
Kemble's face broke into a grin. 'Because no less a person than your beloved uncle, Cardinal Wolsey, recommended him’
Chapter 13
Now it was not often in my life I saw Benjamin lost for words, but he was as dumbstruck as myself. For a while he stood and gaped at Kemble before walking back on to the green. I followed, and Kemble caught up with us.
'It's true what I say,' he declared. 'Master Daunbey -' he stared round at the rest – 'come with me.'
We returned to his chamber. Benjamin slumped on to a stool at the huge oval table, whilst Kemble went to rummage amongst coffers and chests. Vetch, Spurge, Mallow and the other hangmen came in; they were fascinated by Benjamin's revelation.
'I would never have guessed,' Vetch whispered to me. He was an amiable soul but rather quiet, kept to himself
'He hardly spoke to us,' Mallow trumpeted. 'Really, Master Daunbey, are you saying this Philip Allardyce was really Robert Sakker?’ Benjamin nodded, his eyes never leaving Kemble.
At last the constable gave a cry and came back to the table, a small scroll in his hand. He tossed this to Benjamin who unrolled it. The seal and signature were immediately recognisable:
Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal, Archbishop, Chancellor, to his faithful servant Sir Edward Kemble, Constable of the Tower, etc'
The letter then went on to recommend Philip Allardyce, clerk of the stores of Dover Castle, to the vacant clerkship at the Tower. The letter described the fees, robes, etc, which would be his due: it had been sealed eight months earlier by Wolsey's own chancellor. 'It's no forgery,' Benjamin said.
"But if this Sakker could forge letters supposedly from Edward V, why not from Our Lord Cardinal?' Vetch cried.
Benjamin shook his head and tapped the letter. 'I know my own uncle's signature.' He looked up at Kemble, who sat down at the top of the table. 'So this Allardyce arrived eight months ago?'
‘Yes, just after the Epiphany. I wasn't here when he arrived. I was away in my manor house, still celebrating Yuletide.'
'So to whom did he present this letter?' Benjamin asked.
‘Why to me, sir,' Vetch replied. 'I am the constable's deputy, but I saw nothing amiss.' His smooth face became more worried. 'How was I to know?'
His voice rose. 'A young man comes into the Tower armed with a letter from His Excellency the Cardinal, not to mention other documents. I remember it well. I accepted the letter and provided him with quarters.' He shrugged. To all intents and purposes, Allardyce was; Allardyce, a quiet, industrious, most competent clerk.'
'He did good work.' Spurge spoke up. 'Cataloguing the goods in the stores, making sure that all was in order, never once was he found wanting.' 'Is this true, Sir Edward?' Benjamin asked.
Kemble nodded. 'I had few dealings with him myself. I can add nothing to what has been said. The man calling himself Allardyce was soberly dressed, loyal and obedient.' 'And didn't he talk to any of you?' Benjamin asked. 'Surely there were festivities? He ate and drank?' ‘He was very reserved,' Mallow declared. What about the King's birthday party?' I asked.
'Don't forget, Master Shallot-' Mallow preened himself at being able to correct me – 'those festivities are intended for the Guild of Hangmen.' 'Bugger that!' I snorted. 'Did he come or didn't he?'
'Yes he did,' Snakeroot sneered, but he drank rather deeply early on in the evening, then disappeared.'
I could see Benjamin was bemused, so I whispered that we should withdraw. My master agreed, picking up the letter Kemble had thrown at him; he muttered that no one in the Tower should leave without his permission. We left and returned to our own quarters.
Once we were back in the chamber, Benjamin slammed the door behind him. He sat at the table, head in hands, refusing to answer my flow of questions. At last he sighed and sat back in his chair.
'Do you think, dear Roger, that this could be one of beloved Uncle's tricks?' ‘You mean…?'
‘I mean dear Uncle is not above frightening the King.' Benjamin shook his head. ‘No, no, that's unworthy of me.' He drew a deep breath. ‘We have constructed a hypothesis, Roger, that Philip Allardyce was really Robert Sakker who feigned his own death to remove him from any suspicion whilst he carried on his wickedness in the city. Now,' Benjamin paused and rubbed his chin, ‘What happens if that hypothesis is incorrect? What if Allardyce was who he claimed to be? Died of the plague and his soul's gone to his Maker?' He gazed bleakly at me. 'Can't you see, Roger? I thought that Allardyce's appointment was the work of someone in the Tower but, if it was due to beloved Uncle-'