by Paul Doherty
Pynchon’s eyes grew heavy. He was sleepy from all he’d eaten and drunk, not to mention his recent bed-wrestling with that spirited wench. Pynchon drained his tankard, lurched to his feet and staggered out of the tavern, helped by his retainers, as he called them.
The linen draper made his way down Bread Street past the grim huddled figures crouching there rattling clacking dishes and whining for alms. Pynchon, as always, ignored them. He found the key to his house, opened the door and stumbled in. His swaggering bullies swept through the building. They reported all was well and retreated into the warm kitchen. Pynchon opened the door to the cellar. One of the guards came up behind him and made sure his master went carefully down the steps into the passageway. Sconce torches were lit. Pynchon reached the strong room, unlocked the door and took the lanthorn the guard had hastily prepared. Pynchon slurred his goodnights then locked and bolted the door from inside. He stood and ensured the heavy lock was turned and all four bolts were pulled firmly across. He staggered across to the table, put the lantern down and sat on a stool. He wrinkled his nose at the slight smell but gazed proudly at the comfortable cot bed, its mattress and bolster stuffed with the softest flock and covered with a gold, red-spangled counterpane. He leaned across and patted the arca, the heavy iron strongbox with its three locks. All was secure here. The cellar was of good brick and hard stone; even the timbers in the ceiling had been hidden under a thick coat of cement. A grille high in the wall let in air. He sniffed and shook his head. Perhaps he should air the room better and get rid of that strange smell. Then the draper rose and undressed, staggered on to the bed and drifted off to sleep. He awoke abruptly at what sounded like a footfall in the far corner, a sound of dripping as if there was a leak. He gazed into the darkness, mouth gaping at what looked like fireflies, one after the other, falling through the darkness. He staggered from the bed, his legs becoming tangled with the blankets. There was a sound like a rushing wind and Pynchon stared in horror at the flames which seemed to leap up from the floor. He grabbed a blanket and rushed to smother the fire. He slipped on the grease-covered floor and struggled wildly to get up even as the first searing flame licked his body. Screaming, Pynchon clambered to his feet. He stumbled towards the door but he had taken the key out and the bolts were drawn fully across. Screeching in pain, Pynchon collapsed to his knees as a sheet of fire engulfed him.
oOoOo
Athelstan joined Cranston in Bread Street as the angelus bell rang its message. The friar had risen early to clear St Erconwald’s and ensure Merrylegs senior was laid to rest according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church. The corpse had been removed to the parish death house suitably draped with black serge. Just after dawn, the women of the family gathered to wash the cadaver with perfumed water. Afterwards they anointed it with a little balsam, placed it in a linen shroud, sheathed it in a fresh deerskin and carefully stowed it in the parish coffin draped in a black pall with a silver cross sewn in the centre. The coffin was solemnly conveyed to rest on trestles in the sanctuary. The requiem Mass was celebrated. The coffin was blessed before being carried out in solemn procession to the far corner of God’s Acre. Athelstan committed the corpse of Merrylegs senior to the ground. ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, in joyful hope of the Resurrection.’ Athelstan performed the rites amidst gusts of incense. He was surprised at how many attended, including Fulchard of Richmond, as well as how serenely matters proceeded. Parish funerals were usually a time of chaos, the wrong grave being dug or, as the last time, Watkin had become so drunk he’d followed the coffin into the ground and had to be hauled out with ropes.
Cranston’s messenger, Tiptoft, had arrived just as they were leaving the cemetery, begging the friar to join Sir John in Bread Street, where ‘Another horrid murder has occurred.’ Athelstan now waited outside Thomas Pynchon’s house as bailiffs cleared the cellar strong room as well as purging the pungent smoke fumes. Athelstan, threading Ave beads through his fingers, stared down this prosperous street. He was always fascinated at the contrasts in human life. Two houses away maids and slatterns were waging their ceaseless war against fleas and bedbugs. On windowsills, tranchers of stale bread, covered with turpentine and birdlime with a lighted tallow candle in the middle, were being laid out to attract and kill such irritants. Chamber pots and jakes jugs were being emptied into the sewer. The different smells of houses, being opened to the day, mingled with those more savoury odours from nearby pie shops and pastry stalls. Athelstan sighed – such commonplace things, yet in Pynchon’s house gruesome murder had been perpetrated.
‘Brother, we can go in now.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler of his cloak and they followed Flaxwith into the house. The place reeked of fire and smoke. Athelstan and Cranston used rags soaked in vinegar to cover nose and mouth as they made their way carefully down to the cellar strong room.
‘Look at it!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘Apart from the furniture, everything is fashioned out of stone. Wooden beams and pillars are hidden under thick layers of cement, yet it would prove no defence for Pynchon. In fact, it became a trap where he was burnt to death.’ Athelstan looked around. The chamber was like a spent furnace. All the contents, except for the great iron arca, had been reduced to crumbling shards or feathery ash which floated through the air, carried by the still-curling tendrils of smoke. The whitewashed walls were blackened as was the crumbling cement over the roof beams. The friar walked back to the door, badly damaged by the fire. He noted the stout lock and heavy bolts. The stench was still intense. Cranston and Flaxwith were coughing so Athelstan insisted they leave, going up into the kitchen where the pathetic remains of the draper were laid out on a canvas sheet. The fire had been merciless. Pynchon was nothing but a blackened, twisted lump of charred flesh and bone. The face was unrecognizable; the bone grey with hardening nodules of fat. Athelstan swiftly recited the last rites, overcoming his feeling of nausea. He anointed what remained of the head, hands and feet with holy oil. He then pulled back the heavy horse blanket to cover the remains and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the comfortable well-furnished solar.
‘What and how?’ Athelstan abruptly asked, accepting Sir John’s offer of the miraculous wineskin. He took a deep gulp, swilling the rich wine around his mouth to get rid of the taste of smoke and burning.
‘Pynchon,’ Cranston replied, taking back the wineskin, ‘was foreman of the jury which convicted Lady Isolda. He was very proud of what he had done and made no attempt to hide his glee at the verdict he and the others brought in. Once the murders started, he hired guards and moved to this strong room.’
‘They are now very common,’ Flaxwith declared, glancing down to where Samson crouched, tethered to a table leg. The mastiff held a piece of parchment between his jaws, something he always did. ‘All along Cheapside, Poultry and the rest,’ Flaxwith declared, ‘they are buying swords, hiring dogs and, when the revolt comes, they will hide in their strong rooms.’
‘And Pynchon died in his,’ Athelstan declared. ‘So what actually happened?’
‘He returned home last night deep in his cups,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘His guards saw him safely down to the cellar. They heard him lock the door, withdraw the key and pull across the four heavy bolts.’
‘And the grille high in the wall?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Fashioned by a master mason out of a hard rock, or so I am informed. It has square gaps for the air to seep through.’
‘Let’s examine that.’
Flaxwith led them out into the garden ringed by a red curtain wall. The garden lay frozen and bleak in the vice-like grip of a winter’s morning. Herb plots, flower beds and the patches of grass were all crusted white. The smell of burning hung heavy here. Flaxwith took them over to the grille just above the level of the hard, packed soil. Athelstan crouched down to examine it. The air holes were small, no more than an inch square. Satisfied, Athelstan returned to the strong room. Flaxwith fetched a ladder and Athelstan climbed up to inspect the grille from the inside. He came down shaking his head.
‘How did it all occur?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely the Ignifer would create noise, I mean, the entire chamber set alight?’
Athelstan stood, fingers to his lips, staring up at the grille before making his way into the darkened far corner beneath it. He closed his eyes and thought of the grille. How could a liquid be poured through it? He opened his eyes and smiled as he recalled a tapster draining a cask of wine by inserting a tube and sucking on the end to draw up the dregs. Or a boy with a set of bellows, and the games he and the other urchins used to play with each other. They would fill the bellows with water then squeeze out a hard spurt through the metal tube on the end.
‘That’s what happened here,’ he declared.
‘What did, Brother?’
‘Oh, there’s only one way the Greek fire entered this room, and that’s through the grille. Think of a set of bellows, Sir John, with a tip which could fit through one of those gaps, its bags full of oil. The Ignifer simply stuck the metal end into a hole in the grille and gently squeezed the oil so it ran down the wall on to the floor. Pynchon made a most grievous mistake. I am sure he boasted about his strong room and so drew attention to it. The Ignifer would climb the garden wall, observe the grille and plan accordingly. He would keep Pynchon under strict observation and await his opportunity. Our linen-draper left his house last night deserted and returned deep in his cups.’ Athelstan indicated with his head. ‘The Ignifer gained entrance to the garden under the cover of night and squeezed in the oil. Pynchon returns, he is tired, drunk, and the far corner of this chamber is shrouded in darkness. He is unaware of what is happening. Perhaps he smells the oil or, if it was odourless, the reek from its container, but that does not alert him. Outside the assassin waits, quietly watching that grille. He sees the glow of lantern-light, hears the lock being turned, the bolts pulled, all the sounds of his drunken victim preparing for the night. The Ignifer then returns to his task: more Greek fire is poured through the grille. Pynchon may have heard it but it’s too late, he is trapped. One or more slender, lighted tapers, small glowing pieces of wax, are pushed through the gaps. Think of a needle with a fire on the end. Pynchon is alerted but the sparks fall. The oil is ignited. Greek fire blazes swiftly and greedily up. Remember the recent attack on us, Sir John, how speedily those flames leapt as if they had a life of their own?’
‘But the smell?’
‘Sir John, this is true Greek fire. I suspect it is both colourless and odourless. Again, after the attack on us, I knelt down to pray for that poor man. I also picked up a shard of the pot the killer had used which was not caught up in the fire. I smelt it. I could detect virtually nothing. As I’ve said, the only odour might come from the container it was kept in. Anyway, Sir John, I suspect that’s what happened to poor Pynchon.’
‘Rumour flies faster than a sparrow,’ Cranston observed. ‘The gossips maintain the fire comes from Hell. God’s judgement on those responsible for sending an innocent woman to her death. Already there are grumblings in the Commons about the justice of this, how the entire case should be reviewed.’
‘No, no, Sir John. This was not the work of an angel or demon.’ Athelstan led the coroner out of the cellar. ‘Trust me, all of this is down to sheer human wickedness.’ He paused. ‘We’ll resolve this as we always do, by careful examination, logic and evidence. To do that we have to talk. We are in the city, so I think it’s time we visited the Minoresses in their convent.’
They left Bread Street, making their way towards the Tower. A freezing cold day though the sun was welcoming enough. They tramped through the icy sludge, keeping a wary eye on what was underfoot as well as the low-hanging signs and the upper casement windows from which chambermaids threw all kinds of filth. A relic-seller, garbed completely in horse skin, his antlered head covered by a scarlet cloth, offered the teeth of Goliath from his tomb in a miraculous cave overlooking the Dead Sea. Cranston told him to shove off, but the macabre sight made Athelstan reflect on the miracle at St Erconwald’s. He ruefully conceded that neither he nor Master Tuddenham had found anything to create even a reasonable doubt. The Ignifer was a different matter, bereft of any proof or evidence. So far that assassin had struck at least four times with deadly effect. Three of his victims were simply caught out in the street, an easy enough task. Athelstan glimpsed a maid carrying a bucket towards him, on a nearby doorpost a lantern still glowed. How swift would it be, the friar asked himself, for the maid to throw the contents of her bucket over someone, grasp the candle from the lantern and hurl it at her victim? Trudging slightly behind the wine-swigging coroner, Athelstan estimated it would take no more time than to recite an Ave or a paternoster. The Ignifer’s first three attacks had counted on surprise but the assault on Pynchon had been more cleverly planned. Apparently the draper had confidently proclaimed how he was securely protected; that had now been exposed as an empty boast. Pynchon lay dead, one further horror following the execution of the Lady Isolda. The Ignifer was proving to be very cunning. He might not strike at all of those involved in Isolda’s condemnation and execution, nevertheless he had created a world of deep dread for anyone who had anything to fear. Athelstan thumbed his Ave beads. He could not enter the soul of the killer. He suspected that like some hungry wolf sloping through the undergrowth, the Ignifer would lie low for a while, let peace descend and strike again. Lifting his head, Athelstan glimpsed a courier hastening through the streets carrying his white wand of office, garbed in the splendid tabard of the House of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, Athelstan reflected, was also deeply involved in Isolda’s burning. Would the Ignifer strike at him? But how and when? In the meantime, the assassin would spread his miasma of fear, a veritable mist provoking all forms of dire threats and menaces.
Athelstan broke from his reverie. Cranston was bellowing at two apprentices from a nearby smithy who were hurling pieces of charcoal at each other. His shouts and the ugly muttering of others drove the sooty-faced imps back into the smithy. They walked on. Athelstan’s attention was caught by an itinerant preacher garbed like St Christopher, or so he proclaimed, as he warned about the ‘foul, bubbling stew of corruption of the city, rich with murderous misdeeds and all forms of wickedness’. Athelstan quietly agreed with the words. He felt uneasy, as if they were being watched and shadowed, though he could not detect anything amiss. They reached St Andrew’s Cornhill, a veritable haven for felons, a dark den of thieves, apple squires, nips and foists. Cranston was immediately recognized. Insults were hurled, followed by clods of icy filth. Cranston drew both sword and dagger and the danger receded. They went up Aldgate towards the imposing entrance to the Minoresses. Just before the great double-barred gate, Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to a large life-like statue of the Virgin half-stooped over an empty cradle. Beside the statue hung a bell under its coping, a red tug rope dangled down to lie curled in the empty cradle.
‘If a mother,’ Cranston explained, ‘does not want her baby, she places it in the cradle and pulls the rope.’ He turned and pointed back down the street. ‘The mother would probably hide there to watch and wait until one of the good sisters appeared.’ He approached the gate and pounded on the wood. A hatch high up in the door opened and a face peered out.
‘Jack Cranston,’ the coroner declared, ‘and Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’
‘Oh, the miracle!’ a voice exclaimed.
‘Yes, we are.’ Cranston laughed. ‘Now come on, Sister, open up. Our legs are freezing and I do not want the cold to rise any further.’ The portress giggled, the postern door swung open and both the coroner and friar stepped inside. They followed their blue-garbed guide across the cobbles, through the great cloisters and into the parlour of the guesthouse. A warm sweet-smelling chamber, its white walls were dominated by the cross of San Damiano and painted scenes from the lives of St Francis and St Clare. The rushes on the floor were green, supple and fragrant with powdered herbs. The portress ushered them to chairs placed around a square table and wheeled in two ca
pped braziers to provide greater warmth. She explained that Mother Superior would be with them soon – in the meantime, would they like refreshment? Blackjacks of ale and dishes of soft herb cheese on strips of manchet bread were just being served when Mother Clare bustled into the guestroom. A cheery-faced woman, the Mother Superior gave a scream of delight at seeing ‘Old Jack’. She then embraced both him and Athelstan in a warm, tight hug of welcome.