by Paul Doherty
‘So you sent it back?’
‘Yes, I decided to wait no longer. This morning, after the dawn Mass, I cleaned the chalice and, choosing my moment carefully, brought it back to the Gargoyle.’ He blinked. ‘I heard you were there.’ He looked full at Athelstan. ‘You have keen eyes and a sharp mind, Brother. How did you know it was me?’
Athelstan pulled a face. ‘When I first met you, Father, you were uneasy. Something in your demeanour: you were not comfortable being Chaplain to the Commons, yet you had volunteered for it. I wondered why. Moreover, your friendship with Antony and his connection with Shrewsbury were no mere coincidences.’ Athelstan grinned self-consciously. ‘To be truthful, Father, I don’t want to appear cleverer than I really am. I examined the chalice carefully: it had been beautifully kept. When I held it in my hand this morning, I caught the faint fragrance of polish and wine. Finally, it was sent back in a leather pouch, specially made for sacred vessels. It had to be you.’
‘Do you think I did right?’ Father Benedict asked.
‘I think so, Father.’ Athelstan leaned over and clasped the monk’s hand. ‘You did right, but I tell you the truth: I do not think these terrible murders are connected with that chalice.’ He stared across at Cranston. ‘But some ancient sin. Time and again we come across this.’ He released Father Benedict’s hand. ‘I believe Sir Edmund and his companions, either all or some of them, have committed horrible, dreadful murders, and now their guilt has caught up with them. Father, I ask you, on your immortal soul, do you know anything which might assist us?’
The Benedictine shook his head and got to his feet. ‘On my soul, I do not.’ He walked to the chapel door, opened it, but then turned. ‘Oh, Athelstan!’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘This demon in Southwark?’
Athelstan pulled a face. ‘That’s as elusive as the truth behind this horrid business.’
‘Then I shall pray for you.’ The Benedictine left, quietly closing the door behind him.
‘What do you think, Sir John?’
Cranston was now leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
‘Sir John?’
‘I can’t understand, Brother, why these knights don’t flee London. So, what I want you to do is stay here. Behind the abbey are the muniment rooms containing all the records of the itinerant justices, letters from sheriffs and royal bailiffs. I am going to go down there: onerous though it may be, I intend to obtain permission to go through every letter, memorandum, court case and petition from the king’s county of Shropshire.’ He clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘And you, Brother, are going to help me.’
And, before Athelstan could object, Cranston had risen, genuflected to the altar, and almost charged out of the chapel, slamming the door behind him. Athelstan sighed and leaned back against the wall. For a while he just closed his eyes and chanted psalms from the office of the day. He even tried to pray to St Faith, but stopped when he realised that his idea of the saint was very similar to that he had of Benedicta. He got up and walked towards the small altar and stood admiring the gold, jewel-encrusted pyx hanging on a silver chain.
‘You should pray better, Athelstan,’ he murmured to himself.
His hand brushed the small Book of Hours he had pushed into the pocket of his gown. He took this out, sat on a bench, and went through the blank pages at the front and back of the prayer book, but there was nothing there. He turned to the beginning and read the first twelve verses of St John’s Gospel but, even then, he was distracted, for the book was brilliantly illuminated. Harnett must have commissioned it specially for himself; the scribe had written the text in beautiful, broad black sweeps of the quill, and decorated the margins with miniature paintings of a variety of animals. A red-coated, black-eyed dragon thrust out its green flickering tongue; a wyvern of reddish-gold extended its great scaly wings; a silver greyhound pursued a hare, its coat a rich, deep brown.
‘Harnett did love animals!’ Athelstan exclaimed.
He particularly admired the phoenix at the top of a page. A mystical bird which consumed itself, and so was often used to represent Christ. Curious, Athelstan leafed over the pages. There were elephants, panthers, foxes, wolves of every hue, apes and peacocks. Then, at the beginning of the Office of Night, one picture caught Athelstan’s attention. He sat, fascinated, before going across to sit under one of the windows so as to study the painting more carefully.
‘It can’t be!’ he exclaimed. ‘It can’t be!’
Athelstan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Suddenly the door swung open and Cranston swept in.
‘Athelstan, we have got permission, we might as well start now.’ He looked at the friar curiously. ‘Brother, are you well?’
Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s description of Simplicatas busy in the marketplace.
‘Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan sprang to his feet. ‘Never mind the archives! We are going to Southwark!’
‘Oh, Brother, we can’t!’
‘Oh, Brother, we can!’ Athelstan replied.
‘Why?’ Cranston hurried behind him as Athelstan left the chapel, almost running down the steps to the vestibule. The soldiers on guard watched him curiously. At the bottom Cranston abruptly sat down and crossed his arms like a big baby.
‘I’ll stay here until you tell me,’ he shouted.
Athelstan hid his impatience and came back.
‘Sir John, I have just been through Harnett’s Book of Hours: I know where Perline is and what he’s been up to. Now, you can either sit and sulk until I come back-’ he tweaked Sir John’s bristling moustache — ‘or you can come and help me.’
Within the hour, Athelstan and Cranston disembarked in Southwark just near London Bridge. By now Cranston was all agog, and kept crowing with delight as Athelstan, in hushed whispers, described a possible solution to the mystery. They strode through the alleyways and runnels of the stews. Cranston didn’t know whether Athelstan was in a temper, or just eager to put his theories to the test. Half-way down one alleyway, Athelstan abruptly stopped before a house and knocked furiously on the door. A window opened, high above them, and Simplicatas poked her pretty blonde head out.
‘Oh, good afternoon, Father.’ She forced a smile. ‘I can’t come down,’ she apologised, giggling behind her hand. ‘I have to change my dress and-’
‘Simplicatas!’ Athelstan roared with a vigour which even surprised Cranston. ‘You will come down and let me into this house. And you’re not by yourself. You can tell that scapegrace husband of yours that I know he is hiding there.’ Athelstan glowered up at the young woman. ‘Now,’ he threatened, ‘are you going to open the door, or do I ask Sir John to remove it?’
The window closed hastily, there was a sound of running footsteps, the door opened, and a pale-faced Simplicatas invited them in. Athelstan brushed by her and walked down the passageway. The house was small and dingy, with wooden stairs stretching up into the darkness.
‘Perline Brasenose!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘I and others have had enough of your games to last a lifetime.’ He looked at Simplicatas. ‘And you, my good woman, must decide whether you are going to continue this mummery or go and fetch your scapegrace husband, whether he’s hiding in the garret or the cellar.’ Athelstan glowered at Cranston, who was standing behind Simplicatas. ‘Sir Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan continued, raising his voice so it rang through the house, ‘is a terrible man with the devil’s own temper. Perline, are you going to show yourself, or skulk like a coward for the rest of your days?’
A figure appeared in the shadows at the top of the stairs.
‘I am sorry, Father. I didn’t mean any harm,’ a voice pleaded.
‘People like you never do!’ Athelstan shouted back. ‘For heaven’s sake, come downstairs! By St Erconwald’s and all that is holy!’ Athelstan pointed a finger at Simplicatas. ‘You and your husband have made fools of my entire parish.’
Cranston opened his mouth to say that wouldn’t be hard, but his little friar had, for one of those
rare occasions, really lost his temper.
‘You’d best come into the parlour,’ Simplicatas whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I am sorry, Father, but Perline stole a Barbary ape.’
‘Never mind,’ Athelstan said softly. He glared over his shoulder at an unshaven Perline now squatting at the foot of the stairs. ‘Just come in and tell me what happened.’
They all trooped into the sweet-scented parlour. Athelstan’s anger began to cool. Simplicatas apparently was skilled in embroidery: some of her work, brightly coloured cloths, hung against the whitewashed walls. Fresh green rushes strewed the floor, and little pots of rosemary stood on the battered wooden table. Simplicatas waved them to the cushioned stools on either side of this. The friar glimpsed the small wooden cradle in the far corner, a sign that Simplicatas was invoking all the lore for, if a cradle was left standing in a parlour for a year, a bouncing child would fill it within six months.
‘It’s the baby, Father,’ she murmured, catching his glance.
‘What baby?’ Cranston asked, staring around. ‘Don’t say you’ve sold that, Perline!’
The young soldier, his thin, narrow face even more pale and drawn, sat like a sleep-walker.
‘No, we want a baby,’ Simplicatas explained in a rush. ‘Perline has fashioned the cradle. I have embroidered the cloths. We hope, Father, to have it baptised at St Erconwald’s. We were thinking of calling it Athelstan if it’s a boy — or John,’ she added swiftly.
‘And if it’s a girl, I suppose Maude?’ Athelstan asked archly.
Simplicatas sat down. She put her face in her hands and sobbed, though she left a gap between her fingers so she could study Athelstan and Cranston.
‘Well, if you’re expecting a child,’ Cranston bellowed, ‘all I can say is, bless your breeches and all that’s within them!’ He hit the table with his hand. ‘But all this nonsense!’
‘Tell him,’ Simpiicatas wailed.
Perline opened his mouth.
‘From the beginning,’ Athelstan added.
‘I enjoy being at the Tower,’ the young man began. ‘Good food, good wages, free kindling, my own pot, plate and pewter spoon. A change of livery twice a year.’ Perline smiled wryly. ‘And not an enemy in sight. But it’s boring,’ he added, ‘so I used to go down to the royal beastery.’ He glanced at Athelstan. ‘Father, something should be done about those animals. Since the old king died, no one gives a whit about them.’
‘I intend to deal with that,’ Cranston interrupted sharply.
‘Well, there are some Barbary apes,’ Perline continued hastily. ‘I’d never seen one before: it wasn’t like those little monkeys which sit and shit on pedlars’ shoulders. Father, these are grand beasts. Anyway, I began to take them food, I’d just sit there and watch them. Now there’s one, bigger than the rest, I became very friendly with him. He used to chatter through the cage but he always looked lonely. So, I says to myself, I’ll have to help Cranston.’
Simplicatas’s hands flew to her face whilst Perline’s jaw dropped.
‘What did you call him?’ the coroner asked quietly.
Athelstan bit his lower lip, and just hoped he would not burst out laughing.
‘What did you call him?’ Sir John barked.
‘No offence, Sir John, but I called him Cranston. You see, he was bigger and fatter than the rest and. .’
‘He was their leader, wasn’t he?’ Athelstan asked helpfully.
‘Oh yes, Father.’ Perline smiled gratefully. ‘He always took the best food and there are two or three females there whom he er. .’
‘Paid court to?’ Athelstan asked.
Perline’s gratitude was more than obvious, but Cranston’s face turned an even deeper red.
‘Go on,’ he growled. ‘The more I listen to you, Master Brasenose, the more interested I am becoming.’
‘Everything went well,’ Perline continued. ‘I used to take Cranston — ’
Athelstan now put his head down, shoulders shaking.
‘- anything I could find in the market; fruit, vegetables, whatever. Then the Commons met at Westminster. Some of the representatives came to visit the beastery and see round the Tower. I immediately noticed how Sir Francis Harnett from Shrewsbury was much taken by the Barbary apes, particularly Cranston.’
Sir John spluttered, but Perline blissfully continued. ‘He noticed how friendly he was. Harnett said he had seen pictures of such an ape and how he had often wished to travel to Southern Spain to buy one.’
‘I know,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘I have been through the poor man’s Book of Hours. He has pictures of them.’
‘Poor man?’ Perline asked. ‘He’s rich, wealthy!’
‘I’ll come to that in a while,’ Athelstan replied.
‘Well, not to make a long tale of it,’ Perline rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘Sir Francis offered to buy Cranston and I agreed. Oh, it was simple enough. There were cages in the Tower. On Sunday afternoon, when the rest of the soldiers were sleeping or dicing, I put. .’ He look sleepily at the coroner. ‘. . I put the ape in the cage. I loaded it on to a handcart and took it down to a postern gate overlooking the river. I then went back to see the constable,’ Perline shrugged. ‘I asked him for some leave and, well, you know how it is, he agreed. Now there was a skiff with a pole near the gate. Once dusk fell, I put the cage on the skiff and poled across the river to the Southwark side. I hired a cart from the market, covered the cage with an old cloth, and wondered where could I hide it until Harnett came to collect the beast.’
‘And, of course, you remembered the death-house in St Erconwald’s cemetery?’
‘Well, it wasn’t being used, Father. So off we goes. I still kept the cage sheeted, no one saw me. I was even able to go back and collect some scraps from the marketplace: apples, pears and a few bruised plums.’
‘I know you did,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Cecily the courtesan found them in the cemetery littering some of the graves. I wondered how they had got there.’
‘Well, whatever,’ Perline replied, sniffing. ‘I opened the cage and gave some of the fruit to Cranston.’
‘Stopcalling that bloody ape by my name!’ Sir John bellowed. And, taking his wineskin out, the coroner poured himself a generous draught into the pewter cup which Simplicatas had quickly brought across.
‘I am sorry, Sir John,’ Perline mumbled. ‘Well, for a time, I just sat there and talked to Cranston,’ he continued blithely. ‘He seemed as happy as a pig in muck, chattering away. However, if he had eaten, well, he’d want to shit, wouldn’t he? So I let him out. I thought he’d be safe in the death-house.’
‘Which explains why the place stank like a midden,’ Athelstan declared.
‘I am sorry, Father,’ Perline wailed. ‘Well, I went out to get more of the fruit I’d left on the gravestone. When I came back, the ape had gone. You see, Father, I’d left the door off the latch.’
‘Gone?’ Sir John asked.
Perline snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that, Sir John. One minute the ape was there chattering fit to burst, then he was off. I panicked. I took the cage out and hid it in an alleyway.’
Perline licked his lips. ‘I didn’t know where the ape had gone so I hid here.’
‘And Sunday,’ Athelstan pointed at Simplicatas, ‘is when you appeared, claiming Perline was missing and had been for days.’
‘We were frightened of Harnett,’ Perline wailed. ‘I didn’t want him coming here.’
‘But you met him on Monday evening?’
‘I had to. I told him some lie but he became angry. I explained I couldn’t speak to him in Southwark, people would become suspicious; Moleskin the boatman had already seen us. Harnett bundled me into a skiff and took me across to the steel yard.’ Perline gulped. ‘I told him the truth.’
‘And he was furious?’
‘He was more than that, Father; he accused me of being a thief. Harnett said that if I didn’t produce Cranston. .’ Perline stopped, his fingers sliding t
o his mouth. ‘I am sorry, Sir John. . He said he’d have me put to the horn as an outlaw. He also gave me a letter, a pass to get into the abbey. He told me to tell him as soon as I found the ape.’
‘Then you came back here,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and hid. Whilst you, Simplicatas, spread the lie as far as you could.’
‘I am sorry, Father.’ The young woman shook her head. ‘But I was terribly a-feared.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Perline could hang; Sir Francis was a hard man.’
‘Perline still might hang!’ Cranston growled. ‘And, if I had my way, that bloody ape next to him!’
Simplicatas threw her head back and wailed, whilst Perline began to shake. Athelstan caught Sir John’s eye.
‘Well, I don’t really mean that,’ the coroner muttered. He patted Simplicatas gently on the shoulder. ‘There, there, girl, don’t weep!’
‘I just thought I’d hide,’ Perline confessed. ‘Wait until Parliament was finished and Harnett had left.’
‘Well, he has left,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Last night, someone invited Sir Francis Harnett down to the Pyx chamber at Westminster and took his head clean off his shoulders.’
‘Oh, sweet Lord, mercy!’ Simplicatas cried.
Perline leaned against the table, looking as if he had been hit by a rock.
‘Here, you had best drink this.’ Cranston pushed across his cup of wine.
Perline grasped it and raised it shakily to his lips.
‘You know what they are going to say?’ Athelstan declared. ‘They might claim, Perline, that you double-crossed Sir Francis: that you not only stole one of the king’s animals but, when it escaped and you were unable to keep your side of the bargain, you decided to kill Harnett.
‘But how?’ Perline screeched. He put the cup down on the table, his hands were trembling so much. ‘How could I get into Westminster? It’s closely guarded by soldiers.’
‘You had a special letter,’ Cranston declared.
‘I tore it up and threw it away.’
‘You are also a soldier. You wear the royal livery,’ Athelstan warned. ‘It would be easy to mingle with the rest. Moreover, you are able to carry arms, be it a sword or an axe.’