by Paul Finch
“I’d hate to think our learned Anglican scholars were wrong,” Urmston said quietly.
“That kind of talk could cost you your head, my lord,” Kingsley replied nervously.
“Rather my head than my soul, John.”
They continued to explore, stepping softly, keeping their voices low. At length, they came to the first statue. It stood on a granite plinth by the stairway to the choir, and though its face had been chiselled away and its body bore the scars of hammers and picks, its double-crown – made from two wreathes, one of roses and one of lilies – identified it as St. Cecilia.
“The patron saint of music,” Urmston remarked. “A lady fair of spirit as well as feature. You must ask yourselves about the men who did this, John … and wonder if perhaps they enjoyed their work a little too much.”
Kingsley made no response. As a good Protestant, he had been brought up to oppose idolatry, but in his heart of hearts, like so many others, he now regretted King Henry VIII’s savage attacks on Catholic shrines like this which for so many difficult centuries had symbolised the victory of God over Mammon.
They strode on, and came to a second statue. This one too had been vandalised, though by its bare feet and the dove perched on its right hand, it was obviously a representation of St. Francis of Assisi. Similar effigies were ranged around the whole interior of the building. The door to the sacristy was guarded by St. Bartholomew and St. Dominic; both had had their heads entirely chipped off. To the north side of the altar, a figure of St. James was visible, to the south St. Matthew and St. Lucy. In all cases, winter light glittered on their ragged, broken edges. Lucy’s head had survived the ordeal, though an immense gash – like a monstrous sword-stroke – scored her delicately carved throat.
Such mutilations reminded Kingsley of the many punishments dealt out to real flesh and blood since this great revolution of faith had begun. He had been born during the reign of old Henry, a time of non-stop bloodshed and persecution: endless men and women of great name and greater deed sent to the block; endless men and women of lesser name to the gallows or, in several truly barbaric circumstances, to the starving-post or boiling-pot. Under Bloody Mary, an era Kingsley remembered even better, the religious tables had been turned, but little else had changed. Every day it seemed, hurdles bearing torn and twisted bodies had been hauled through the jeering crowds, their destination Tyburn or Smithfield depending on the severity of their ‘crime’. Kingsley couldn’t suppress a shudder. How the judge of judges was viewing all this was anybody’s guess.
“Great Heaven,” Urmston breathed.
Kingsley looked up – just as his master handed over the reins of his horse and walked towards the statues ranged along the church’s north wall. En route, Urmston took the leather notebook from his pouch and consulted it.
“St. Peter!” he said aloud, before moving along to the next figure. “St. Paul!”
Kingsley was confused. “My lord?”
The spy-catcher looked fascinated but also afraid. “My friend, I fear we are hunting an altogether new kind of criminal. A madman certainly, but a madman who enjoys games.”
“Games?”
“Macabre games, John. Puzzles of bone and viscera.”
“I don’t understand.”
Urmston pondered, as if unwilling to believe that he’d stumbled on something so awful. He held up the book. “You recall that earlier this year, north of the Thames, two women were killed on the same day?”
Kingsley nodded, still nonplussed.
“Their names were Rowan Marlin and Isabel Stewart,” Urmston said. “They both died on June 29th.” He pointed with shaking finger to the two nearest statues. “The feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul.”
Kingsley shrugged. “Coincidence, my lord.”
Urmston nodded. “So thought I for a second. But look again.” He read further entries from the book, and in each instance was able to point to one of the defaced statues. “Abigail Swift killed on July 27th, the feast day of St. James; Mary Judd killed on August 8th, the feast day of St. Dominic; Lucy Gibbon on August 24th, the feast of St. Bartholomew; Dorothea Johnson on September 21st, St. Matthew’s day; Anne Grey on October 4th … St. Francis of Assisi; the most recent, Jane Wentworth on November 22nd … St. Cecilia. Must I continue?”
The two men gazed dumbly at each other, both thinking the same terrible things.
Firstly, that the horror of these murders – these unnameable acts committed in the dead of night, in the decayed depths of the city – were only made worse by evidence which suggested the perpetrator was more than a ravening beast, was in fact a reasoning, thinking being. Secondly, and even more chillingly, it suddenly seemed highly likely that their murderous night-stalker might be someone of religious persuasion – a Catholic fanatic perhaps, a person so scarred by the events of reform that he fought back in this most depraved manner.
“A monk?” Kingsley ventured. “Or a priest … driven out of his mind?”
Urmston was unsure. “The fact that, whoever he is, he knows or has at least been inside this church, would suggest something of that nature.”
Kingsley glanced uneasily over his shoulder. Their eyes had attuned to the dimness, but certain corners were still cloaked in dusty shadow. Blackness filled apertures between pillars or lurked beyond the doors to tiny side-chapels. It was easy to imagine a humped, hooded figure lurking there, his blade glinting in the half-light. Kingsley imagined hands that were more like talons, fur-clad and barbed, clenching with insane rage, cowled features that were dark and brutish beyond belief, bloody drool oozing through jagged, yellow teeth – more a monster than a man, the dreaded Flibbertigibbet.
When his master planted a hand on his shoulder, Kingsley physically jumped.
“Oh … forgive me, my lord. I … I …”
“Easy, John,” Urmston said, his own face unruffled by fear or doubt. “Come along. We’ve had a bellyful of this place … at least for the moment.”
*
They rode back through the arched passage over London Bridge. Normally this was the reserve of quality tradesmen – silversmiths, furriers, ecclesiastical booksellers and the like – but with Christmas in the offing, the tunnel thronged with hawkers and coster-folk of every class. Chestnuts cracked, bundled figures laughed and joked as they huddled around glowing braziers or watched the cockfights. At the centre of the bridge, a bear on a chain was dancing to reed-pipes, its owner jabbing it with a stick every time it threatened to go down on all fours.
Urmston and his servant saw none of this. They were too preoccupied.
“One thing we can’t discount,” Urmston said. “The sadism with which these crimes are committed. Whoever our felon is, he commits his atrocities with great relish. This is not the handiwork of some run-of-the-mill maniac. These women are being killed by someone who not only knows what he is doing, but who obviously enjoys it.”
Kingsley agreed. “A staunch and vengeful Catholic, who takes pleasure in extreme cruelty. It almost has the Inquisition written on it.”
“Yes … it does.”
It was only thirteen years since the Spanish Inquisition sentenced the entire population of the Netherlands to death, and thousands were tortured and killed as a result; it was only nine years since the Huguenots of Paris were barbarously massacred – in their homes, in the streets.
“Of course … England is scarcely awash with inquisitors,” Urmston said.
“But it was while Mary was queen,” Kingsley replied.
“Mary died twenty-three years ago. Besides, most of her torturers fled.”
“What if one has returned?”
Urmston still had his doubts, but if it transpired that some member of the zealous Catholic queen’s merciless clique was in London, he would most certainly want to question the fellow. It would be unthinkable not to.
“There’s one way to find out for certain,” he said. “Come, John … to the Tower.”
*
They entered through Traitor’s G
ate, the oarsman a misshapen shadow as he rowed them past one flickering torch after another. The stench, as always down there, was appalling: foul water and decayed flesh. Unlike her fierce half-sister, it was not Queen Elizabeth’s custom to display fragments of traitors on pikes in this half-drowned passage, though one particular exception had been made, and even now – ten years later – the evidence was still on view. They gazed with fascination at it, as they passed. It was the top-half of a human skull, the lower portion having long rotted away and dropped into the water. The grisly object hung lopsided, the hollow eyes still pleading the lost cause of its case.
“John Store,” Urmston said quietly.
Kingsley nodded. “Quite appropriate, don’t you think, my lord?”
“Alarmingly so.”
The trial of John Store, former Chancellor of Oxford, and under Queen Mary an eager burner of Protestants, was an unforgettable moment in recent history. Like many of his savage but cowardly sort, Store had fled the country as soon as Mary died, hoping to find a new position abroad from which he could continue his persecutions. However, rather to his surprise, a band of English sailors followed him to Flanders, where they kidnapped him and brought him back. Conviction and death followed swiftly, though perhaps too swiftly for the countless numbers of his victims whose agony at the stake he had sometimes prolonged, having them raised on spears so the flames could lick at them more slowly, or thrusting burning faggots into their faces as they tried to pray. Store would have made an ideal suspect in the Flibbertigibbet murder-mystery, but as the mouldering evidence attested, his reign of terror, at least, was over.
*
The Constable of the Tower of London, and senior custodian of all prisoners held there, was a portly gentleman of famous family name, Reginald Ratcliffe, and he received his guests in one of the oak-panelled state rooms of the central keep, which was now called the White Tower. He was extravagantly clad in scarlet hose, gold satin breeches and a full-skirted doublet of scarlet velvet, trimmed with rich white fur. He sported his chain of office proudly, but was an oddly jovial-looking fellow, with plump cheeks and a neat white beard and moustache. Even so, a pious frown appeared on his face when the business was explained.
“Great Glory!” he exclaimed. “And you think one of those Catholic devils has returned?”
“He might never have left, my lord Constable,” Urmston replied.
“Great Glory!” Ratcliffe nodded to himself. “It would explain everything, of course … degenerate Catholic scum. And they have the nerve to call us heretics.”
“Can you help us?” Urmston wondered.
“Certainly … it would be an honour to do so. If you would wait here, I’ll have some refreshments brought, and then I’ll send for the Book.”
Urmston nodded, and stood back to wait.
Ratcliffe hurried to the door, where he stopped and shook his head. “Murder is a dreadful business,” he said.
“It is indeed.” Urmston glanced through the casement and across the courtyard to the grim stone edifice known as the Bloody Tower.
When Ratcliffe had left, Kingsley turned to his master. “The Book?”
“They call it that but in actual fact it’s several books. The Tower records … they tabulate all those unfortunates who’ve been held here, and, to a lesser extent, those public-spirited officials who’ve done the holding.”
“I suppose it’s the best we can hope for.”
“It is,” Urmston agreed.
“At least Lord Ratcliffe seems helpful.”
“Another sycophant. No different, I’m sure, from the many Catholic jailers whose names we’re now casting suspicion on.”
Kingsley made no further conversation. He knew his master’s moods well, and sensed that this was a dark one. For all his service to Lord Walsingham, Robert Urmston was inclined towards compassion, and though this rarely surfaced as sympathy for those he hunted, it did manifest as a form of surly rebelliousness against those he served. If anything, a harsh regime under his father, and the intense military training of his youth – imposed on him almost as revenge for his poor schoolwork and subsequent failures in his studies for the bar – had brought this mutinous spirit even more to the fore, so that patriotic though he was, he regarded the great religious debates with cynicism, and felt that he owed his duty to his country rather than his country’s rulers. Of course, these environs, the Tower and its impregnable ramparts, were the hard granite shoulders of those rulers – little wonder he was ill-at-ease here. He paced the state room like a caged panther, even ignoring the jug of wine and plate of sweetmeats brought in for them, until Ratcliffe returned weighed down with scrolls and documents.
Urmston quickly attended the Constable, who laid his various sheets and manuscripts on the table. Kingsley, who despite his master’s best efforts, didn’t read well, stood back and allowed his superiors to peruse the fading text. Several moments passed. Parchment rustled, dry pages were turned. Then Ratcliffe pointed something out.
“This is a name which might interest you, my lord.”
Urmston read it aloud: “Raphael Vesquez, employed here at the Tower from 1553 until 1558. Vesquez … a Spaniard?”
Ratcliffe gave a grim smile. “A Spaniard whose activities were infamous.”
“They were?”
Ratcliffe nodded. “My lord … I think there is someone you should meet.”
He led them down two winding stairways and along a narrow passage into a colder, darker region of the castle. They passed through a barred portal, guarded by a stout yeoman, then down a further flight of steps, this one slippery with moss. The air in these basements was rank; noisome water dripped from the crumbling brick ceilings. Kingsley felt growing unease. From somewhere further below, he imagined he could hear muffled cries for help. He glanced at his master’s face, but as usual not a hint of trepidation was visible.
Ratcliffe bade them wait in a guard-room that was little more than an airless cell. It only had wooden barrels to sit upon, two of which had been arranged with a plank across them, to form a gaming table. They waited in silence, and listened. There was a rattling of chains and a clanking of locks, but only after several minutes did Ratcliffe re-appear, now in the company of a much larger man.
“My lord, this is Morgeth, one of the longest-serving jailers here.”
Urmston rose to his feet, eyeing the newcomer with interest. Morgeth was taller than any of them by at least a foot, and as broad as a buffalo. His great square head was shaved to the skull, though in contrast, thick stubble covered his huge bottom jaw. The eyes in his face were small and reddish, buried beneath ape-like brows. His barrel body was sheathed in a creaking leather tunic, studded with steel points.
Morgeth bowed. This was his domain, yet he knew his place.
“Morgeth,” Ratcliffe said. “Tell Lord Urmston what you told me.”
“The one called Vesquez, my lords,” the jailer began in a deep, grating voice. “I remember him.”
“You remember him?” Urmston said. “You could only have been a boy in those days?”
Morgeth shrugged. “An apprentice. Else I’d have been chased out with all the rest, my lord … when Queen Mary died.”
“Tell us about Vesquez.”
“A priest, he was, my lord. A Spanish priest … but he spoke our tongue. He had to, the amount of interrogation he did.”
“He carried out interrogations?”
“He was one of the worst … especially where the ladies were concerned.”
“Just the ladies?” Urmston enquired.
“Far as I remember, my lord. He had ’em up by their thumbs, he had ’em on the rack … terrible beast of a man, he was.”
“I recall hearing that he would accompany the female prisoners to Smithfield,” Ratcliffe said, “exhorting them to repent every inch of the way. Then he would stand as close as the fire permitted while they died … praying for their souls, it was said, though others reported that he was more interested in gloating over their su
ffering.”
Kingsley was chilled as he listened. In this brooding dungeon, the dark ghosts of former days seemed closer than ever.
“I heard tell,” Morgeth added, “that Father Vesquez used to check the wood before he’d permit it to be lit … to make sure it was dry. Wouldn’t do to have the smoke choke the poor wretches before the flames got ’em. Once or twice, when families and friends produced their gunpowder bags and what-not … he had them arrested. Pain was that man’s middle name. And him a priest, an all.”
“What happened to him?” Urmston asked.
Morgeth shook his head, apparently unsure.
“After Mary died, there are no further references to him in the Book,” Ratcliffe replied. “Either as jailer or prisoner.”
“So he went abroad?”
Ratcliffe considered this. “Like John Store, many of the worst offenders who went abroad were brought back and punished.”
“Even those who fled to Spain?”
The Constable smiled. “Our relationship with Spain is rocky, to say the least, my lord. But it wasn’t always so. At Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, Count Feria led the Spanish envoys. A wedding-match with Philip was not out of the question. Several of Mary’s criminals were extradited as good-will gestures.”
“But not Raphael Vesquez?”
Ratcliffe shook his head.
Kingsley turned to his master. “Sounds like our man, my lord.”
But Urmston was pensive. “Vesquez was clearly evil … probably deranged. But nothing we’ve heard here suggests he enjoyed tearing women open.”
Ratcliffe gave a chuckle. “Who’s to say what he enjoyed in those locked torture chambers? Hideous screams were commonplace. And then of course … all the evidence was burned.”