by Paul Finch
Urmston stood there alone, feeling tired and sullied. Dawn was still far away. A curtain of frozen blackness hung beyond the tall, arrow-slit window. The spy-catcher didn’t doubt that his ride back to Drury Lane would be a cold and lonely one.
*
“My lord … my lord.”
Urmston woke slowly from a deep but disturbed slumber. Something had been troubling him, some small, seemingly inconsequential matter – but in truth of vital importance. It had been right under his nose; if only he could remember what it was. His eyes still gluey with sleep, it took him several seconds to realise that his curtains had been drawn back on a day of pale but intense winter light, and that John Kingsley stood beside the bed, an uncharacteristic urgency about him.
“What … what time is it?” the master of the house muttered.
“One o’clock, my lord.”
Urmston sat bolt upright. “In the afternoon!”
“You came home very late, my lord. I thought it better to let you sleep.”
Urmston kneaded his brow. It ached as the ugly memories of the previous evening filtered back. “My thanks, John. I needed it.”
“My lord … there’s been another murder.”
Urmston glanced sharply up. “Where?”
“On the river-side. Southwark.”
*
It was the coldest day of the month so far, and despite the gnawing frost, by the time the investigators arrived a large number of people had gathered, thronging along the footpaths and adjoining alleys. They were coster-folk for the most part, porters and fish-sellers, pack-workers, warehousemen. There were so many of them that they crowded right up to the timber wharf, where only the billhooks of the Watch held them back. Even then, a road cleared amid their silent ranks when Urmston arrived. They eyed him expectantly as he passed through.
On the wharf itself, the spy-catcher found the First Officer of the Watch awaiting him. It was the same serjeant they had dealt with before. He looked sickly and sallow. “Over here, my lords,” he said, pointing down towards the water’s edge. “An old beggar-woman reported it. We haven’t touched anything yet … as you instructed.”
Urmston nodded. “Good fellow.”
“I’m afraid it’s a ghastly sight.”
The two newcomers glanced down. The mud-larks hadn’t yet gathered – perhaps it was too cold even for those hardy young scoundrels, though out on the water a couple of purl-men watched from their skiff, wavelets lapping sluggishly against its hull. Two or three yards from the waterline, perhaps four or five yards from the landing stage itself, what at first looked like a bundle of filthy rags was sunk several inches into the cream-smooth river mud. It looked like rags, but on second glance its pale, spread-eagled limbs were visible, as well as its mass of gory hair, which thankfully had streaked itself down over a gashed, mutilated face.
A beating was not the cause of death here. Even from this distance, it was plain to see that the poor woman had been cut open from groin to throat; a glut of bloody organs bulged upwards through the gruesome slit. One or two gulls were already perched beside it, pecking and pulling at the red-pink innards.
Urmston pursed his lips. “God have mercy on whoever did this … for I won’t.” He turned to the serjeant. “Was anyone at all seen in the vicinity?”
“No-one, my lord. And there’s not a dint in the slime, as you can see … no-one’s even been near her.”
Urmston pondered. Beside him, Kingsley’s cheeks had paled to a waxen hue; he stared at the ravaged carcass with numb shock. He had seen dead bodies numerous times before – in the charnel pit, on the gibbet – many with fingers and noses cropped, or visibly scarred by whip and branding-iron. But the dirt and ferocity of this attack was beyond anything in his experience. Even the battle-wounds he’d witnessed at Solway Moss were as nicks and scratches compared to this. It was as if the woman had been killed by some maddened animal.
The First Officer of the Watch grew agitated. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Shall I have her removed, my lord?”
“Not yet,” Urmston replied.
“As you can see, it’s not a very pleasant …”
“Not yet, serjeant!” Urmston said again. “This poor harlot is past caring about the state of her flesh … I’m sure that from whichever Purgatory she’s watching, she’d prefer that we took all steps necessary to catch her killer, unpleasant as it may be.” He glanced at Kingsley. “It’s invaluable that we were informed straight away, John. What we have here is an undisturbed murder-scene. There’ll be much we can learn from it.”
Kingsley looked surprised. “But isn’t it more likely the girl was killed yesterday, and dumped somewhere upstream?”
“And how would you deduce that?”
Kingsley pointed at the unbroken sheet of slime surrounding the woman. “That’s a tidal mud-flat she’s lying on. Obviously the ebb-tide left her there.”
“Did it?”
“In any case, she must’ve been killed yesterday, else our Spanish friend is innocent.”
Urmston considered this. “She wasn’t killed yesterday, John. She was killed this morning. In the early hours, I would say.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look for yourself, she’s drenched in blood. Wouldn’t prolonged immersion in the river have washed her clean?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then look at the dates. Yesterday was December 12th. Not, as I’m aware, a holy day.”
Kingsley thought about this. “Neither is … good grief!” His eyes widened. “Today is December 13th … St Lucy’s day!”
Urmston nodded. “And isn’t there a statue of St Lucy in the basilica at All Hallows?”
The First Officer of the Watch had been listening to this exchange, and now couldn’t resist interrupting. “But, with respect my lord, if the woman was killed this morning, she must have been dumped here at low tide … when the water was out. Yet there isn’t a mark in the mud around her. Surely, there’d at least be footprints, drag marks?”
Urmston shook his head. “Not if she was thrown from this wharf.”
“Thrown?” The serjeant regarded him with disbelief. “But she must be twelve feet away?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Urmston said.
“Well … the timing of this definitely discounts our Spaniard,” Kingsley put in.
“So does the fact that the victim was thrown twelve feet,” Urmston added. “Our Spaniard is slightly built and in poor health.”
The serjeant was still unable to accept it. “But whoever did this must have prodigious strength! He must be a giant … a monster!”
“Whoever did this is the Flibbertigibbet,” Urmston replied.
At this, consternation rippled back through the restless crowd of onlookers. People started to push and shove, to argue, to hurry away seeking refuge or to spread the terrible word. All around the wharf, the cry went up that the Flibbertigibbet had proved itself demonic; it was no ordinary killer after all – it was a ghoul, an ogre. The men of the Watch struggled to keep order; punches were thrown, there was shouting and screaming, arrests were made. Even Kingsley suddenly looked green with nausea; a tremulous moment passed, then he doubled over and vomited profusely.
Urmston viewed the panic-stricken scene with iron indifference. “Exactly the same thing happened at Chastenoy, I should imagine,” he said. “When they thought it was the loup-garrou.”
“But, my lord,” Kingsley protested. “This is too much. Surely, we are looking for a fiend. This must be some sort of judgement on us.”
“On us?” Urmston asked. “You mean on mankind in general?”
“Of course.”
“And why would God only punish impoverished whores like these? Why not dukes and bishops … and queens?”
“But … but this butchery …”
“This butchery is the work of Man, John. I told you before, I’ve seen its like at Tyburn … at Smithfield. There’s nothing here we aren’t entirely capable of
ourselves.”
Still feeling queasy, Kingsley put a hand to his brow. “So … who? In God’s name, who?”
“I’ll be in a position to tell you that this afternoon.”
Kingsley glanced round in astonishment. “What?”
“There are several messages I need sending,” Urmston said. “I’d like you, personally, to take one to Lord Ratcliffe. Have him call out the Yeomen of the Guard and bring them to the Church of All Hallows in Bermondsey, at two o’clock this afternoon. Tell him we are about to unmask the real killer and will need urgent assistance. Tell him, also, that he must have Raphael Vesquez released and removed to the Tower infirmary.”
“I don’t … I don’t understand ...”
“Do as I say, John. I’ll explain to you anon.”
*
The two men rode in silence through a town muffled by steadily-falling snow.
Citizens were only fleetingly visible – black, crow-like shapes darting here and there against the glaring whiteness, scurrying in and out of doorways, staying no longer than they needed to in the biting chill. There was none of the frenzied selling and buying so common in the weeks preceding Christmas; there was no laughter, no misrule, no joyous greetings. London, at least this southeast corner of it, was a city in fear.
Urmton said nothing, even as the great edifice of All Hallows loomed over the snowy thatch-work roofs. Kingsley regarded it with awe. He still didn’t know what it was his master had learned, but he knew the spy-catcher well enough to take him seriously. The servant held no doubt that on this very afternoon the identity of the Flibbertigibbet would be known. For this reason, he carried a dagger as well as his sword, and had donned an old shirt of mail beneath his sheepskin jerkin. He could only hope and pray that the letter he’d delivered to the Tower had reached the Constable promptly, and that as many soldiers as possible would respond.
When they reached the church forecourt, they dismounted.
“You’ve been very patient with me, John,” Urmston said, gazing at the sculpted gargoyles overhead, thinking it ironic that these diabolic countenances had been allowed to remain while the saints inside had been defaced. “But all will soon be revealed.”
Urmston led the way inside, his nervous servant glancing behind them before following. Nothing moved in the narrow ways between the tenements. All the facing shutters were closed. Doubtless this was to keep out the cold, though it might also have been to shut out this reviled relic of the Catholic past.
The church interior was criss-crossed with slanting winter light. With every window broken and most of its doors torn from their hinges, there was no discernible change in temperature. The water in the font lay under a film of ice. Through gaps in the roof, snowflakes tumbled down, coating the broken floor tiles and smashed woodwork.
“The last time I was here, I hatched a theory,” Urmston said. Echoes of his voice rang back from the high vaults. “The murders, I declared, were related to the statues in this church.”
Kingsley nodded. He glanced at the once-fine effigies, and the savage marks of mace and pick. Urmston strolled towards the southern wall, and the image of St Lucy. Though this too had been brutally attacked, the venerable woman was still identifiable by the plate she carried on which a pair of human eyes were visible, Lucy being the patron-saint of the blind.
“This statue,” Urmston said, “is the final proof. It was always possible that the coincidence of murders and certain saints’ days was an accident of fate. After all, several feast days have passed on which there were no killings. St. Callistus on October 14th, St. Martin on November 11th, and most recently, St. Nicholas on December 6th. It occurred to me that I might have drawn a frightfully inaccurate conclusion. However, the murder today disproved that.”
“Because Callistus, Martin and Nicholas are not represented here?” Kingsley said. “But Lucy is?”
Urmston nodded. “Exactly. There have only been murders on the feast days of the saints represented here. We therefore know for a fact that our killer has been in this church.”
“But, my lord … who is he?”
Urmston held up a cautionary finger. “As a result of what we saw here, we originally found ourselves hunting a Catholic deranged by the events of reform.”
“And that led to the arrest and torture of an innocent man,” Kingsley exclaimed.
Briefly, Urmston’s flint-hard eyes expressed regret. “That was my fault … I won’t forgive myself easily. Nevertheless, the thinking was good. Given the same circumstances, I would probably reach a similar conclusion again.”
“So we still hunt a religious maniac?”
“Yes. But this time no deranged Catholic. This time a deranged Protestant.”
Kingsley was shocked, and not a little outraged. “My lord … the Church of England is now a successful institution. What possible reason could a Protestant have for these atrocities?”
“Perhaps,” said a cold, angry voice, “he feels the atrocities committed by Bloody Mary demanded a firmer reply than those tentative measures taken by Good Queen Bess!”
The two investigators turned slowly. Facing them from the passage to the sacristy stood the Constable of the Tower, Reginald Ratcliffe. He was harnessed for action: heavy gauntlets, a thick leather tunic, his sword drawn. Noticeably, however, he was alone. It didn’t look as if a single soldier from the Yeomen of the Guard had accompanied him.
“Perhaps,” Urmston replied, “he is as dangerous a fanatic as Bloody Mary ever was.”
Ratcliffe smiled thinly. “Perhaps he was raised in an atmosphere where churches were despoiled and saints defaced.”
Ursmston nodded. “And the next step of course, from desecrating the images of the saints, was desecrating their holy days.”
“With a sacrifice in real flesh and blood,” Ratcliffe added, “as the Roman Mass requires!”
Kingsley could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “You?” he said. “You?”
Ratcliffe circled them, swishing his rapier. “This servant of yours needs a lesson in manners.”
Urmston loosed the strap on his own sword-hilt. “This servant of mine always minds his manners … for those who deserve it.”
“It’s easy for you to judge,” Ratcliffe sneered. “What can you know … a royal courtier, a sycophantic dandy?”
Kingsley ripped out his sword and dagger. “Let me ram those words down his gullet!”
“Stay calm,” Urmston counselled.
“While you were still at your mother’s teet, being mollycoddled,” Ratcliffe scoffed, “I was riding with my father under the warrant of Thomas Cromwell, breaking down church doors, arresting traitorous monks and nuns. While you were learning not to pee in your swaddling, I was learning how to chisel away the faces of saints and angels, how to piss on their slashed and spat-upon portraits …”
“You must be proud,” Urmston said.
“Oh, I am. Never more so, though, than when I was eighteen … when I had to stand and watch as my father burned at the stake under that hell-cat Mary! For the attack he made upon this very church!”
Kingsley snorted derisively. “How can religious belief justify these demented murders?”
“Don’t look too deeply into it, John,” Urmston advised. “A mind of true evil is impossible to fathom.”
“You dare call me evil!” Ratcliffe snapped. “You, who tried to save that Spanish bastard from the rack!”
“Enough talking!” Kingsley said, advancing. “Put up your sword, you’re arrested of murder.”
The Constable’s lip curled. “I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I,” Urmston said. “John, hold your ground!”
The servant protested. “My lord, it’s two to one …”
“Hold your ground, I say!” Urmston eyed Ratcliffe warily. “The woman killed this morning was flung twelve feet over the mud-flat. Either by a man of truly gigantic stature … which Lord Ratcliffe plainly is not. Or by two men!”
“Very clever,” said a bas
s voice to their rear.
The investigators spun around. Despite his hefty proportions, Morgeth the jailer had stolen up on them almost unawares. He was about ten yards away when they spotted him. He stopped in his tracks, but his sword and dagger were already drawn.
“The partner in crime,” Urmston said slowly. “I guessed as much. The witnesses sometimes saw a tall man running from the scene, sometimes a short man. A murderous duo was always a possibility. This morning’s murder all but confirmed it, and your shared bigotry made you two likely candidates. But the real clue was your knowledge, Ratcliffe. You mentioned yesterday that there had been fourteen murders. It only occurred to me today that no-one but John and I knew that for certain.”
Kingsley’s gaze still flickered between Morgeth and the Constable as if he couldn’t quite believe it. The idea that one person had embarked on so ghastly a crime-spree was horrible enough, but two? … that was inconceivable.
“Minds equally damaged by hatred,” Urmston said, as though reading his servant’s thoughts.
“Not as damaged as you’ll be!” Ratcliffe retorted. “At them!”
Everything seemed to happen at once. The two killers approached from either side, the Constable of the Tower cautiously, but Morgeth with a charge and a bull-like bellow. Instinctively, Kingsley backed away; he might have been a veteran of the last Anglo-Scottish war, but he was neither as young nor as physically powerful as the burly jailer. He raised his weapons defiantly, but in the time it took Morgeth to scramble the ten yards between them, Urmston had drawn and cocked the firelock pistol he’d been hiding under his cloak, and discharged it over his servant’s shoulder. The first thing Kingsley knew, there was a flash of flame and an almighty crash in his right ear – then smoke was everywhere and Morgeth was reeling backwards, his left upper left arm mangled by a livid, fist-sized wound. The jailer’s expression of murderous rage transmuted to one of disbelieving agony.
Ratcliffe, who hadn’t yet joined the fray, seemed stunned. He held his ground briefly, and then with a furious shout, threw himself forward. Urmston cast the empty pistol aside and whipped out his rapier – just in time to parry a frenzied blow. The blades flickered like streaks of silver as the two men fenced, though Urmston quickly gained the upper hand, driving his foe back towards the sacristy door. Kingsley, meanwhile, wasn’t immediately able to assist his master. The mortally wounded Morgeth was still on his feet, and though his left arm hung dead and useless, with sheer brute-strength he bullocked his way back into the fight.