by Paul Doherty
'Oh, that's ridiculous!' I declared. 'You've seen them, two young people unarmed! How do you think they did it? Battered the garrison to death with a sausage?'
Cornelius sniffed. 'Sir Thomas, my Lord of Egremont, I will send a despatch to the cookshop. Oswald and Imelda are to be brought here immediately.'
Egremont looked as if he was going to object, surprised by the nature of Cornelius's request, but then he shrugged and, followed by Kempe, left the room.
The atmosphere of distrust he left only increased. Cornelius watched us narrow-eyed and, when we offered to search the house, he insisted on accompanying us. First we visited the cellar but we could find nothing amiss, and then we continued our search from room to room. Some of the beds showed that they had been lain in: the sheets were soiled or crumpled. Yet it appeared as if the Angel of Death had swept through in a matter of seconds. In one chamber, dice and a cup lay on a table as if the game had suddenly ended. In another playing cards were spread out on the floor. In the kitchen two knives and a whetstone were placed on a stool as if their owner had been sharpening them when death struck. In exasperation we searched amongst the foodstuffs, sniffing at the bread, the dried bacon and fruit. Benjamin tasted from the wineskin. He picked up the cask of ale but it was empty. He placed it back on the floor and sat on it. 'How did this happen?' he asked, echoing Egremont's words. Cornelius went and stood over him. 'Master Daunbey.' Benjamin looked up.
'Are you going to say that you were here to guard?' Cornelius asked. 'Or will you not admit that you had secret instructions from your king to retrieve the Orb of Charlemagne?' Benjamin stood up facing him squarely.
'Such words, Master Cornelius, might, in another place and at another time, lead to a duel.'
'I shall remember that, Master Daunbey, but my question still stands!'
I drew my own dagger. I went up and pricked the tip into the back of Cornelius's bulky neck.
'Ah, the ever-faithful dog!' Cornelius didn't even bother to turn.
'Stand back from my master!' I ordered. 'Cornelius, you have your orders and so have we. You were in the gatehouse with us all the time. We never approached the manor. You, however, did. You let the cooks in and out. What else happened?'
Cornelius turned his head slightly, then he turned with breathtaking speed. One arm came shooting out, the edge of his hand caught me just beneath the chest and made me stagger back, the knife dropping from my hand. Then Cornelius, sword and dagger drawn, stood between me and Benjamin. The sound of the commotion brought others hurrying to the kitchen door. Cornelius was now balanced on the balls of his feet, the sword toward Benjamin, the dagger towards me. He was breathing in deeply through his nostrils, fighting hard to control the rage seething within him. Benjamin's hand was already on his sword. I was wondering whether to run or fight when I heard a commotion down the passageway. I turned and saw Castor in the doorway. No longer the friendly, bouncing dog, he crouched, head out, ears back, jaws half-open like some huge cat as he began to stalk across the floor towards Cornelius.
The Noctale moved his sword and dagger toward this new threat: he threw me a quick look and I knew I had a debt to pay. 'Castor!' I ordered. The dog moved forward. 'Castor, sweetmeats. Stay!'
Castor's ears came up and he sat, almost smiling benevolently at Cornelius. I went up and stroked him. I took a sticky sweetmeat from my wallet. Castor took it, rolling it around in his mouth as happy as a child.
'Put up your sword and dagger!' Benjamin ordered. He waved at the people thronging in the kitchen doorway. 'Go back to your duties. Anything you find, bring here!'
Castor turned and growled, and within a twinkling the doorway was empty. Cornelius put his sword and dagger away and came forward, hands extended.
'I meant no offence, Shallot. Nor to you, Master Daunbey. However, if you are innocent of this crime then so am I.' He pointed to the dog. 'I wonder if he could help?'
After three more sweetmeats, Castor would have climbed to the moon if I had asked him. Back round the house he went. He noticed nothing amiss in the upper chambers: only becoming excited when he found a scrap of food, a piece of chicken leg lying in the corner of a hearth.
After that it became a game: a search for food. We returned to the lower gallery, but Castor refused to go into the parlour where the corpses were now stiffening under their bloody sheets. He crouched in the doorway and whined, looking beseechingly up at me. I stayed with him whilst Benjamin and Cornelius inspected the corpses. Now and again I glanced away as they pulled down sheets to display a bloody face, a chest smashed in by a crossbow bolt or a head lolling because of the deep gash in the neck.
Benjamin, however, scrutinised the corpses carefully, feeling the suppleness of their hands and legs, loosening belts, pulling up jerkins. At first, Cornelius was mystified until he realised what my master was looking for. 'They were all young men,' he remarked.
'Yes, yes,' Benjamin replied absentmindedly. 'The flesh is cold but the limbs still have a certain suppleness. What time did we enter this morning?'
'Somewhere between seven and eight o'clock,' Cornelius replied.
'I think they were killed six or seven hours earlier,' Benjamin said. 'The blood has not yet thickened, the limbs haven't stiffened and there's no sign of poisoning.' He pointed to the chest of one man. 'Most potions leave some red or mulberry stain on the chest or stomach. There's none here.'
They covered the corpses and we returned to the kitchen. Castor, smelling the food, immediately became excited. He went towards the cooking pot hanging over the hearth sniffing at it appreciatively. I dipped my finger in and tasted it.
One of Egremont's retainers came in to report that the cooks were at the gatehouse. We left the kitchen and passed the open door to the cellar. Castor immediately sprang down, like a ferret into a rabbit hole. We followed down the steps. The dog was waiting for us, legs apart, head up, eyes bright as if this was part of the game. Benjamin was intrigued by the dog's excitement. I gave Castor a sweetmeat and told him to go back up the steps which he did. The cellar had a plaster roof, brick walls on either side and an earth-beaten floor. The three of us began to examine and tap the brickwork. However, if we entertained any hopes of finding some secret passageway or door we were disappointed.
(It's different now, of course. Due to the persecution of the Catholic priests, every great house has caverns, trap doors and hiding-holes. I have at least three here. There should be four but I've forgotten where one of them was put! They were all built by that Jesuit lay brother, Nicholas Owen, a little man with a cheery face, God's own carpenter. Elizabeth's master spy caught him. Poor Nicholas went to the Tower, Topcliffe the executioner racked him so much his body had to be pinned together before they could take him away and hang him. He left a great legacy, did Owen, secret rooms and chambers up and down the kingdom. It will be hundreds of years before they are all discovered!) Benjamin and Cornelius gave up in disgust. 'What made that dog so excited?' Benjamin asked. I kicked at the floor. 'Perhaps something here, master?'
Benjamin agreed. Servants were summoned and, armed with shovel and pick, hacked at the floor. Benjamin was very careful. He ordered another servant to bring down sacks and the earth was carefully placed in it. 'I've found something!' one of them cried.
Benjamin pushed him aside and, crouching down, stared into the great, yawning hole. He leaned down and picked up a piece of yellowing fabric, covered in dirt and crumbling with age. He took the shovel from the groom and dug more carefully. We were forced back on to the steps as the cellar floor was turned into a gaping hole. Straining our necks we could see that Benjamin had unearthed a rolled-up piece of cloth.
At last it was all free. We carried it upstairs where Benjamin carefully unrolled it. In its prime, the cloth had been one of those thick tapestries that hung on a wall. Now it was faded, stained and contained its own grisly relic: a skeleton of a woman: the bones were brittle and grey strands of hair still clung to the gaping skull. One of the ribs was broken and the remnants of
the dress around it were stained a dark maroon colour. The servant swore and stepped away. Benjamin, however, laid the skeleton out carefully. One of the wrist bones snapped as he searched amongst the fabric and picked up a small locket inscribed with the letters 'I.M.' 'This has nothing to do with our search?' Cornelius asked. Benjamin shook his head.
'What you are looking at, sir, are the mortal remains of Isabella Malevel, once owner of this gloomy manor. Whoever broke into her house and plundered it, smashed one of her ribs, probably in an attempt to find out where she had hidden her wealth.' Benjamin pointed to the dark stains on the rags. 'They then cut her throat, wrapped her corpse in a tapestry and buried it in the cellar.'
I kept staring at the locket. I had seen those same letters before – on a tapestry in Lord Charon's cavernous, underground chamber.
Chapter 7
Benjamin ordered the remains to be taken into the parlour and laid with the rest of the corpses. Another courier was despatched to Westminster.
'I doubt if she had heirs or relatives,' Benjamin declared. 'So, what happens to the poor woman's remains is a matter for the King.'
Accompanied by Cornelius we went to the gatehouse where Oswald and Imelda were waiting. The day was drawing on: halfway down the path, I stopped and looked back at Malevel with its shuttered windows and grim walls. A house of death! Was that the reason for the sense of evil? Did the old woman's ghost still walk there? Pleading, like Hamlet's father, for vengeance for a life snuffed out in such a cruel fashion? I had no doubt that Lord Charon and his coven had been responsible for the old woman's grisly murder: swarming in one night, like rats into a barn, plundering the house and torturing old Isabella to death. Afterwards, they must have wrapped her corpse in that cloth and buried it in the cellar, then swept the house clean, making it look as if everything and its owner had mysteriously disappeared. However, the important question was whether Lord Charon and his gang had stormed the front door or whether they had used some secret entrance and passageway as yet unfound? 'Roger?' Benjamin and Cornelius were looking at me strangely. 'I am sorry.'
I joined them and went into the gatehouse. Oswald and Imelda were all a-tremble in the small guard room. They looked like ghosts sitting on a bench, clutching each other's hands; the archers had informed them about the grisly events that had occurred.
'We know nothing,' Oswald declared, putting his arms round his wife's shoulders. 'Sirs, we have been involved in no trickery.'
Sometimes you can tell just from the first word: in my soul I knew Oswald was telling the truth. They were both innocents, caught up in this Byzantine game. A young man and his wife, eager to make their fortunes in the city, now cursed by their close acquaintance with the Great Ones of the land. Cornelius and Benjamin thought the same. We sat opposite them: Benjamin took Imelda's hand, assuring her of the Cardinal's protection.
'Just tell us what you know,' he declared. 'What happened in those days?'
'We visited four times,' Oswald replied. 'We never noticed anything amiss.' 'Tell us again,' Benjamin declared.
'We always arrived just before three. Master Cornelius would lake us up to the door and let us in. The manor was dark, it was not a pleasant place. The galleries and rooms were gloomy yet the soldiers were friendly enough, even the Noctales. Sometimes one or two would flirt with Imelda but they were no trouble.' 'Did you go to any other part of the house?' Benjamin asked.
'Only once,' Oswald replied. 'Well, no, perhaps on two occasions, we used the latrines, a small closet down the gallery near the cellar.'
'Most of the time,' Imelda intervened, 'we were in the kitchen. We would bake bread 'How many loaves?'
'Twenty-eight to thirty,' she replied. 'We took nothing with us. Lord Egremont insisted on that. The meats and other ingredients were already there.'
'We baked and cooked,' Oswald explained. 'Cut up vegetables, cleaned the traunchers and platters: prepared oatmeal for breakfast the following morning and set the table for the meal at nine o'clock.'
'Were you always together?' I asked. 'I insisted on that,' Cornelius retorted. 'And you never noticed anything amiss?' Benjamin asked. 'No, sir!' Oswald and Imelda shook their heads. 'How was Jonathan?' Cornelius asked.
'Silent, preoccupied. Rather nervous,' Oswald replied. 'I heard one of the guards say he would take a lot of food but never finish his meal.' 'They were all nervous,' Imelda offered. 'Nervous?' I asked. 'They didn't like the manor. They claimed it was haunted. One guard even said he heard sounds at night.' 'Sounds?' Cornelius asked.
'I don't know what they meant,' she replied. 'But the old manor did creak. You should stay there yourself, sir. You'll find out.'
'But there couldn't have been anyone hidden away?' Oswald added. 'I noticed when the guards were walking up and down, the floorboards groaned, the stairs creaked. Master-' He glanced anxiously at Cornelius. ‘We have been told that they are all dead. One of the soldiers at the gate said their throats had been cut. It would take a small army to do that.' He laughed nervously. 'Not a cook and his wife. Look-' He opened a small, leather bag he carried. 'There are our draft bills: we have the finished accounts at home.' He pushed the scraps into Benjamin's hand. 'We were promised they would be paid.' 'And they will be,' Benjamin reassured him, getting to his feet
He thanked the couple and they left. Cornelius stretched out his legs, folded his arms and leaned against the wall: with his heavy-lidden eyes half closed, he looked as if he were sleeping. 'What was Jonathan like?' Benjamin asked. 'A former officer in the Imperial Guard,' Cornelius replied. 'And he would take orders from you?' 'No, from Lord Theodosius, as I am supposed to.' 'Supposed to?' Benjamin asked.
'I'm different from the rest.' Cornelius smiled wryly. 'I am the Emperor's man in peace and war: his personal emissary. The rest are Egremont's men. Why do you ask?'
'There's no chance,' I volunteered, grasping the drift of my master's questions, 'that Egremont would give separate orders to Jonathan?'
'Why should he?' Cornelius retorted. 'How could Jonathan be part of anything which led to his own death and those of his companions, not to mention the theft of the Orb. Whatever you are thinking, Master Benjamin, Lord Egremont has a great deal of explaining to do when he returns to the Imperial Court. No, no.' Cornelius shook his head. 'The real problem is how fifteen men, armed and dangerous, were all executed one after the other with no sign of resistance or any form of struggle. No one raised the alarm. No one saw anyone enter or leave.' Cornelius got to his feet.
He walked to the window. Castor padded up and began to lick at his hand. 'This is a cursed place,' Cornelius muttered, staring out at the manor. 'I need to think, reflect.' He opened his pouch and tossed two keys on a ring at Benjamin. 'Malevel Manor is now yours.' 'The Orb could still be there,' Benjamin offered.
Cornelius shook his head. 'I doubt it.' He picked up his cloak. 'I have to return to the city, to take counsel with Lord Theodosius. Will you see to the removal of the corpses?'
Benjamin agreed. Cornelius went back up to his chamber and, a few minutes later, we heard him leaving.
The next few hours were confusing. Benjamin ordered the soldiers into the manor. A cart had been hired and the corpses, including that of the old lady Isabella, were piled on, and hidden beneath a canvas sheet. Already the camp outside was beginning to break up, the soldiers going back to the Tower or Baynards Castle. By sunset all were gone: only Benjamin, myself and Castor remained. We closed the gates and, at Benjamin's insistence, locked ourselves in Malevel Manor. We were armed, and Castor was with us. Nevertheless, I'll never forget that night. Malevel in the daylight was grim enough but, when darkness fell and the wind drove against the shutters, I believe I walked with, ghosts. The galleries and passageways were narrow and gloomy. The air became stale and every step we took made the floorboards creak. Both Benjamin and I were apprehensive, as if someone was watching us. Time and again, as we searched that house from cellar to garret, I would whirl round and look back down a shadow-filled gallery only to find there w
as nothing there. Even Castor lost his aggression. Now and again he would stop and whimper as if the animal could see things we did not. Nevertheless, Benjamin was thorough. We carried torches and searched every room, every fireplace. We found nothing! At last, long after midnight, we returned to the kitchen. We sat at the table, drinking some of the wine left, even cutting portions of the meat and bread but there was nothing amiss: no potion, no evidence that the garrison might have been poisoned. Benjamin sat, chin in hand.
'Twenty-four hours ago,' he began, 'some time, about now, Roger, fifteen men were brutally murdered and the Orb stolen. But how?'
'This place is haunted,' I replied. 'A gateway for demons. You saw the old woman's skeleton.'
'Ghosts may walk,' Benjamin replied. 'But they don't cut throats nor do they carry arbalests.'
'They walk silently,' I replied. 'Master, how could an assassin even walk round this place without being noticed? Every step he took would make a noise.'
Benjamin got up and walked to where the blackjacks had been cleaned and put on a table.
'One thing I did notice,' he mused. 'No food was left on the table. There were no dirty pots in the scullery.' 'Which means?' I asked.
'Either they were killed before the evening meal or long after. However, if they were killed after, the remains of their dirty traunchers and blackjacks would have been left out for the cooks to wash the following day.' 'So they must have been killed before?'
'But that can't be,' Benjamin replied. 'The cooks told us they set the tables for the evening meal, yet we found no trace of that.'
'Unless Jonathan ordered it to be cleared himself?' I declared. 'I have another theory.'
I explained about Lord Charon and my meeting with him: the initials 'I.M.' on the hangings in his chamber were identical to those on the locket buried with the remains of poor Lady Isabella. Benjamin, eyes closed, heard me out.
'It's possible.' He opened his eyes. 'It's possible that in his own devilish way, Lord Charon had a hand in this business.' He tapped my hand. 'You didn't tell me about your meeting in the sewers?'