by Paul Doherty
‘And how would I leave that chamber locked and bolted from within?’
‘Oh very easy. You drew your dagger and ruptured the bolt and clasp at the top of the door so it truly appeared that both had been forced. Of course, this would be cleverly concealed. First, by the rupture of the wood around the bolt when minehost hammered the door open. Secondly, I recall thick wedges of wood lying around the floor. Now the light was dim, Bray, I and others were milling about. In the confusion it would be easy for you to kick or pick up that thick piece of leather you’d used to jam the door shut so it looked as if it was firmly clasped from within.’
‘And the key?’
‘Oh, you hung the key Robert carried into the lock, not fully inserted, but balanced just within. You then pulled the door over inserting that leather wedge.’ Urswicke made a face. ‘I am not too sure if you needed to lock it from outside, perhaps you did, perhaps not. Suffice to say that door appeared shut, locked and clasped from inside. Minehost and ourselves pushed at that door, we were concerned with only one thing, getting into that chamber. Of course we couldn’t, so we reached the logical conclusion that it was sealed. It wouldn’t open whilst the very act of forcing the door would conceal your devious handiwork.’
‘As for the street swallow,’ Bray intervened, ‘mere mummery! Minehost at The Devil’s Cellar clearly informed us, and did so again when I returned after the countess had left for Thorpe Manor, that Robert Vavasour ate and drank in the taproom then adjourned to his chamber. He was cautious, wary, perhaps troubled by his brother and wondering about Cromart’s death. He wouldn’t want to wander the streets of London or sit too long in the taproom open to scrutiny. According to the taverner, Robert did not go out and he received no visitors. As I have said, I went back to The Devil’s Cellar and the taverner repeated all he’d told us before. Apart from food and drink, Robert asked for nothing else, be it ink, quill or parchment. He never wrote any message, nor did he hire a street swallow to deliver it. No such messenger appeared at the tavern that day. Minehost said he’d find it difficult to recall individuals, but a street swallow he would remember, for why should his customers, dung collectors, need to hire one? No, Master Pembroke, you knew where Robert Vavasour was hiding, you wrote that letter as a ploy. You hired that street swallow to deliver the message and then disappear. I did wonder about that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I hire street swallows,’ Bray retorted, ‘they love their pennies and are quite patient in waiting for their pay. Now that particular street swallow delivered his message and promptly disappeared. I noticed that when we left the countess’s house. On reflection, the reason for his disappearance is obvious: you paid him to deliver the message then go, which he certainly did.’
‘Master Bray,’ the countess intervened, ‘has been very busy. As he said, after my departure for Thorpe, he revisited The Devil’s Cellar. Minehost informed him that the door to Robert’s chamber had been repaired, the room swept on orders from the Guildhall, ostensibly a sop to the dung-collectors’ guild on whom the city so depends.’ She paused. ‘I doubt it! They were hiding your handiwork and, more importantly, making sure that Robert Vavasour had not hidden the cipher deep in some crevice or crack.’
‘They would discover nothing,’ Bray declared, ‘but they had to make sure. After all, that chamber had been used by Robert Vavasour. When we visited it, you declared, all a-fluster, that we should leave before the sheriff’s men arrived. You couldn’t search Robert’s room and you certainly didn’t want us to – we might discover something amiss or, God forbid, find the cipher, so you left that task to the Guildhall.’
‘You shrouded Robert Vavasour’s murder in mystery so as to protect yourself and mislead us,’ Urswicke continued. ‘Nevertheless, you must have become increasingly frustrated. You took Vavasour’s belt but there was nothing there, no secret cipher, nothing to hand over to your master at the Guildhall. You were searching for that from the very start. Once you had escaped from Walton or, rather, been allowed to escape, you went into London hunting that cipher. First Cromart. Your expectations must have been high. You believed Cromart, a skilled clerk, would be carrying the cipher. You soon discovered that he was sheltering at St Michael’s. Garbed in the dirty clothes of a dung collector, your face all masked, you visited Cromart in sanctuary. According to Ratstail, Cromart’s humours were disturbed, some ailment of the belly. I did wonder if you gave him something to agitate his stomach. Whatever, your meeting with Cromart would be easy to arrange, nor was it difficult to plot his murder.’
Urswicke paused. He wondered if his father might return, then he reflected on the season and the distance between Thorpe and London. His father probably believed the mischief he’d concocted would reach fulfilment whilst he put as much distance between himself and Walton as possible. Only when he was back at the Guildhall, sometime over the next few days, would Sir Thomas hear about the disastrous events off the coast of Essex, two Flemish carracks blazing from stern to poop and a Breton cog, the cause of their misfortune, fleeing out to sea. Urswicke took a deep breath and glanced up. No, he reasoned, he still had time to lodge his indictment and bring this criminal to the judgement he so richly deserved.
‘You seem to forget,’ Pembroke grated, ‘Cromart was murdered in a church locked and sealed from within. Cromart,’ his voice faltered, ‘was my comrade.’
‘A farrago of lies,’ Urswicke retorted. ‘And your protests are false and futile.’ Urswicke paused at a ghostly rattling behind him. The noise disturbed him. He rose, bowed at the countess and walked into the shadows to secure the shutter. He glanced over his shoulder, Bray was coaxing the prisoner to drink from a goblet of wine. The countess sat, head down. She was quietly reciting the rosary, pausing after every ‘Ave’ to murmur the requiem. Urswicke knew the countess did this constantly. She was praying for her dead kinsmen, the members of the once powerful Beaufort family, now gravely weakened, she their only survivor, her relatives being summarily sent into eternal night by the axe, sword or loose. Urswicke quietly vowed that today, over the next few hours, he and Bray would strike those who oppressed their mistress. He returned to his chair and sat down, tapping his booted feet against the hard paving stones. Pembroke lifted his head. Urswicke pointed at him.
‘I shall return to my indictment. You murdered Cromart by a very simple device. Yes, the church was locked and bolted from within, but Cromart opened the door, probably the one in the sacristy which leads out to the jake’s pot. Cromart invited the wolf into the house. As I’ve said, you visited him earlier that day, slipping into St Michael’s, lighting a taper perhaps before the Lady altar or one of the other shrines. Then you’d wander the church, going over to the sanctuary, peering into the enclave. To all appearances a wandering dung collector curious about some fugitive sheltering in the church. Cromart would be only too willing to meet a comrade. A short conversation followed. You would claim that you wanted to help, that you would bring messages from others or the countess. Anyway, you would come back. St Michael’s has an hour candle and you’d say at which hour, which red ring, it would be best to return. Cromart would agree then you’d disappear. Cromart had no reason to distrust you. Why should he? You are a comrade fresh from Brittany. You’d braved the sea voyage and escaped the traps of your enemies. So, at the appointed time, Cromart opened that sacristy door and went out. God knows what exactly happened, but you followed him back in and released that killing bolt.’
‘Yet the sacristy door was locked and bolted from within?’
‘Oh yes, your constant defence. You love that don’t you? Such mystery distracts and, of course, we must not forget Archdeacon Blackthorne. The murdered men, even Ratstail, were protected by sanctuary. On no account could any blame be laid at York’s door hence all the mystery. Now, the sacristy door was locked and bolted because you arranged that: masked and cowled, hiding deep in the shadows, you threatened Ratstail. You menaced that poor, hapless felon, despite his damaged hands, to lock and bolt
the door once you’d gone, otherwise you’d return and kill him. I suspect you also bribed him, tossing your victim a coin. And why should Ratstail refuse? He was a felon but not a fool. A street dweller from his early days, all he wanted was to survive, so he agreed. Ratstail was his own man. You lied when you claimed he was in York’s pay, that was just a ploy to muddy the waters.’
‘If that’s the truth,’ Pembroke replied, ‘if I threatened and bribed him, if I knew exactly what Ratstail was, why did I need to kill him?’
‘So far I haven’t said you did.’
‘But you are going to?’
‘Of course. It was a logical step. You could not risk the sharp-witted Ratstail reflecting, remembering and recalling the events of that dire night. True, you were masked and hooded. You could change your voice, yet Ratstail might have stumbled on to the truth, especially when you yourself took sanctuary in St Michael’s.’
‘You did so,’ Bray declared, ‘because you felt safe there. Parson Austin was a comrade and, of course, that’s what the Recorder would have ordered. You also wanted to return to St Michael’s to search that church for anything Cromart might have hidden. You had murdered him and taken his belt but you’d found nothing that would intrigue you. You began to wonder if Cromart, a cipher clerk, might have hidden it in some crevice in that ancient church. And, of course, there was Ratstail. You had to silence him, close his mouth for good, especially as he was marked down to join us on that slow, arduous pilgrimage to Thorpe Manor. Oh yes, it was best if Ratstail was despatched into the dark.’
‘And Parson Austin was my accomplice?’
‘No, no, again a suspicion encouraged by you to distract and divert.’ Urswicke smiled thinly. ‘Clever and devious! Parson Austin is undoubtedly an adherent of York but, basically, he is a good man. He is also a priest and a pastor. Oh, Pastor Austin can be used by his Yorkist masters; he may even entertain his own suspicions about what has happened but nothing more. Indeed, I am certain that he would not be party to murder in his own hallowed sanctuary. York simply used Parson Austin and so did you. After you murdered Cromart, you removed his belt and threatened Ratstail, you went into the bell tower of St Michael’s and tolled the tocsin, then you fled. You wanted to deepen the mystery around Cromart’s murder. You also needed a witness to what you had done. If you’d simply left, Ratstail would have just cowered in the enclave until Parson Austin or his parish council opened the church for the Jesus mass the following morning. If that happened, the mystery would not be so great. People might not recall what was open and what was shut. Indeed, Ratstail might have panicked and fled elsewhere. He would have certainly been caught and heaven knows what he might blurt out to save his neck from the noose. No, you threatened Ratstail into silent compliance.’ Urswicke paused to sip from his goblet. ‘I have no doubt,’ he continued, ‘Cromart and the others were killed on the orders of York, but the murders had to be concealed in a fog of deep mystery, that is certainly true of Ratstail’s murder.’
‘I had no weapon.’
‘Oh shut up!’ Urswicke retorted. ‘You had a crossbow primed and ready, provided by York, hidden somewhere deep in the shadows of that ancient church, a hand-held arbalest easy to use.’
‘But Ratstail suspected someone was lurking in one of the transepts, he glimpsed shifting shadows …’
‘A blatant lie! Ratstail was bribed by you to say that. Remember, you left us to check on him. You told him to fashion some story about creating a distraction, a diversion to Bray and myself and our constant questioning. Ratstail would love such mischief, especially when he was paid for it. Again, remember, I searched his corpse. I found two coins, good silver pieces on his person. How could a fugitive, no more than a beggar, have such wealth? Indeed, as we have discovered, you seem well-furnished with silver, be it for bribing Ratstail or providing comfortable lodgings for your mother and sister. I suspect both those silver pieces were given by you. First, when you threatened Ratstail about locking and bolting the sacristy door behind you, and on the second occasion when we visited you at St Michael’s. In fact, you made a mistake,’ Urswicke declared. ‘I reached Ratstail’s corpse first and found those coins before you could secretly reclaim them.’ Pembroke, now resting back in the chair, just glared at Urswicke and strained at the cords around his chest. ‘Oh yes, you staged a murderous masque,’ Urswicke continued. ‘When Bray and I wandered the church, Ratstail stayed where you probably ordered him, sheltering in the enclave, hidden deep in the shadows and screened off by the high altar. You slipped back, picked up the arbalest, wherever it was concealed, and loosed the killing bolt. You then joined in that pretend search, the arbalest beneath your cloak.’
‘You did not see one?’
‘No. That’s because it was small so you could easily and swiftly dispose of it through one of those lancet windows – a mere heartbeat in time. The weapon would be lost in the tangle of gorse and bramble which surrounds that church. You kept myself and Bray under close scrutiny – an easy enough task. St Michael’s is like a hollow shell and every sound carries. This helped deepen our suspicions about someone hiding in the church, an impression you strengthened by swiftly opening and shutting a door in one of the transepts; that was heard by me as well as glimpsed by one of the parson’s watchers in the cemetery. You successfully created the illusion that an assassin had stolen into the church, locked and bolted as it was, killed Ratstail and left just as mysteriously.’ Urswicke pulled a face. ‘Another murder shrouded in the fog of speculation yet, in the end, who cared for Ratstail alive or dead? No one. He wasn’t a spy for York or anybody else, just a poor wretch caught up in the bloody turmoil between the great ones of the land. You, Pembroke, killed Ratstail to protect yourself and so sustain the mystery surrounding Cromart’s death. Now Ratstail should have been your last victim but then we decided to trap you, yes mistress?’
‘When Master Bray eventually came ashore,’ Margaret smiled at her steward, ‘I had close counsel with him and Urswicke. I informed Master Reginald that Christopher had already reached his own conclusions about you Pembroke. During our journey from London along the Mile End Road, Christopher had assessed everything he had learnt. He constructed an indictment based on logic and whatever other evidence he had managed to collect and he shared this with me. In the end we decided to set a trap, a truly deadly one.’ She crossed herself. ‘Poor Conwar was your next victim though, to a certain extent, we are all responsible for his death.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pembroke lurched forward, straining at the cords which bound him.
‘You hail from Wales,’ Margaret continued remorselessly. ‘I am a Beaufort but once I was the beloved wife of Edmund Tudor. He liked nothing more than to share with me the history and customs of his people. Now one of the things he told me was that among the Welsh tribes there is the blood bond, a chain of deep affection and loyalty founded on kinship, family and oaths of loyalty. This chain binds communities together in life and in death. You should know all about that, Pembroke, even if it now means very little to you. You shattered these chains. You cut yourself off and, in doing so, became a deadly threat to those who trusted and depended on you.’ Margaret sipped from her goblet. Urswicke noticed how her hand trembled slightly. Margaret put the goblet down. ‘I prayed, I reflected then I approached Conwar. I informed him about my suspicions founded on the conclusions Master Urswicke had reached about you. I could do this easily enough, moving amongst the sanctuary men dispensing charity, be it a scrap of food or a coin and, of course, I made sure you could not eavesdrop.’
‘Yes, yes I saw you,’ Pembroke muttered. Urswicke wondered if their prisoner was truly listening. Had the shock of this confrontation proved too much for his wits?
‘Anyway,’ Margaret continued, ‘Conwar listened carefully and, to my surprise, he took very little convincing. He too had reached the logical conclusion that a traitor within was responsible for all the deaths amongst the Red Dragon Battle Group since you had landed at Walton-on-the-Naze. He also con
firmed what Master Christopher suspected – that you, Pembroke, were a common factor in all these deaths: the two unfortunates who came ashore with you and were hanged; Guido Vavasour, who accompanied you, was captured, tortured and executed, even though his hiding place was known to no one, or supposedly so. Robert Vavasour was in communication with you before he was mysteriously murdered. Cromart was in sanctuary in the days following your arrival in England. Ratstail was sheltering in the same church as yourself. True,’ Margaret shrugged, ‘this is not evidence enough to hang a man but it certainly made me reflect and wonder. Oh yes, Conwar had watched events unfold and formed his own suspicions, though he’d kept these to himself. I argued how I needed to unmask the traitor and he courageously consented to my suggestion. I shared my suspicions with him that the secret assassin was probably searching for the Dragon Cipher, supposedly concealed on the warbelt of one of the Red Dragon Battle Group. Conwar agreed. What other reason could there be for all these deaths, one after the other? I then informed him that I was going to let slip to you, Pembroke, that Conwar carried the Dragon Cipher.’