by S. D. Sykes
‘I’m not using this chest any more,’ he argued, batting away a fly. ‘I had no reason to notice.’
‘Where do you keep the key?’
‘I hang it on a hook inside my bedchamber.’
‘That’s not very safe, is it?’ I said.
‘I didn’t think that a murderer would steal the key and lock the chest, did I?’ he answered. ‘With Hans’s body inside.’
I let de Groot weep for a short time, until asking him to move away from the box so that I could examine it. Without his body lying across the chest, I could see that the lock had a sturdy plate and I doubted very much that we would be able to force it open.
By now, news of the blowflies had reached more ears than mine, and I turned around to see a group of the other guests crowded by the door.
‘Is it true, Lord Somershill?’ asked The Fool, as he edged forwards into the room. ‘Is somebody locked inside there?’ I hardly recognised the man in his plain woollen tunic and linen braies. He seemed much older without the mask of a brightly coloured hat and comic costume.
‘We don’t know,’ I said quickly. ‘But I think you should all go back to your rooms.’
‘Why?’ said Lady Isobel, pushing her way past the others. ‘If there’s been another murder, then we ought to know about it.’
Her words met with some approving nods and grunts from the others, particularly from my mother, who had made a surprisingly rapid descent from our apartment in order to witness this latest drama.
‘Hans has been murdered,’ shouted Pieter de Groot. ‘And you are all to blame for his death. The poor boy was persecuted by every single person in this castle. Blamed for every crime, when he was innocent.’
I turned to de Groot. ‘We don’t know that it’s Hans inside this box,’ I said.
‘Then what about all those flies?’ said Mother. ‘It can only be a corpse in there.’
I was about to argue when Lyndham joined us. ‘What’s happened, de Lacy?’ he asked, sweeping past the others.
‘We need to get this box open,’ I said. ‘There might be something dead inside.’
‘Dead?’ said Lyndham, taken aback by my words. ‘Nobody else is missing, are they?’
‘Hans is missing,’ said de Groot. ‘Everybody says he was the murderer, but he’s not. He’s locked inside this box.’
‘He can’t be,’ said Lyndham. ‘I checked inside this chest on the morning Hans disappeared. It was empty.’
De Groot pointed a finger and wailed. ‘He’s in there, I’m telling you. We must open the lid!’
Lyndham and I exchanged an uneasy glance, before he turned to de Groot. ‘Do you have an iron crow?’ he asked the clockmaker. The man nodded and then trudged from the room as if in a daze, returning shortly afterwards with the long metal tool that Lyndham had requested. Lyndham then jammed one end of the crow into the narrow slit between the lid and the box, before leaning on the other end for leverage. At first the lid would not give way, but the knight persevered, and soon there was a sharp crack as the lid began to lift.
‘I think you should all stand away,’ I said to the others, as the reek of death rushed out. But nobody moved. If anything, they gathered closer, to see what horrors the box contained.
‘Is it Hans?’ said de Groot, holding his hands over his eyes as Lyndham lifted the lid. ‘Is it my poor nephew?’
I raised my lantern to look within, and it was certainly a repugnant sight that met my eyes. But one thing was obvious immediately – this was not the body of a man. There was something else dead inside this chest – its belly dissected with a long and deep incision, and the tangle of its guts removed and laid out upon its lacerated fur. Worse than this, its legs and head had been severed from its body. It was both a shocking and familiar sight. Just as had been the case with Corvina and then Lord Hesket, an array of pins punctured its coat. But there was a new addition to this barbarity. On the stump of its neck, where the creature’s head should have been, sat a jester’s hat.
Lyndham looked over my shoulder and then groaned, lifting his hands to his mouth. ‘God’s bones. It’s Holdfast.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said, looking down at the slaughterous mess.
‘Of course I am,’ he said, before he turned to pull Alice Cross from the crowd. ‘What have you done to my dog, you evil witch?’
‘I haven’t touched it,’ she boomed, fighting him off. ‘That’s a disgusting accusation. I would never do something like this.’
The Fool was the next person to look inside the chest. ‘It’s wearing my hat,’ he said in horror. ‘Why is it wearing my hat?’
I went to close the lid as de Groot pushed his way forward. ‘It’s not a dog,’ he said. ‘You’re lying. It’s Hans in there, isn’t it? Let me see. I don’t believe you.’ He stuck his head inside the chest, but it was only a moment before he let the lid drop with a loud bang.
I turned to the others as de Groot slipped down to the floor, faint with nausea and shock. ‘You can all go now,’ I said. ‘This is a work of mischief, nothing more.’
It was Lady Isobel who answered my assertion. ‘This is more than mischief, Lord Somershill. It’s the work of the Dutchman. You know that.’ I went to respond, but she did not allow me the opportunity to speak. ‘He’s found his way back into the castle,’ she continued. ‘And left this rotting animal here to torment us.’ She screwed her hands into tight fists. ‘I told you this before. He’s more than a murderer. He’s a devil. A madman. It’s not enough that he’s killed two men. Now he’s taunting us.’
I held up my hands. ‘Please. We mustn’t give in to panic.’
‘But the dog is wearing my hat,’ said The Fool, as he backed away towards the door. ‘Why is it wearing my hat?’ He then turned on his heels and shot out of the room, once again fleeing the scene like a man who has been stung by a bee. I nodded to Sandro and quietly asked my valet to follow.
‘What’s the matter with The Fool?’ asked Mother, as Sandro disappeared in his wake. ‘The man is supposed to be keeping our spirits up.’
‘He’s frightened,’ I said.
‘We’re all frightened,’ announced Lady Isobel. ‘But what are you doing about it, Lord Somershill? You told us that you were investigating the murders, but what good has come of that? This man has murdered my husband. And now he feels bold enough to creep back in here and terrorise us with this atrocity.’ Her voice had become shrill. ‘The Dutchman is laughing at us. Laughing! It is no wonder that we’re frightened.’ The other women in the room, including my own mother, nodded in agreement with this sentiment.
‘You should all return to your rooms straight away,’ I said again. ‘Lock the doors while Sir Robert and I search for the Dutchman.’
‘So he wins again,’ came Lady Isobel’s reply. ‘We scurry away like rabbits into our burrows, while this fox has the run of the castle. It’s not acceptable, Lord Somershill.’ With these words, she picked up her skirts and strode out of the cellar with determined affront. Others followed, and soon it was only Lyndham, de Groot and myself left in the chamber.
De Groot was now wringing his hands with an imaginary rag and muttering to himself softly in his own language. I leant down and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘How is Hans getting in and out of this castle, de Groot?’ I said. ‘Now is the time to tell me.’
The clockmaker tensed. ‘I don’t know, Lord Somershill. I only ever saw my nephew leave or enter by the main gate.’
‘Then where is he hiding?’
‘I don’t know that either,’ he said.
‘You must have an idea?’
He shook his head repeatedly, as tears streamed down his face. ‘Please, my Lord. You have to believe me. I do not know.’ I stood back, allowing him a moment to compose himself, before he wiped his face and rose to his feet. ‘Now I must clean out my chest,’ he announced. ‘I must get rid of this dead animal. It will stain the wood.’
Lyndham heard this last comment and interjected. ‘You will not touch Holdfast, de Gro
ot. So keep away.’ De Groot lifted his hands over his head, as if cowering from an assault. ‘He was my dog,’ Lyndham continued, ‘and I will deal with his body. Not you.’ Lyndham removed his cloak and wrapped the dog into a small bundle, before lifting the creature’s ravaged body from the chest.
We were about to leave the room, processing out behind the knight and his dead dog, when Sandro hurtled back through the door and blocked our path. ‘Come quickly, Master Oswald,’ he said breathlessly.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘The Fool has locked himself into a storeroom. He’s barricaded the doors with two trestle tables.’
‘What?’
‘Mistress Cross is shouting and screaming because the room is full of food,’ he said. ‘But The Fool says he won’t come out.’ He panted again. ‘He says he’s afraid for his life.’
Alice Cross was hammering her fists onto the heavy door of the storeroom as we arrived. ‘You can’t lock yourself in there forever, you stupid man,’ she shouted. ‘Now come out.’ She turned to regard me with wearied eyes. ‘As if I need a problem like this, my Lord,’ she groaned. ‘I’ve still got a castle to feed, despite all this killing. And now this idiot has locked himself up in here with all our best food!’
‘Has he spoken to you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said, folding her hefty arms. ‘Other than to tell me to piss off,’ she said.
Lyndham brushed past me and then bashed at the door himself. ‘Come out!’ he thundered. ‘This is no time for one of your jokes.’
‘I’m staying here,’ came a muffled answer from somewhere behind the door. ‘Go away.’
‘How much of our food is in there?’ I asked Alice Cross.
She raised her eyebrows and dropped her chin into her freckled neck. ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘That room is full of hams, cheeses and pickles. Not to mention all the wine.’ She gave a short huff. ‘He chose the right storeroom, that’s for sure. He’s not locked himself up with a load of oats and peas.’
I turned to Lyndham. ‘Can you break the door down?’ I asked.
Lyndham frowned. ‘I could try, I suppose,’ he said, feeling about the frame of the door. ‘But this is well-seasoned oak, and the posts are steady.’ I then recalled Godfrey’s boasts about making this doorway safe from raiders – though he had not foreseen this eventuality. That we would need to get somebody out, rather than stopping somebody from getting in.
Lyndham took me to one side, to be out of Mistress Cross’s earshot. ‘Listen, de Lacy. I know this man, a little.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘He is more than a fool in name. In fact, I have rarely met a more stupid fellow.’
‘Didn’t you recommend him to Godfrey?’
Lyndham poked his tongue around his cheek. ‘Well, yes, I did, as it happens,’ he said. ‘Though I regret it now, of course. The man has been nothing but a disaster since he came here.’
‘What’s his real name?’
‘It’s William Shute.’
‘And how did you meet him?’
‘We’ve worked together in various houses and castles. I have to say that he used to be quite entertaining. But now he seems to have lost his head completely.’
‘So what do you suggest we do?’ I said. ‘We can’t leave him in there with all the best food.’
Lyndham took his time to answer. ‘In my experience, Shute lacks determination. He won’t stay in there for long, even if he does have months of food and drink. It’s not like him to stick at anything.’ He paused. ‘Let’s ignore him for a couple of days. Let him stew in his own company.’
I gave myself a few moments to think this through. ‘I suppose he’s safe in there, at least,’ I said. ‘If we can’t get the door open, then neither can Hans.’
Lyndham drew back slightly at this. ‘So, you really think the Dutchman is behind this?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘And he’s becoming bolder with each murder. First he puts Godfrey’s body to bed in a chest. Then he displays Hesket like a slaughtered carcass. Now he’s playing with us. Bragging that he feels bold enough to identify his next victim.’
‘So he means to kill Shute? Is that what you’re saying?’
I hesitated. ‘Or you,’ I said. ‘After all. It was your dog inside that chest.’
Lyndham harrumphed. ‘I’d like to see that scrawny Dutchman try to kill me, de Lacy. I’m a knight. And what’s he? Nothing but a pasty bag-of-bones.’
‘Even so. He’s cunning. We need to be watchful.’
‘I’m not frightened of him.’
‘I understand that,’ I said. ‘But we still don’t know how he’s getting into the castle. So we need to set up a watch tonight. If he appears, then we can catch him.’
Lyndham bowed his head to this, and I caught sight again of the thinning patch of hair on the back of his head. For a moment I found myself wondering if he knew it was there.
Alice Cross’s sharp voice cut through this daydream. ‘So what are we to do about this fool in the storeroom?’ she snapped.
‘We’ll come back tomorrow and see if he wants to come out,’ I said.
‘There’ll be no Malmsey wine at supper,’ she warned. ‘It’s all locked away in this room.’
I shrugged, as this was the very least of my worries. ‘Then we’ll just have to drink ale,’ I said, ‘won’t we?’
Chapter Twenty-three
Our supper that night was a miserable affair, thanks to William Shute’s siege of the storeroom. We were served stale bread and a broth, made from one of the egg-layers – a chicken that had been hastily killed that afternoon to make this meal. I had reserved half of my meagre ration of bread for Annora – though the girl did not appear that evening when I dropped my parcel of food from the parapet walk. I waited a while, looking down from my eyrie, high on the wall – but there was no sign of her. I even considered calling out her name, but this might have attracted attention from within the castle, as Lyndham had already begun the first stage of our night watch. It crossed my mind that Annora might be unwell, but I thrust this idea away, consoling myself instead with the thought that the girl had now spent five days in the chapel, and would be able to join us the following day. She would come and collect the bread later that night, when nobody was looking.
Lyndham had promised to wake me around the hour of Lauds to take my turn at the watch, so I retired to our apartment in the meantime, to spend a couple of hours with my family. Filomena was in a strange mood that evening, and did not want to look up from her embroidery. Whenever I enquired about her disposition, she would only shrug, which gave Mother the opportunity to inform me that my wife was in fear of another bleed. Filomena silently seethed at Mother’s words, but said nothing – knowing that if anything were likely to provoke a bleed, it would be a needless confrontation with the old woman.
Sandro had taken the opportunity of The Fool’s self-imposed imprisonment to borrow his citole and attempt to entertain us with the instrument. His playing was a little hesitant at first, but Sandro was a quick learner – soon able to pluck out a simple tune. In all honesty, we were grateful for some distraction, and nobody more so than Hugh, who kept jumping up and down and begging to have a turn on the instrument himself. I didn’t think that this delicate citole would have survived the energetic attentions of a four-year-old’s fingers, but Sandro did not deny Hugh the opportunity to join in. Instead of forbidding the boy to touch the instrument – which would have been my own approach – Sandro allowed Hugh to pluck out a single string at the end of each song. When we applauded this great musical achievement, Hugh nearly exploded with joy. Even Filomena broke away from her sulk to smile at the boy’s happiness.
When Hugh was finally ready for bed, I asked Sandro to accompany me to the cellars, as I wanted to make another attempt to speak to The Fool, or William Shute, as I now knew was his true name. I was hoping that Shute might have been ready to open the door to us, having already suffered a few hours of solitude.
‘What do you know
about William Shute?’ I asked Sandro, as we walked along the dark passageway towards his barricaded refuge.
‘Who?’
‘The Fool,’ I said, holding the lantern up to look into Sandro’s face. ‘William Shute is his real name.’ When my valet looked back at me with shocked eyes, I added, ‘Goodness me, Sandro, The Fool wasn’t christened with such a ridiculous name.’
Sandro gasped, as if this were a true revelation. ‘Well, I think William Shute is the funniest jester that I’ve ever seen,’ he told me.
‘Really?’ I answered, unable to hide my own astonishment this time.
‘Oh yes,’ said Sandro earnestly. ‘When he gallops about the hall on his little wooden horse, it is so funny.’ He giggled at the thought. ‘And then, when he tries to tickle Lady Isobel, I want to cry with laughter.’
‘He tries to tickle Lady Isobel?’ I repeated, astonished for a second time. Her stiffness and lack of any sense of humour would surely deter any sensible person from attempting such an exploit. It was no wonder that the man was called The Fool. ‘When have you seen this tickling?’ I asked.
‘When we first came here, Master Oswald. I was in the Great Hall with Lady Emma and Robert of Lyndham.’
‘And did Lady Isobel like being tickled?’
‘No, no,’ said Sandro. ‘But that’s why it was so funny. She lost her temper and threw that water pot at his head. The aquamanile that looks like a lion.’ He was laughing in earnest now. ‘Luckily it didn’t break. But then all the water ran out on the floor, so then . . .’ At this point, he was nearly doubled up with hilarity, and could hardly speak. ‘So then The Fool pretended to be a dog. He . . .’ Tears were now streaming down his cheeks.
‘He what?’
‘He got onto his hands and knees, and then he lapped up the water with his tongue.’
I gave Sandro a stern look and we walked on in silence, until we reached the door to the fortified storeroom. On the other side, William Shute was already enjoying the endless supply of wine, as he was singing for all he was worth. The words might have been distorted, but the song was instantly recognisable. In his drunkenness he was not flinching from spewing out its crude lyrics at the loudest volume. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Sandro’s shoulders were already starting to shudder with laughter.