The White Rose murders srs-1

by Paul Doherty

  Anyway, in that ruined church, Benjamin and I set the scene for the final act. We crept down to the crypt. I fastened the hour candle on top of one of the tombs, struck a tinder, and the thick, white wick flared into life. Benjamin then emptied charcoal at the foot of a tomb and, taking a flame, blew the coals into life. We looked around, pronounced ourselves satisfied and left the crypt, making sure the door remained ajar. From the top of the steps, we could see the light from the candle and the charcoal glow invitingly through the darkness.

  We hid ourselves deep in the shadows, growing accustomed to the eerie, mournful sounds of the night. The clouds broke and a full moon bathed the ruins of the church in a ghostly light. At one time I tensed, whispering that I had heard a noise. I crouched, ears straining, but heard nothing else. More time passed and, just as I was about to fall into a deep warm sleep, I heard a sound under the ruined archway. I nudged Benjamin awake and turned to watch a dark, cowled figure scurry like a spider up the nave and scuffle down the steps. Benjamin made to rise but I held him back.

  'What time do you think it is?' I asked.

  'About eight or nine o'clock!' he hissed. 'Why, what does it matter? Roger, what have you done?'

  'Stay awhile,' I murmured.

  We heard a movement from the person in the crypt as if he was about to remount the steps. Another shape, catlike, crept up the nave. Benjamin craned forward.

  'As I thought!' he hissed. 'But who's down there already?'

  I just looked away and smiled. The second figure slipped down the stairs. We heard the crypt door open and an angry shout followed by a terrible abrupt scream.

  'Come on!' Benjamin ordered and, taking the loaded crossbows, we ran to the stairs.

  Inside the crypt lay a figure, tossed like a bundle of rags in the corner. A pool of blood was forming around the body from the great wound caused by the dagger embedded deep in the chest. The dead face was turned away from us. As we entered the other man whirled round, the hood slipping off his head.

  'Melford!' Benjamin exclaimed.

  The mercenary's face was alive with excitement, like all killers' just after they have tasted blood.

  'Master Benjamin and young Shallot!' he murmured. 'How good of you to come.' His hand crept towards the crossbow on top of the tomb next to the candle. He nodded to the corpse. 'Was he one of you?' he asked.

  'Who?'

  Melford went over and, grasping the corpse by the hair, half-dragged the body up to reveal the haggard, horror-stricken face of Scawsby.

  'Secretly,' Melford said, letting the body fall with a crash, 'he must have been one of you. He came from the same town, didn't he?'

  Benjamin glanced sideways at me but I watched Melford as he sauntered back to the tomb, getting as close as possible to the arbalest resting there. He smiled wolfishly.

  'Or perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps I came down here and found you red-handed, guilty of his murder. Now, what would the Lord Cardinal say to that?'

  'Melford!' I shouted.

  The mercenary turned. Even as he grasped the crossbow, I brought up my own, releasing the catch. The bolt took the mercenary full in the chest just under the neck. He tottered towards me, his hands going up as if to beseech some favour.

  'Why?' he muttered even as the blood swilled into his mouth and bubbled at his lips.

  'You're a killer,' I replied. 'And you talk too much!'

  Melford's eyes opened, he coughed and the blood gushed out of both mouth and nose. He pitched forward on to the crypt floor.

  Benjamin went across and examined both corpses.

  'Dead!' he announced quietly. He looked up. 'And you are responsible, Roger.'

  I placed another bolt in the crossbow.

  'Melford was an assassin's tool. He was as guilty, perhaps even more so, than any man hanged at Tyburn.'

  'Did you want Scawsby's death so badly?'

  'Yes,' I answered. 'But not as badly as God did or my mother's ghost. Scawsby was a murderer. He killed my parents and nearly had me hanged. As long as he was alive I would never be safe. Nor,' I added, 'would you or yours.'

  'How did you get him here?'

  'Scawsby was a greedy miser,' I replied. 'I sent an anonymous letter telling him that if he came here, he would find a great treasure and the means to rid the Queen of me. Three gold coins accompanied the letter as surety of the writer's good faith. I knew Scawsby could not resist such a promise.'

  'And if Melford had arrived here first?'

  'Scawsby would still have died. I am sure Melford's orders were to kill whoever he found here.'

  Benjamin stared at me. 'Perhaps you are right, Roger.' He blew out the candle. 'Leave the corpse alone, this masque is not yet over.'

  We walked back up the crypt steps. Even then I knew something was wrong. I sensed the menace in the air, the deep cloud of unease, the watching malevolent shadows. We had only walked a few paces when I heard a tinder strike behind me and a low voice chanted: ' "Three less than twelve should it be, Or the King, no prince engendered he!" '

  Benjamin and I turned: in the sanctuary two candles had been lit and we glimpsed shadowy figures.

  'Place the crossbows on the ground, Master Daunbey. And you, Shallot, your sword and dirk, then come forward!'

  I took a step back and a crossbow bolt skimmed the air between Benjamin's head and mine.

  'I shall not ask again!' the voice warned. It sounded hollow and unnatural in the echoing ruins of the church.

  'Do as he says, Roger!' Benjamin murmured.

  We threw the arbalests down and unbuckled our sword belts.

  'Now, come forward,' the voice rasped, 'slowly to the foot of the steps!'

  Cresset torches flared into life, shedding a pool of light around the old altar plinth where Catesby sat enthroned. On either side of him stood the two Highlanders; like Catesby they were armed to the teeth with sword, dagger and crossbow.

  'Well, well, well!' Catesby smiled. In the flickering torchlight he looked older, more cunning. The boyish face had a twisted, crafty slant.

  [Have you noticed that? How, when the veil drops, the true character is exposed in the face and eyes? I wonder what my chaplain would really look like then?]

  Catesby's languid posture betrayed a truly evil man, openly rejoicing in plot and counter-plot.

  'Benjamin,' he half-whispered, 'you seem surprised?'

  'I thought it would be Agrippa.'

  I glanced sideways at Benjamin and wondered how Catesby knew where to come.

  'Ah!' Sir Robert smiled again. 'And Captain Melford?'

  'He's dead.'

  'And whom did he kill?' 'Scawsby.'

  'Was he…?' Catesby broke off and grinned at me. 'That was clever, Shallot, very clever indeed!' The villain shrugged. 'I did not like him, but he had sworn to kill you.' He sighed. 'Now I'll have to do it for him.'

  'The Lord Cardinal will miss us,' Benjamin spoke up.

  'Now, now, Master Daunbey, don't tell lies. I had you watched. You've sent no letter to your uncle, nor have you visited him.' Catesby sat up straight. 'If you had, the Lord Cardinal's men would be here. Moreover, what could you tell him? You suspected Agrippa, didn't you?'

  Benjamin just stared back.

  'Anyway,' Catesby continued briskly, 'my friends here will kill you, we'll tell the fat cardinal some lie, and within days I'll be over the Scottish border.' He pointed to the ground before him. 'Sit down, Benjamin. Roger, join him!'

  Once we did so, Catesby leaned forward like some malevolent school master relishing the prospect of a beating he'd planned for two hateful pupils.

  'Let's see how much you know,' he began. 'You claimed Moodie was murdered?'

  Benjamin smiled back. 'Yes. You told Moodie, an innocent pawn, to give Roger that red silk sash, a sign to your agents in Paris that he was to die there. When we returned to England you organised the attack outside London and, when that failed, Moodie had to die. Of course, you were in a hurry. I suspect poor Moodie was drugged. You took his wrist, you and
your hired killer Melford, and slashed the veins. You would enjoy that, wouldn't you, Catesby? You love the stink of death! But, as I have said, you were in a hurry. You are left-handed; Moodie was right-handed. If he had slashed his wrist he would have held the razor or knife in the right and slashed the left. But you, being left-handed, slashed his right wrist.'

  Catesby sat back. 'But his chamber was locked from the inside!'

  Benjamin laughed. 'Sir Robert, you are an evil but intelligent man. Do not dismiss me as a complete fool. The only proof we have that the chamber was locked is that you told us so.'

  Catesby flicked his hand like a gambler dismissing a bad throw of the dice. 'And Selkirk and Ruthven?'

  'Ah!'

  Beside me Benjamin pulled his cloak close about him as if he was really enjoying the story he was about to tell. 'Now, their deaths were very cunning. Both were poisoned but no trace of any potion was found in any cup or food. Nor was any poison discovered in Selkirk's cell or

  Ruthven's chamber at Royston. Now I thought about that and, when I was in Nottingham Castle, I went down to the scriptorium. I watched the clerks as they used their quills over their accounts and memoranda. Do you know, there must have been a dozen clerks in that hall and each of them, at some time or other, put the end of their quill in their mouth?'

  Benjamin paused and I saw Catesby's face harden like some evil boy who senses his terrible prank had gone awry.

  'After I had seen Selkirk that evening,' Benjamin continued, 'the poor madman picked up a quill to continue his insane scribblings. The quill was new and coated with a deadly poison. What was it? Belladonna, the juice of nightshade or red arsenic? A few licks of any of these would stop a man's heart; Selkirk would drop the quill, perhaps rise and stagger to his bed before collapsing and dying. The next morning a distressed Constable took you to the chamber. In the confusion you picked up the deadly quill and replaced it with another.'

  Benjamin paused, breathing deeply. I was watching the two Highlanders who stood there like statues. Only their eyes, which never left us, betrayed their malevolence and lust to kill.

  'At Royston you followed the same plan. You were in charge of the Queen's household, you allocated the chambers, and whilst pieces of baggage were being brought upstairs, it would be so easy to slip into Ruthven's chamber and leave a poisoned quill. Now, that's where you made a mistake. You see, Ruthven always had his cat with him. Whatever he ate or drank he always shared with his pet. Yet the animal escaped unscathed. I reached the logical conclusion that the cause of Ruthven's death was something he put into his mouth which the animal would never share, and that must have been the quill.' He paused but Catesby stared coolly back. 'The chamber door was forced, people rushed in, and of course everyone gathered round the corpse. Once again you, or your creature Melford, must have changed the quill. In that crowded, untidy chamber, even if you had the keen eyesight of a hawk, the swift exchange of something so small would be very difficult to detect.' Benjamin stopped speaking.

  'Very good,' Catesby muttered. 'And you, Shallot, you verminous little cretin, you were party to this?'

  'I helped my master in his observations,' I replied. 'We examined Master Ruthven's corpse and found a substance caught between his teeth. A morsel of goose-quill. Benjamin experimented by chewing a piece himself, and found it was similar to the substance from Ruthven's mouth. This confirmed our hypothesis that Ruthven's quill had been poisoned.'

  Catesby clapped his hands in mocking applause.

  'Finally, there's Master Irvine,' I continued. 'Once again, Sir Robert, you were very clever. You ensured that you were at Nottingham though you left orders at Royston which sent the other members of the Queen's household hither and thither. Now, when we were in Nottingham, we learnt that you and your manservant had arrived on November the ninth, so it would appear impossible for you to be involved in Irvine's death.'

  My master touched me on the arm and took up the story.

  'However, Sir Robert, on my return from Kelso I came back along the Great North Road and revisited Nottingham. Once again the Constable of the Castle confirmed the date of your arrival but, when I asked him to describe Captain Melford, the appearance of the man he depicted hardly fitted that of your now dead servant. So, I concluded Melford went to Coldstream, waited for Irvine and, with the cooperation or connivance of that bitch of a prioress, cut the poor fellow's throat before riding to join you at Nottingham Castle. No one would pay particular attention to how many servants you had or which one accompanied you when you first arrived there.'

  'A chilling story,' Catesby sarcastically replied.

  'You are not so clever, Catesby!' I accused. 'You should really watch your tongue. On our return from France you actually pondered the possibility that Moodie might have killed Irvine. You claimed the priest might have gone to Coldstream, but how would you know that?'

  Catesby stared back, genuinely perplexed. I leaned forward.

  'No one told you,' I explained in a mock whisper, 'that Irvine had been killed at Coldstream. We suspected it but the only person who would know for sure would be the murderer himself!'

  'So many deaths,' Benjamin murmured. 'Such terrible murders. There were others, weren't there, Sir Robert? Like the man we met in Nottingham, Oswald the mosstrooper? Whom did you send after us there? Was it Melford or one of these hired killers?' Benjamin nodded at the two Highlanders. Catesby gnawed at his lip, his face a white mask of fury.

  [Now in my travels, I have talked to several learned physicians – a rarity indeed! Nevertheless, these were wise men who had studied Avicenna, Hippocrates and Galen. I discussed with them the mind of the true murderer and all the physicians agreed some people have a fatal sickness, an evil humour in the mind which makes them kill. Indeed, such men rejoice in the murder of others and relish the death throes of their victim. They plot their crimes with great cunning, showing no remorse afterward, only a terrible anger at being discovered. In public life they act normal, appearing sane, well-educated people, but in reality they are devils incarnate. Catesby was one of these.]

  He seemed to have forgotten why he was there but saw our conversation only as a game of wits which he was about to lose.

  'You forget one thing,' he snapped, 'the White Rose, the conspiracy of Les Blancs Sangliers?’

  'Nonsense!' Benjamin retorted. 'When Ruthven and Selkirk died it would have been easy for you or Melford to drop a white rose in their chamber. Who would notice it amidst all the confusion? You may even have placed them there before your victim died.' Benjamin stared at his would-be killer. 'Oh, I concede,' he continued, 'there are secret Yorkist covens, deluded men and women who pine for past glories, but you used their cause to mask your own evil intentions. Don't you remember our journey to Leicester?' Catesby glared at him.

  'Well, Sir Robert,' Benjamin mocked, 'you really should have read your history.' He turned to me. 'Shouldn't he, Roger?'

  I studied my master's face and felt the first stirrings of despair. Despite his bantering tone, I saw the fear in Benjamin's eyes and the beads of sweat rolling down the now marble-white face. I understood his glance. He was begging for more time, though God knew for what reason.

  'Yes, yes, Sir Robert,' I spoke up. 'If you had read Fabyan's Chronicles you would know that after the Battle of Bosworth, Richard III's body was tossed into the horse trough outside the Blue Boar in Leicester and left there for public viewing and taunts. Later it was buried in the Lady Chapel at Greyfriars Church. Now a true Yorkist, any member of Les Blancs Sangliers, would have treated both places as shrines yet all members of the Queen's household allowed their horses to drink from that trough. Moreover, during our short stay in Leicester not one member of Queen Margaret's retinue visited Richard's tomb in Greyfriars Church. So,' I concluded, 'we began to suspect that the White Rose murders were only pawns to cover a more subtle, evil design.'

  Catesby's mood changed: he stamped his spurred boot on the floor until it jingled and clapped his hands as if we had staged some e
njoyable masque or a recitation of a favourite poem. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

  'Dear Benjamin, dear Roger,' he leaned forward, 'I thought you such fools – my only mistake. I will not make it again.'

  'But we have not finished,' Benjamin spoke up. 'We have told you how these men died but not why.'

  Catesby's face stiffened. 'What do you mean?'

  ' "Three less than twelve should it be," ' I chanted. 'Don't you want to know, Sir Robert? Surely the Queen, your mistress, will demand a report.'

  'Her Grace has nothing to do with this!' Catesby retorted.

  Benjamin smiled and shook his head. 'In these murders, Master Catesby, there were the victims, and these we have now described. There was the murderer, and we are now looking at the man responsible.'

  'And what else?' Catesby snapped.

  'There were those who cooperated with the murderer or provided the very reason the murders took place.'

  Catesby sprang up and, bringing back his hand, slapped Benjamin across the face. My master gazed back at him.

  'If I have told a lie,' Benjamin retorted, 'then prove it is a lie. But if I have spoken the truth, why did you hit me?'

  'You insult the Queen!' Catesby mumbled. As he went back to his seat, the two Highlanders relaxed, their hands going away from the long stabbing knives stuck in their belts. I watched Catesby's face and knew the truth: Queen Margaret was as guilty as he. Benjamin, the left side of his face smarting red from Catesby's blow, leaned forward. I gazed around that darkened church. I felt stiff and the freezing night air was beginning to penetrate my clothes with a chill damp which made me shiver. I wondered how long this travesty could continue.

  'Surely, Sir Robert,' I spoke up, 'you want to know the truth?'