A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Why must he do that?’

  ‘We are not leaving here,’ Athelstan declared, ‘until this mystery is solved and Azrael hanged on the nearest scaffold. Thibault, Gaunt, the King’s Council, yea, even the King himself, all owe you and me a great deal. The cost of all this can be borne by the Royal Exchequer. Seek out Thibault now. Once he agrees, and I am sure he will, we need to meet all the pilgrims in the taproom to explain as well as to question. But first, Sir John, fetch up mine host and the hangman.’

  A short while later both men followed the coroner into the bedchamber, Master Chobham wringing his hands, his face twisted into a doleful grimace.

  Athelstan pressed the chamber key into Chobham’s hand. ‘Look at the door, mine host. Is this the appropriate key?’ He pointed to the thick bunch of keys hanging from a hook on the broad black belt around the taverner’s very generous waist. ‘And do you have a master?’

  ‘There is no master key,’ Chobham mumbled, ‘only a duplicate, and that is here.’

  The taverner fumbled with his belt and undid the keyring, then inspected it closely and pulled one key out. ‘You see …’ He held up the key Athelstan had given him alongside the one on the ring. Athelstan peered at both and could see they were identical. Each bore the same symbol on the grip. ‘This keyring never leaves me,’ Chobham declared.

  ‘So, last night John Gaddesden had a key to this room and so did you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Chobham replied testily.

  Athelstan turned to the coroner. ‘Sir John, the lock to this room has been forced; however, please make sure that both keys do fit that lock whilst I and my friend Giles here have a brief discussion.’

  The coroner and mine host became busy around the fallen door, Chobham summoning servants to assist. Athelstan plucked at the hangman’s sleeve and led him to the far corner of the chamber.

  ‘Another strangling, Brother?’

  ‘Another strangling,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Tell me, Giles, could you garrotte a man like John Gaddesden in a place like this and leave no damage?’

  ‘Impossible,’ the hangman replied. ‘Father, I have already advised you of that.’

  ‘And remind me, how long would it take for the assassin to choke his victim?’

  ‘A truly trained one …’ The hangman pulled a face. ‘It’s just like hanging, you have a choice: to snap the neck or choke your victim.’ The hangman’s strange face broke into a grin. ‘You could say, how long is a piece of string, if you pardon the joke.’ Athelstan didn’t smile.

  ‘Well,’ the hangman continued hurriedly, ‘no longer than it would take you to recite an ave. In Spain, where they garrotte criminals publicly, it’s simply a matter of turning a handle, a few heartbeats. As for the lack of disturbance,’ he blew his cheeks out, ‘I would ask myself, were all the victims drugged with some potion? But I can see no cup or goblet, can you, Father? Or, as I mentioned before, were all the victims clasped in some trap, hands and feet held fast by an accomplice? It’s all possible.’

  Athelstan thanked him. The hangman left, promising he would assemble everyone in the taproom below. Cranston and Chobham had finished examining the door and Athelstan walked over to join them. Cranston pointed out that both latches had been clasped shut, which was why they were now shattered, whilst the lock had also been snapped. Nevertheless the portly, perspiring taverner assured Cranston and Athelstan that the key left on the bedside table was the correct one, whilst the duplicate had never left his keyring. He also pointed out that the window had been securely shuttered and, of course, there was no secret entrance or passageway into this chamber or to any in his tavern.

  ‘I must go back to my kitchen,’ he pleaded. ‘You have to eat, I have to cook.’

  Athelstan agreed and watched him go. ‘Curious,’ he murmured, ‘and curiouser still.’

  ‘What is it, little monk?’

  ‘Little friar! Nothing really, Sir John, just a feeling that all is not well with mine host.’

  ‘Well, his tavern has been turned into a slaughter house.’

  ‘Oh, I think it’s more than that …’ Athelstan broke off as Thibault and Albinus, accompanied by Matthew Gaddesden, who now had some control over his grief, walked into the chamber. There were not enough seats, so Athelstan declared they would deal with matters quickly. Thibault readily agreed to pay for the pilgrims to remain longer at the Sign of Hope until the mystery was resolved.

  ‘I am of the same mind as you both, Brother Athelstan and Sir John. It is foolish to continue as if there’s nothing wrong. Azrael has followed us here! He is a member of our company and he has to be rooted out. The Exchequer will certainly pay all bills whilst I will use a royal writ of purveyance to ensure mine host complies.’

  ‘So we are in agreement,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘the pilgrimage stops here? We rest at the Sign of Hope until Azrael is caught, unmasked and hanged. I will tell my parishioners the same.’

  ‘And if the matter is not resolved?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I am not too sure,’ Athelstan admitted. ‘You have the Castilian envoys waiting for you at Canterbury. I don’t know what I would advise about that. Sir John and I would probably stay here. Perhaps Watkin and Pike could take the rest of our parishioners back and, if all goes well, later in the autumn, we might consider another pilgrimage. However,’ Athelstan forced a smile, ‘let us pray for the best and plan for the worst. Gentlemen …’ Athelstan then delivered his formal condolences on the death of John Gaddesden, adding that they should all gather for a short funeral service as soon as he had finished meeting with his parishioners. Until then …

  A few hours later in the early afternoon, Athelstan sat in his scribe’s chair, head in his hands. He stared disconsolately down at the fine grain wood of the chancery desk, wishing fancifully that he could become tangled in its skein of colour. He let his hands fall away and smiled as he recalled how he used to do the same as a child. He would stare at a piece of wood and become lost in its circles and wild patterns of grain as if they housed some secret world. Athelstan crossed himself. He sincerely wished he could escape his own world, as he found it impossible to fathom the mysteries bubbling around him. He had blessed John Gaddesden’s corpse for a second time and then Thibault had hired two of the tavern servants to take both corpses back to the death house at St Mary le Bow in London. Apparently the Gaddesdens owned a family plot there, close to the Jericho Gate. Monkshood, on the other hand, would be buried in Haceldama, the Field of Blood, that area of God’s Acre reserved for strangers or those with no kin.

  Physician Giole, who’d spent the evening cooking and cleaning, carefully scrutinised both corpses as Cranston asked. The physician agreed with Athelstan’s conclusions. He could find no other sign of violence or resistance. In addition, he had scrutinised the inside of the mouth of both cadavers. Giole admitted he might be wrong, but he could not establish that either man had been given any potion or powder.

  ‘I can smell wine,’ he conceded, ‘but the strange thing about sudden death is that the vapours of the stomach and throat are very clear. Many sleeping potions have a definite smell or tang, as do most poisons.’

  Athelstan had thanked him and then questioned Matthew Gaddesden, insisting that he and Cranston be allowed to meet him without Thibault or Albinus being present. The Master of Secrets had turned surly but admitted that he had no challenge to that. In the end, the clerk could tell Athelstan very little. He and his brother had arrived in good spirits at the Sign of Hope. They had been with the others in the taproom when Sir John led the rosary. Afterwards, as Athelstan knew, they had dined in the supper room. John, like themselves, had eaten well and drunk deeply. They had both been allocated their chambers. Once the supper was over, John declared he was tired and retired for the night, and that was the last time Matthew had seen him alive. The clerk was grief-stricken, finding it increasingly difficult to talk to Athelstan, who eventually thanked him and let him go.

  He and Sir John then met all the pilgrims in the taproom.
Athelstan had explained the problem, giving as few details as possible about the murder of Monkshood and John Gaddesden. The friar informed his parishioners that the two killings were connected to something he and Sir John had been investigating before they left Southwark and the assassin could well be amongst them. This caused, as Cranston remarked, some fluttering in the hen coop. However, Athelstan reassured his congregation that it was nothing involving the parish, although they should remain keen-eyed and sharp-witted and report anything suspicious. In the meantime, Athelstan continued, they would stay at the Sign of Hope. Master Thibault had assured Sir John that the Exchequer would pay all costs and Master Thibault would settle with mine host before they left. This provoked a great cheer because the parishioners of St Erconwald’s were much taken with the tavern: they certainly did not view an extended stay as a hardship but revelled at the opportunity. Finally Athelstan made an appeal, if anyone had glimpsed anything suspicious the previous evening … However, apart from some jokes at Watkin’s expense, nobody could help. Once the meeting finished Athelstan took the hangman aside and asked him to keep a close eye on everyone’s hands and look for the burn marks which the garrotte strings must have left on the assassin’s fingers. The Hangman of Rochester replied he’d already begun such a search but without any success.

  Full of frustration, the friar had decided to withdraw to his own chamber and brood. Athelstan murmured a prayer for help and pulled across the piece of parchment on which he had scribbled his thoughts so far. Yet reading this, he could make little sense or progress. The most recent murders were particularly baffling. Monkshood, a born street fighter, had been seized and swiftly garrotted in that outhouse, but why? The only logical explanation was that the former Earthworm had seen or learnt something highly injurious to Azrael, but what?

  Athelstan heard the clatter of hooves from the courtyard below. The friar rose and walked to the window, then opened it and peered down. Tiptoft, Cranston’s messenger, had arrived in great haste from London bringing despatches for the coroner and, Athelstan hoped, some specific information he needed about Azrael. Athelstan had encountered this angel’s name in his own studies, but he had to make sure of his facts. He also hoped Tiptoft had brought the information he wanted about the Marcher lands between France and Spain. He was tempted to go down and join Sir John but decided not to. Instead, he returned to the death chamber.

  The corpse and all of John Gaddesden’s possessions had been removed, the broken door pushed to one side. Athelstan went in and stared around, trying to recall his memories of the place. He was certain something had been moved, not maliciously, probably when the corpse and other items had been collected. Yes! The scribe’s chair now squarely faced the small chancery desk, but when Athelstan had first entered the room after the door had been forced, the chair was facing the other way. It would seem that the previous evening John Gaddesden had moved the chair around from the desk so as to greet someone else, but who?

  Athelstan glanced across to the stool resting against the far wall. Had Gaddesden’s nocturnal visitor pulled it across and sat down? Athelstan pictured him first facing Gaddesden, then rising, slipping behind the clerk and swiftly garrotting him. Afterwards the assassin would have moved the stool back but perhaps mistakenly left the chair as it was. If this was true, then Azrael first appeared as a friend, somebody Gaddesden relaxed with. Indeed, that would fit with Athelstan’s suspicion, indeed certainty, that Azrael was a member of their community, somebody Gaddesden accepted as amicable. Could it be his own brother? Or Master Thibault, Albinus? Of course, how Azrael struck so swiftly and silently then disappeared from a heavily locked room where both window and door were tightly secured, was still the deepest of mysteries.

  Athelstan crouched down and pulled back the cord matting. He noticed recent scuff marks on the floor and felt a tingle of excitement. Could it be Gaddesden’s boots? Or the leg of the chair he was sitting in as the garrotte string tightened around his throat? In which case, Gaddesden should have sprung to his feet, even if he only had a few heartbeats of life remaining. Apparently he didn’t, so he must have been held fast, but how? Athelstan glanced over at the bed. A most mocking, macabre murder! Choking a man to death here in a chair before moving his corpse and arranging it so it seemed he was ready for a good night’s rest. Athelstan heard a sound on the stairs. He made to rise when he glimpsed something gleaming: a small shard of wire caught in the rough cord matting. Athelstan plucked this free and held it up. A piece of wire mesh, but from what?

  ‘Brother?’

  Athelstan rose as Cranston swept into the death chamber. The friar explained his conclusions, which the coroner agreed with before scrutinising the thin piece of wire.

  ‘I could be mistaken,’ Cranston twirled the piece of metal between his fingers, ‘but it reminds me very much of Toledo steel – have you seen any of that, Brother?’

  ‘I’ve come across it in swords and daggers. I know it has a reputation for lightness, but it is also extremely strong.’

  ‘True,’ Cranston murmured, peering at the shard. ‘Toledo steel, the best of its kind, is like silk. It is very pliable but surprisingly strong. You suspect this may have been Azrael’s, a fragment from his weaponry, his dagger, perhaps even the garrotte cord?’ Cranston sighed, handed it back and brought a stool to sit by Athelstan.

  ‘Brother,’ he began sadly. ‘I have dire news about Peter the Penniless. He was burnt to death in his house. Amelia also, she was with him. Both were murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘Murdered, Brother. The house was reduced to blackened timber. The fire was fed with oil, the ruins reeked of it. They also discovered two skeletons who must have been at the heart of the blaze …’

  ‘And they are sure?’

  Athelstan tried to keep calm and ignore the pang of deep regret at the thought that Peter perhaps should have come with them.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, Athelstan. Peter was in no humour to travel. He was weak, his wits still frail. We would only have had to send him back.’

  Athelstan crossed himself. He stared down at the floor, closed his eyes and murmured the requiem for Peter. For a brief while Athelstan recalled happier days. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. ‘What happened, John?’

  ‘From what the sheriff’s men told Tiptoft, the burning was definitely arson. The wolfshead responsible, and it must have been Robert the clerk, killed Peter and Amelia with crossbow bolts loosed very close in the same chamber. Money boxes and coffers, or what remained of them, were emptied of all coin. The sheriff believes Amelia visited her husband to seek a reconciliation. Robert must have followed her in. He murdered both husband and wife, plundered the house then burnt it. A vindictive, evil man. We should be careful. Tiptoft also brought some gossip,’ Cranston continued. The coroner narrowed his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards on the stool. ‘A sign of the times, Brother.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Do you remember me saying that there had been similar murders with the garrotte? In fact there have been three, powerful merchants with one thing in common: they were all fervent supporters of Gaunt, and they subsidised him in all his forays both foreign and domestic.’

  ‘So if that is true, Azrael could have been hired by Gaunt’s enemies to kill the regent’s allies as well as his trusted clerks?’

  ‘Oh, it’s more than that, Brother.’ Cranston laced his fingers together. ‘I said the world was changing. The Upright Men are broken. The Great Community of the Realm no longer exists. In the eyes of the great lords, the common threat has dissipated. Our king is a boy. Some of our lords nourish the most murderous designs and they engage in treasonable activities. They are like a wolf pack, Athelstan. If one moves to seize a prey, the rest will join in. They will kill each other. It’s not a matter of sharing power but owning it: power over the young king, power over the royal council. The great lords are not ready for war, not yet, but they have always been ready for murder. Tiptoft has heard that professional assassins
have entered the kingdom, ready to offer their services to whoever needs them. Now whether these are just moon-spun legends is a matter for debate.’

  ‘But it’s not just gossip, Sir John. Azrael is very real and deadly. God knows what other demons are mustering in the city or elsewhere, but we have to deal with him.’

  ‘And that reminds me, Brother …’ Cranston dug into the inside of his jerkin and drew out a small, thin scroll. ‘Tiptoft, as directed, also visited Blackfriars. Prior Anselm and the rest of the brothers send their warmest regards to you, Athelstan, along with this, a response to your query from the librarian at Blackfriars.’

  Athelstan broke the small, reddish seal and unrolled the scroll, holding it up to take full advantage of the light pouring through the window. He read it quickly, quietly translating the Norman French. Brother Norbert the librarian had been most thorough and given a full explanation.

  Athelstan glanced up. ‘Amongst other things, I asked our librarian to do a detailed study of the name Azrael. Brother Norbert has not disappointed me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Azrael is definitely a great angel. In many of his forms he is depicted as having four faces and four wings. According to the Jewish tradition, he is a leading baron of heaven, a celestial earl commanding the angels of God. Very little is written about him in Christian theology. However, in Islamic writings Azrael truly is the Angel of Death who separates the dead body from the soul.’ Athelstan tapped the scroll. ‘I just wonder why this cruel assassin assumed such a title.’

  He paused as Cranston took a leather collar from inside his jerkin and handed it to him. The collar was about two inches deep, of the finest leather with a soft, woollen skin on the inside, and fitted with a clasp and buckle.

  ‘Here.’ Cranston rose and went behind Athelstan. He looped the collar strap around the friar’s throat and secured the clasp on the side, then pulled up the edge of Athelstan’s robe to hide it. Athelstan swallowed hard, moving his head and stretching his neck.