A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Sir John!’

  ‘Ah yes. Mistress Margaret said it was good riddance to Mephan. He was a bully who used his power, status and knowledge, particularly what he learnt about individual taverners, and he would use this to his own advantage.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Athelstan, the recent troubles are now over. However, in the months and years preceding them, many taverners, and I suspect this includes Master Chobham, had to serve two masters: the Crown and the Upright Men. They were frightened of the Earthworms, who, of course, used taverns and alehouses for their own secret purposes, such as the storing of arms and provisions, or meetings long after midnight. We both know that. We have come across it time and again. Now Mephan was a senior clerk in the Secret Chancery close to the workings of both Crown and Church. He would acquire a great deal of information about taverns and alehouses in the city and the surrounding shires, and he could use that. If Master Mephan decided to threaten a taverner, it would be a serious matter …’

  ‘But why should he threaten them?’

  Cranston tapped his own belly. ‘Taverns such as the Mitre buy very good food; their purveyance is of the highest order. Mine hostess at the Lamb of God constantly complains about the price butchers demand for good fresh meat. If Master Mephan had all his meals paid for, that would amount to a tidy sum: fresh food, good wine, strong ale, free use of chambers, the best of this and the best of that, both in a particular tavern or to be delivered to his house. Athelstan, if the Lady Maude and I no longer needed to pay for food or drink, we’d become very wealthy.’

  ‘So, Mephan was corrupt. He would be in very good company in that.’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Brother, but I recall my training as a lawyer and I remember that axiom, ‘Falsus in parvis, falsus in magnis, falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus.’

  ‘False in small things,’ Athelstan translated, ‘false in great things. False in one, false in all. How does that apply to Mephan?’

  ‘What if Mephan was of the mens rea, the criminal mind? The Great Revolt is over. We suspect – even know – that Gaunt’s meddling and his treacherous intrigues against his nephew the young king, and his double-dealing with everyone else, could weigh heavily against him. Just take one fact: when the Great Revolt was about to break, where was Gaunt? He takes the Crown’s only army north to the Scottish March. The Scots did not pose a threat, and even if they did, Percy of Northumberland would act as a stone wall against them. Now that’s only one item amongst many. What if Mephan used such information to blackmail his former master and, by implication, his Master of Secrets, the ever smiling Thibault?’

  ‘That would be a very dangerous game,’ Athelstan declared, ‘to blackmail Gaunt and Thibault.’

  ‘But it might explain the murders of Mephan and two of the evangelists.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Athelstan disagreed. ‘Let us say for the sake of argument that the evangelists were persuaded to participate in Mephan’s blackmail of their master, they would now realise he is striking back and flee. They certainly wouldn’t go on pilgrimage to Canterbury with Gaunt’s principal henchmen.’

  Cranston scratched his head. ‘Yes, I can see there are gaps in my argument, but my main point is that Mephan was a blackmailer. Did he turn on his masters? Perhaps only some of the evangelists are involved. Perhaps Mephan insinuated that they were all involved when in fact they are totally innocent and ignorant of any such blackmail.’

  Athelstan toasted Cranston with his tankard. ‘Your main hypothesis, Sir John, that Mephan was a blackmailer, is certainly a strong possibility. Let’s turn your argument around. In the end, Gaunt and Thibault must be deeply concerned about what Mephan and the evangelists know. There doesn’t have to be blackmail. Gaunt and Thibault could decide that now the revolt is over, their role in it could lead to all sorts of trouble; Mephan and the evangelists know too much and so have to be silenced. Gaunt and Thibault could be directly responsible for the murders. We know that Albinus is a veteran killer, or they might be using someone else such as the mysterious Gregorio. Are the evangelists united, or is one of them prepared to kill his brothers? It would not be the first time in history. Of course, we know Azrael has levelled threats against Gaunt and his henchmen, but that could only be a pretence, an attempt to divert suspicion. So yes, all in all,’ Athelstan supped from his blackjack, ‘it’s a strong possibility. In which case there will be more murders.’

  He took another sip, half listening to the sounds of the tavern: the laughter of his parishioners, the neighing of horses and the clip-clop of hooves from the stables outside. ‘It’s interesting, Sir John, what you say about taverners being blackmailed. Yes, very interesting. I will return to all this once I have paid my respects to my brother, God rest him.’

  ‘I will go with you,’ Cranston offered. ‘All is well here: your parishioners are behaving themselves. Bonaventure believes he is in heaven, sprawled in Benedicta’s lap or that of Mistress Beatrice.’

  ‘No, Sir John. I am grateful for the offer, but this is one journey I want to make alone.’ Athelstan leaned over and squeezed the coroner’s wrist. ‘But I do ask you one favour, my Lord High Coroner: when I leave, make sure no one follows!’

  Athelstan left the Sign of Hope early the following morning. A thick, heavy mist had swirled in from the sea, blanketing the Kentish countryside and gathering everything into its thick embrace, deadening sound and covering the land like a cold, clinging shroud. Athelstan crossed himself, murmured the early morning offering and made himself as comfortable as possible in the high-horned saddle. He was glad of the thick woollen robe with its deep capuchon. The sun would eventually rise and the summer heat return, but until then he would keep warm. He slouched on his horse, the reins loosely held, gently directing Philomel along the trackway. The clip-clop of the old destrier’s hooves was the only sound to break the eerie silence. The ancient hedgerows either side lay strangely silent. The birds would only sing their morning office once the mist had lifted.

  Athelstan became lost in his own thoughts. He was determined to use the silent loneliness of his journey to probe the mysteries which swirled around him like an invisible mist. Once again he took his ave beads out, sifting each one through his fingers as he listed what he knew. First, he reflected, there was the Gospel passage about the Gesarene demoniac and those two words, ‘legion’ and ‘many’. Athelstan had been deeply surprised by the possibilities these words, at least in Latin, offered to a man like Mephan. According to all the evidence, Mephan loved resolving problems, but he also had a rather nasty trait of using secret information to extract favours, even if it was just free victuals at this tavern or that.

  Secondly, Mephan’s murder. Athelstan could not make sense of it. He wondered about that mysterious figure who had appeared in Mephan’s garden to threaten him. Who was free that morning to do so, and who had the ability and strength to climb a garden wall? Albinus? Gregorio? One of the evangelists?

  Thirdly, Roger Empson the courier. He had fled into hiding, scuttling in and out to make the necessary purchases. Who had the means to keep this fugitive under constant scrutiny so that Azrael could enter the death house and kill the courier? Fourthly, who had been at the Tower that day to lure a fairly young and healthy man to some desolate place, strangle him, place his corpse in a skiff and push it out onto the Thames? Fifthly, John Gaddesden – killed so brutally yet so mysteriously here in his bedchamber at the Sign of Hope tavern. Athelstan had stayed up into the night pondering on this problem. He believed he knew how the murder had been committed, though that would take time to prove.

  Sixthly, undoubtedly Azrael was a professional assassin. Had Gaunt and his party hired him to wreak such damage, but if so, why? Did Azrael consider Athelstan to be part of some coven, and was that why he had been threatened? Seventhly, these murders might be resolved by establishing the location of the various possible suspects at the time that the different killings had taken place. In which case, there were other mysteries Athelstan had not add
ressed. Did Azrael follow him back to Southwark to leave those grisly mementoes, the strangled magpies in his parish church and looped around Bonaventure’s neck?

  ‘One thing I do know,’ Athelstan murmured to himself, ‘is that Azrael loves what he does. He truly revels in it. He almost regards murder as something slightly humorous, but of course the laughter is always at his victim’s expense.’

  Athelstan tightened the reins and coaxed Philomel down the trackway. The friar glanced up. At least the sky was brightening – it might turn into a fine day once the mist lifted, but for the moment, the sombreness seemed to reflect his own mood. The rich green countryside remained hidden, and no flash of colour or bustle of activity burst through the misty dullness, as if all of nature was waiting for a certain sign. Athelstan recalled making the same journey with his beloved brother’s corpse. He wondered if the dead were gathering to greet him, all his family and kin hovering along this misty path stretching out before him. Suddenly a bell tolled, clear and carrying. Athelstan sat up in the saddle, crossed himself and sighed with relief as the mist parted and the main gate of St Grace’s Priory came into view.

  Once there, Athelstan stood in the porch-way of the main priory church. The bare, undecorated nave stretched before him down to the rood screen, a simple wooden partition with a stark crucifix above the narrow entrance to the sanctuary. Athelstan was always fascinated by the austerity of the Carthusian Order, its constant insistence that its monks live alone in their self-contained cells, which included a study room, bedloft, dining chamber and small garden, all grouped round the great cloisters. Ralph Sherwin, now prior, had greeted him and they had briefly discussed what had happened to each other over the intervening years. The prior had ended by offering refreshment which Athelstan courteously refused.

  ‘I can see you wish to be on your own, Athelstan.’ The prior blessed him. ‘And so you shall be. Rest assured, you are always welcome here, whatever the season, whatever the time.’ The prior had then brought Athelstan across to the church and immediately left, closing the door behind him. Athelstan continued to stare into the darkness, summoning up the courage to confront the guilt which always shrouded him in a deep, heartfelt sorrow whenever he thought about this part of his life. Stephen-Francis, his beloved brother now gone to God, lay buried beneath the flagstones of this church in the small chantry chapel dedicated to St Stephen the Martyr. The chantry stood partitioned off behind trellised black oaken screens to the left of the rood screen and just before the lady altar.

  Athelstan breathed in the incensed air, the faint fragrance from the herb pots and flower vases. He crossed himself, then slowly walked down to the chantry chapel and stepped inside. He was surprised at how dark it was. He glanced up; the narrow window was shuttered and no candle-flame fluttered against the gloom. Athelstan could smell candle smoke and glimpsed the pole which would be used to open the shutters. He dug into his own chancery satchel and drew out the small leather sack containing a tinder. He used this to light the two candles on the small altar, then lifted these to place them on the flagstones before the dais. The sight that met him made him stop and stare in horror: the corpse of a magpie, its throat all twisted, had been placed on the flagstone over his brother’s tomb.

  A surge of rage swept through him. Athelstan knelt to place the candles down when he heard a sound behind him. He half rose and dropped one of the candlesticks as the garrotte cord whipped round his throat. Athelstan fought back even as a hood was swiftly pulled over his head, blinding his sight. His wrists and ankles seemed to be held by a fine mesh of chain; he could feel the links on his bare flesh. The collar around his throat afforded some protection, and he struggled violently. Athelstan shook himself, and the attacker gasped and staggered back. Athelstan’s right hand broke free; he was still holding the candlestick. He lashed out with this, using it as a war club before, beside and behind him. He heard a scream of pain, muffled as if his assailant was thickly masked. The garrotte cord loosened and slipped. Athelstan’s left hand also broke free and he used both hands to wield the heavy, ornamented candlestick. Athelstan could feel the battle fury rage within him. He went to lift the mask but was violently pushed and sent staggering against the chapel wall. He crashed into it, the blow winding him, and he slid down, gasping for breath …

  ‘Shall I call the physician?’

  ‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan touched the collar on the table before him. He scrutinised it carefully as he half listened to the bellows of laughter from the taproom where Brother Gregorio was regaling the pilgrims with a story about a fat bishop, a young maid and a lusty clerk. Athelstan had arrived back at the Sign of Hope and immediately went up to his chamber. Locking and bolting the door behind him, he’d stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to pray, to master the different emotions which had swept through him since he’d left the Carthusian Priory: a deep sadness at how both a holy place and a most sacred occasion had been blasphemously violated. This sadness was coupled with a seething rage at Azrael daring to mock his brother’s memory and use his tomb as a murder place for Athelstan. Yet, strangely enough, Athelstan also felt relieved. Azrael had struck once again and failed, and in doing so he had revealed more about himself than Athelstan had ever suspected.

  ‘Brother, are you well? Tell me what happened.’

  Athelstan tapped the collar. ‘You were correct, Sir John. This saved me. The garrotte string slipped, Azrael could not secure a killing grip.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I am also sure I wreaked great damage with that candlestick. I have tried to recall details accurately, but the attack was so sudden and brutal …’ He rolled the goblet between his hands. ‘Apart from you, nobody else knows.’

  ‘Brother, you slipped back like a ghost. Try and recall exactly what happened.’

  ‘I saw the corpse of that bird,’ Athelstan murmured, closing his eyes, desperate to remember everything. ‘The garrotte string went around my throat, a hood over my head, my wrists and ankles were seized and held fast. I felt a mesh of chain mail. I was definitely marked down for death but that collar protected me. Azrael was unable to get a secure hold. I broke free, lashing out with that candlestick.’ Athelstan opened his eyes. ‘As I said, I did damage with my war club and it will take some time to heal. I struggled violently. I was pushed, crashing against the wall; it fair knocked the breath out of me. I sank down. Of course I recovered, but by the time I was free of the hood, Azrael and all sign of him had vanished. I tidied up the chantry chapel and left. Prior Sherwin and the good brothers sensed something was wrong but I was hasty in my departure. I said I would return soon, and I shall.’ Athelstan took a generous sip from the goblet of rich Bordeaux Cranston had placed in front of him. Again he felt that cold ruthlessness smother the agitation in his heart and steel his nerve. He half suspected who Azrael was but he needed to prepare his indictment. He peered up at the coroner. ‘Who left after I did?’

  ‘No one. I watched you go. In fact,’ Cranston sat down on the high stool next to Athelstan’s chair, ‘I followed you for a while. I saw nothing. Nobody followed you.’

  ‘And who left the tavern this morning?’

  Cranston shrugged. ‘People were coming and going. It’s almost impossible to say. I am sure Gregorio left. I glimpsed him crossing the stable yard. Didn’t the brothers at St Grace’s notice any strangers?’

  ‘Indeed, they did not. Azrael probably scaled a wall and escaped the same way. I suspect he takes great pride in his silent, subtle ways. I asked the wrong question, didn’t I, Sir John? You say no one followed me. Well, that’s logical, because what truly concerns me is that Azrael went before me. He was lurking in that chantry chapel ready to kill me. Nobody, Sir John, apart from you, was informed about my visit to Saint Grace’s, but now I find that Azrael knew exactly where I was going, the reason why and what I intended to do.’

  ‘Of course!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Azrael must have left here before you. But how did he know which day?’

  ‘He learnt from my prepa
rations.’ Athelstan made a face. ‘I told the stable boys to feed Philomel early and to saddle my old friend just before dawn. I also made it clear, didn’t I, that I would be absent from the Sign of Hope. Moreover there is still the possibility that Azrael waited until I left and simply travelled more swiftly than me to Saint Grace’s. Once there, he would find it very easy to enter those hallowed precincts. The Carthusians live an extremely solitary life. They meet in their church for prayer but their rule is very clear; they spend most of their time locked in their own cells. Azrael is a born hunter, skilful, silent and subtle. He would ride out there, hobble his horse, scale the wall and enter the church. After that, it was just a matter of waiting.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Cranston rose. ‘Let me just find out if anyone did leave around the same hour you did. But you are correct, Athelstan, Philomel is not noted for his speed. How long did it take you, an hour?’ Athelstan nodded. ‘Someone could walk faster to the priory, especially on a morning like this with the mist concealing everything. Anyway, stay here.’

  Cranston left the chamber. Athelstan ran his finger around the rim of his goblet, his mind teeming with all the scraps of information he had garnered and sifted like winnowing chaff. Above all, there was that text from St Luke’s Gospel, Chapter 8: Christ’s confrontation with the Gesarene demoniac. Mephan had analysed those verses, scrutinising two words in particular, not in the translation but according to the Latin text. Secondly, there was this, a fresh, violent assault on himself. Azrael must have left the Sign of Hope at some early hour. In the end, the assassin may not have taken a horse – that would have attracted attention – unless, of course, he collected a mount somewhere along the trackway. ‘That’s possible,’ Athelstan murmured to himself, ‘but I strongly suspect Azrael went on foot to the priory and returned the same way.’ After the assault Athelstan had spent at least an hour at St Grace’s tending to his brother’s tomb, recovering from the attack and talking to Prior Sherwin before collecting Philomel from the priory’s stables.