A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And you, of course, regard such things as meaningless?’ Athelstan pointed at Felipe. ‘As for Giole being with us when Azrael appeared in Mephan’s garden, that was to deliberately mislead, to create an illusion. Felipe appeared there, hooded and masked. He was waiting for you, Giole, to take us out there, and you did, remember? I also recall how you first arrived at Mephan’s house, accompanied by your son Felipe. You met Sir John, who explained he was waiting for someone to come from Southwark to assist him: Athelstan, the Dominican priest. You fervently hate both me and my order. You told Felipe what to do before you parted. Felipe, one of the four faces of Azrael, was waiting in the shadows of that dark garden not only to mislead but, above all, to throw down the gauntlet, the gage of battle, the corpse of a magpie symbolising the colours of the Dominican Order, its throat cruelly twisted as you planned to do to mine.’

  Athelstan crossed himself. ‘God rest him, but Mephan was truly stupid. As I’ve said, when he hinted at blackmailing you, he also insinuated that his comrades in the Secret Chancery were party to the secret, but that was a lie. Mephan truly believed that such bluffing would be a strong shield against you.’ Athelstan shook his head in disbelief. ‘Master Giole, I openly concede I would never play such a game with you.’

  ‘Dangerous in the extreme,’ Beatrice murmured, ‘if it was the truth.’

  ‘You are highly dangerous,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You are not only killers, you hate your victims for what they are: Catholics, servants of the Crown, royal clerks, Dominican priests. You have the arrogance of Lucifer. No one ever threatens you and walks away scot free. Mephan was dead and you turned on me. You had learnt a great deal about Sir John’s Dominican priest. It would be easy for you to slip across to Southwark. I suspect it was one of the ladies, yes, Beatrice? Anyway,’ Athelstan continued, ‘my great friend and colleague, the tomcat Bonaventure, haunts St Erconwald’s and that Judas cat can easily be suborned by a pot of cream or some other delicacy. The corpse of one magpie is nailed to the tower door; another, its throat all twisted, is tied around Bonaventure’s neck for him to bring home to me, an expression of your deep hostility for what I am and for what I do.’

  ‘People were coming and going in the days before the pilgrimage,’ Watkin burst out, ‘strangers arriving and making enquiries about the pilgrimage.’

  ‘True.’ Athelstan held a hand up for Watkin to remain silent. ‘Apart from myself and Sir John, Bonaventure avoids men. He is a chevalier, a knight who likes the ladies.’ Athelstan half turned. ‘Sir John, didn’t you tell me on at least one occasion that here at this tavern, you had seen Bonaventure on Beatrice’s lap?’ Athelstan half smiled. ‘That cat never forgets a kindness. I understand he shelters most of the time with Benedicta, but naturally, he is ever hopeful. Perhaps the lady who fed him so generously in Southwark might repeat the kind gesture here in this tavern.’

  ‘Animals like me, friar.’

  ‘I am glad someone does,’ Cranston growled.

  ‘Animals like me,’ Beatrice repeated, preening herself.

  Once again Athelstan wondered if Giole and his companions were just waiting to see how much he and Cranston had discovered, and then what? Did they have some form of royal protection?

  ‘Let me arrest them.’ Cranston was following the same line of thought as Athelstan. The coroner stepped forward. ‘They sit there like innocents all ready to go.’

  ‘No, let me finish my indictment. That’s what you are waiting for, isn’t it, Giole?’ The physician, his face half-hidden behind one beringed hand, just shrugged. ‘Once you had committed those murders in Milk Street, you ransacked Mephan’s tally casket where the clerk kept his receipts. Being Mephan’s personal physician you would know a great deal about his house.’

  ‘Why should I ransack a tally casket?’

  ‘Don’t bait me, Giole. I suspect the coffer contained receipts, tallies, bills. All of course issued from your tavern, Amongst the Tombs. You certainly didn’t want someone discovering just how often Mephan visited your hostelry for free food and wine, such as the ham and wine I glimpsed in his kitchen.’ Athelstan put his rosary beads away. ‘Empson, the Secret Chancery’s courier, was your next victim. You probably knew …’

  ‘Probably, probably, probably!’ Giole mimicked. ‘Friar, I thought you dealt in certainties?’

  ‘Not for the time being, but let me hurry on. You probably learnt that Empson visited the Lute Boy. He too liked the services offered by the Way of all Flesh. You attacked him leaving that pleasure house, but you were interrupted. Empson broke free and fled. He thought he’d be safe in that ancient death house but you’d followed him there. Four of you could keep such a terrified fugitive under close watch and, when ready, you garrotted him.’ Athelstan paused at the hammering on the taproom door. He rose, and both he and the coroner opened the door. Thibault stood there, cloaked and armed, and Albinus likewise.

  ‘I understand from Chobham,’ the Master of Secrets hissed, stepping forward, ‘that you are involved in a most serious confrontation with physician Giole and his family. Allegations and accusations have been levelled.’ Thibault drew himself up. ‘This is very serious. I, we should have been informed.’

  Athelstan shifted his gaze to Matthew Gaddesden, standing in the shadows behind his master. The clerk looked grief-stricken and terrified, his face white as snow, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and crying, dirty fingers constantly going to an unshaven cheek.

  ‘I should have been informed,’ Thibault repeated.

  ‘Why?’ Athelstan closed the door behind him and stepped closer. ‘You may be my Lord of Gaunt’s man, but remember, I have the King’s own word that I can approach him directly on any matter. So, Master Thibault, on your most solemn oath of allegiance to the King, do you, my Lord of Gaunt or Albinus have anything, and I mean anything, to do with physician Giole, his family or his tavern?’

  Thibault raised a hand as if taking an oath. ‘I swear neither I, Albinus nor my Lord of Gaunt have anything to do with him or his kin. Naturally, we are curious, even more so as we are about to meet Castilian envoys at Canterbury. Because of that, it’s appropriate for me to be present, to establish if your confrontation has any bearing on that meeting, and I suspect it does.’

  Athelstan hid his surprise. There was one part of his indictment which depended more on supposition and conjecture than anything else. He’d always wondered if Thibault was involved somehow with Azrael but he now believed the Master of Secrets had told him the truth.

  ‘Brother Athelstan, I must insist we join you.’

  The friar stepped aside and gestured at the door. ‘Do so, but I beg you, do not interfere with what I say or do …’

  PART EIGHT

  A Hymn to the Night and the Gathering Dark

  Athelstan ushered Thibault and Albinus into the taproom. The Master of Secrets turned quickly and told Matthew Gaddesden to go back to his chamber. Once the door was closed, Giole immediately broke free from his hushed conversation with his family. He stood up full of righteous anger, snapping his fingers loudly.

  ‘Master Thibault,’ he almost shouted.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We have been detained by this …’ Giole gestured at Athelstan. ‘And when he has finished his prattling preaching I want words with you.’

  ‘And so you shall, Sir.’ Thibault glanced quizzically at Athelstan’s three parishioners who stood, crossbows primed. He shrugged and gestured at Albinus to join him on the wall bench just inside the door. Athelstan retook his seat.

  ‘Luke Gaddesden,’ he declared, ‘cruelly murdered in the Tower.’

  ‘We weren’t there that day, I told you, we had no pass.’

  ‘Oh, you were there. How you gained admission is a matter for debate. On that particular day events in the Tower were deeply disturbed by the attempted assassination of my Lord of Gaunt. No,’ Athelstan held his hand up, ‘I believe Azrael was there, or at least two to three of you. One of you, I suspect Felipe, had been despatched here to a
rrange another murder, that of Luke Gaddesden, a fifteen-mile journey from Southwark, eh Felipe? You came secretly in disguise to observe Master Chobham, and he is so easy to judge and weigh in the balance. A taverner who likes the maids. A man with a rather murky past, as many taverners have, especially one who owns an establishment on the road leading from Kent to Southwark, the route so often used by the Upright Men. Master Chobham had a past and even the vaguest threat of revealing previous sins, would render him all a-tremble.’

  Athelstan shrugged. ‘I will come to that by and by, but first the Tower. There were three of you there. If you had been noticed, you would have cheerfully agreed that you had been allowed in. Moreover you could have been there in disguise. However, by claiming you were absent you deepen the mystery of who Azrael might be.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You hunt like wolves, don’t you? Luke Gaddesden was the chosen prey because he made himself vulnerable like a deer that strays too far from the herd. He went out onto the water-gate quayside, a dank, lonely place. Few people go there because of the stench, and the only reason, perhaps, is to take one of the battered skiffs moored close by. You followed and you struck. Luke was garrotted. We noticed his left knee was wet, his hose soaked – that’s because Luke was kneeling to unloosen the mooring rope. You, Giole, and your accomplices crept silently up behind him. You were confident no witness was present. The garrotte cord whips around Luke’s throat and he is dragged into one of those darkened enclaves overlooking the narrow quayside. In that gloomy, murky corner there would be no need for the hood. Your two accomplices gripped his arms and ankles and death followed swiftly. Afterwards the corpse was placed in the skiff. The mooring rope was freed, the boat pushed out and the powerful current swept it away out onto the river.’ The friar glanced swiftly at the window: the light was strengthening.

  ‘You forget what Maulkin the bargeman told you,’ Maria shouted before Giole could intervene.

  ‘Who told you about Maulkin?’ Athelstan shot back. ‘You maintain you were never in the Tower. How would you know about Maulkin, let alone what he told me?’ Athelstan could see Maria’s outburst had angered the rest.

  ‘Stupid girl,’ he taunted. ‘Everything Maulkin told us is a lie. You know it was. You threatened and bribed him to tell his tale to deepen the mystery. A poor Tower boatman threatened in some lonely place by three sinister figures, all hooded and visored. I believe Maulkin saw or heard nothing connected with Luke’s death. On his return to London my Lord Coroner will confront the bargeman with his deception.’

  Athelstan stared down at the floor. He secretly accepted that there were pieces missing from his argument. There was something that gnawed at his mind; he had his suspicions but he could not articulate them. His hand went to the pocket of his robe. He touched his ave beads as he silently prayed for God’s help. He felt he was blundering towards the light but he was fearful of what the outcome might be.

  ‘Friar, we are waiting.’

  ‘Aye and God waits for you killers!’ Athelstan retorted heatedly. ‘So we come to this pilgrimage. You knew all about Master Chobham, mine host here and his tavern the Sign of Hope.

  ‘How?’ Felipe demanded.

  ‘Oh, I’ve said Chobham is an easy book to read. You visited this tavern, but, more importantly, Giole Limut is a vintner, the owner of a grand hostelry in Farringdon ward. Sir John has told me that the world of vintners is a small one. Giole would know a great deal about the Sign of Hope: details about its chambers, galleries and doors, not to mention its owner.’ Athelstan paused to clear his throat. ‘You were also appraised about the itinerary of our pilgrimage. You decided to accompany us, to continue your pursuit of Mephan’s circle, and I expect you wanted, for your own secret purposes, to be close to the Castilian envoys when Master Thibault meets them in Canterbury.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know. It does not concern me. Suffice to say you are here, and you intended to finish the pilgrimage, until that unpleasant affray at Saint Grace’s which led to your son’s injuries. Now you and your pack are obliged to return to your lair in Farringdon to lick your wounds and prepare for another time.’ Athelstan glanced across at Thibault, who sat chewing the corner of his lip. He wondered if the Master of Secrets had any suspicions about what was now unfolding.

  ‘Friar?’ Giole demanded. ‘Time is passing!’

  Athelstan continued: ‘On Thursday last Felipe came here and threatened Chobham. You know what happened then. On the evening of the day we arrived here, the taverner was forced to give John Gaddesden a certain room and later to hand over the duplicate key to that chamber. Why should we waste time telling you what you already know? You can rest assured, Chobham was obliged to confess everything to Sir John and myself. Of course nothing, not even murder, runs smoothly.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together.

  ‘You remember Monkshood, a former captain of the Earthworms, an Upright Man who masqueraded as Brother Giles?’ He paused at the sharp intake of breath from Thibault, but the friar had already decided to shield Sir John and the hangman from what had actually happened and take full responsibility. ‘Monkshood, the former rebel, had performed the most singular service for me. He escaped the gallows, so I agreed to him accompanying us as Brother Giles. Monkshood hoped to reach the Medway and seek passage abroad whilst I pleaded for a pardon from His Grace the King.’ Athelstan turned and glared knowingly at his three parishioners but they remained impassive, eager not to provoke Thibault’s suspicions.

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan went on, ‘Monkshood was mischief incarnate. We all decided to assemble here for communal prayer but Monkshood, true to his nature, slipped round this tavern seeking some profit.’ Athelstan closed his eyes for a moment; it was a necessary lie, he reflected. He opened his eyes and pointed at Maria. ‘Monkshood was not the only one creeping along the galleries of this tavern, was he? Servants clatter up and down but Monkshood flittered like a moonbeam up the stairs and past the chambers. He met someone equally stealthy. You, Maria, searching for which chamber would be most suitable for your next victim, John Gaddesden. A room where the door could be pushed back on its hinges, where the gap on the other side allowed someone to bring down the latches at top and bottom, to check that they moved easily on their screw. Maria would hear any servant coming and going, but not Monkshood, he was as stealthy as her. Anyway, they glimpsed each other. Our former Upright Man simply thought it was rather strange and said as much. He talked of young women flitting from one chamber to another. Maria, however, realised the danger of being seen doing such a thing. She reported as much to Giole and Azrael swooped. The hapless Monkshood was strangled. You could not have him alive the next morning when John Gaddesden’s corpse was discovered. Monkshood was quick of wit and sharp of mind. He would soon realise the significance of what he had seen.’

  Athelstan started coughing: his throat was dry and he gratefully accepted the blackjack of ale Albinus brought across. The friar sipped thirstily. ‘And so,’ Athelstan put the blackjack down on the floor beside him, ‘we come to your last murder: John Gaddesden. You had prepared well. You made sure he was lodged in a certain chamber and that Chobham had handed over the duplicate key. Late that evening you left the kitchens and made your way up onto the gallery. Skilled assassins, you moved silently and knocked on the door of John’s room. He would admit you. After all, he hardly suspected. You would act all friendly – perhaps you’d brought some wine or a delicacy from the kitchens. Once inside that chamber John’s fate was sealed. He sits in his chair facing his guests, Giole glides behind him, he pulls the garrotte string out and the pack closes in. John is murdered. One of you slipped out of the chamber to keep watch. He or she would alert you to any danger. Of course, there is none. The other guests are tired, sleepy. They have travelled all day, eaten and drunk heavily. You leave the chamber, pressing back the door to create that gap, then you prise the latches down and lock the room with the duplicate key; the other is left in the chamber. You have deliberately created a perfect mystery to block and f
rustrate any investigation. Such obfuscation is essential. You are not only removing any threat to yourselves but also thwarting the hunt for the truth as well as mocking our attempts to discover it.’

  Athelstan took a sip from his tankard and gestured at Felipe. ‘Would you like to stand, walk and demonstrate that you are not injured?’

  ‘My son is no tinker’s monkey,’ Giole snarled, ‘to dance to your tune or anyone else’s.’

  ‘He is a filthy assassin, as you are,’ Athelstan countered. ‘You tried to murder me above my brother’s tomb at Saint Grace’s.’ Athelstan gripped the tankard tightly as the rage surfaced within him.

  ‘How would we know where he was buried or where you were going?’

  ‘Don’t play games with my beloved brother’s memory. You know full well …’ Athelstan leaned forward. Giole and the others were truly enjoying seeing his rage, but Athelstan could not help it even as he realised how swiftly it gave way to hate – and Athelstan truly hated this coven. He drew a deep breath and tried to remember some prayer which would soothe him. ‘I talked about going to Saint Grace’s when I visited your tavern.’ Athelstan fought to stay calm. ‘I was in a chamber there, alone with Sir John, when I informed him of what I would do and where I would go. You eavesdropped. You planned and plotted. The priory is only four miles away; it was easy enough to slip stealthily out early on that mist-strewn morning and then return. A walk of four miles would not be arduous and you knew the Carthusian priory would be desolate. You would scale its walls and wait, slipping like shadows into that church. I thank God and Sir John that I escaped. As it was, you blasphemously desecrated my brother’s tomb. You shattered what was supposedly a hallowed, sacred occasion.’

  Wearily, Athelstan got to his feet. ‘You joined our pilgrimage to commit murder, to silence any who might threaten you, as well as to be in Canterbury when Master Thibault meets the Castilian envoys – but that is politic and does not concern me. What does concern me, is that you be arrested, confined and committed for trial before the King’s justices of Oyer and Terminer at Westminster. I am sure you will be condemned to be hanged at Smithfield or Tyburn and, God forgive me, I would like to see that happen sooner rather than later. Sir John,’ Athelstan waved a hand, ‘arrest them.’