The Relic Murders

by Paul Doherty

  'You mentioned Sir Hubert Berkeley?' Benjamin declared. 'You said he was missing?'

  'Left his home last night,' Kempe replied. 'Slipped out through an alleyway. He told no one where he was going or when he would be back. By dawn this morning his master journeyman, alarmed at his master's prolonged absence, sent word to the court.'

  'Could he be involved in this mischief?' I asked.

  'God knows,' Benjamin replied before Kempe could. 'But, come, let's view the mortal remains of Walter Henley.'

  We gathered our horses. Benjamin himself locked up the manor and the gates. Kempe promised he would send some of the men to guard it as well as our few paltry possessions stowed away in the gatehouse. Castor also stayed, and I promised him that I would return with some sweetmeats. The dog just looked mournfully at me as I locked him in our room before going down to join the rest. Kempe informed us the Rose and Crown was just opposite the Priory of St Helen's, within sight of Cripplegate.

  Benjamin, however, insisted on taking a detour and we stopped for a while at Master Oswald's cookshop. Benjamin threw the reins of his horse at me and went inside. It looked a cheerful, busy place, the ground floor of a three-storey house. The smells made my mouth water; I was tired of the dried meat and rather stale food at Malevel, so I went inside and bought a pie from a tray held by a boy. The crust was golden, carefully sculpted, and the meat was fresh and sweet. As I ate, a memory was jogged but I couldn't place it. I looked down towards the back of the shop, past the tables where customers sat on overturned barrels or hogsheads, to where Benjamin was busily talking to Oswald and Imelda. He was asking them questions, They replied quickly. After a while Benjamin shook their hands and came back to join me.

  'Well, master?'

  'One thing I have established, Roger. On the night all those men were killed, our good cooks roasted some meat and set the table. They are certain that Jonathan did not order the soldiers to clean up after the evening meal, which is strange, isn't it? Because, on the night they were all massacred, someone cleaned up the kitchen and removed all traces of the food and drink?' 'You mean the assassins?'

  'Possibly.' Benjamin grimaced. 'But, there again, it may have been a mere coincidence. Imelda did say Jonathan was complaining about mice and the need to keep the kitchen clean.'

  'Then you have an answer,' I replied.

  'Of sorts,' Benjamin declared. 'But we'll see, we'll see.'

  We went out to join the other two. Kempe was waiting impatiently but Agrippa looked as if he was half asleep. When we had first arrived in the city, the market stalls were only just opening but now the crowds were milling about. I was glad to be out of Malevel Manor with its corpses, bloody mysteries and moonlit galleries. We had to dismount and walk our horses, and I fell behind watching a group of Lacrymosi. These belonged to a strange cult, men as well as women, who shaved the top part of their heads, painted their faces red and dressed from head to toe in brown serge cloth tied round the middle by a cord. They carried staves in one hand and Ave beads in the other: before Henry struck against Rome, they could often be seen in the great cities from Dover to Berwick. Their leader always bore a cross and they got their names because they were constantly crying -shrieking would be the more accurate description. They would throw their hands up in the air, mournfully exclaiming about their sins and those of others. This group of about sixteen helped the tears along by hitting each other with knotted ropes. An amusing set of noddle pates! Behind them a blind boy, his eyes covered in patches, beat on a drum whilst beside him two little girls, obviously the daughters of one of the Lacrymosi, held out begging bowls towards the crowds. I watched them pass. Benjamin called at me to keep up, and as I hurried to do so, I saw a shift in the crowd. Cerberus, Charon's dog-faced lieutenant, stood glaring at me. Apparently, Lord Charon had not forgotten me and, once again, I wondered if those deaths at Malevel Manor were his work.

  At last we reached the Rose and Crown, a pleasant hostelry which stood fronting an alleyway. We left the horses with a groom and went inside. Mine host took one look at Sir Thomas's ermine-lined jerkin and came running up, his face bright at the prospect of profit.

  'Some wine, my lords? A dish of meat, your Excellencies?' 'Shut up!' Kempe retorted. 'I want to see the corpse. You have not moved it, have you?' The landlord's smile faded.

  'It's on the upper gallery,' the fellow whined. 'A soldier still stands on guard.'

  He led us up the rickety staircase; halfway down the gallery, an archer lounged against the wall, chewing a piece of sausage. He clambered to his feet, licking his fingers as he recognised Sir Thomas. Mine host, taking a bunch of keys from his belt, unlocked the door. The room inside was no more than a garret, containing a trestle bed, a rather shaky lavarium with a cracked bowl and jug, a bench under the windows, a small table and two stools. The corpse lay just within the door, covered by a dirty blanket. Kempe pulled this back.

  Henley had been no beauty in life. In death his fat face, with its popping eyes, half-open, slobbering lips and the angry red gash in his throat made him look grotesque. Agrippa, as if bored, went and sat on the bed, playing with a buckle on his belt. Kempe looked down at the corpse and turned away in disgust at the flies hovering over a pool of blood. I felt for the man's wallet but there was nothing there.

  'I didn't take it,' the landlord bleated from where he stood in the doorway.

  Of course the thieving magpie had, but he wasn't going to admit it to us, was he?

  Tell us what happened?' Benjamin straightened up. He pulled the landlord inside the chamber by his jerkin.

  The landlord wetted his lips, blinking as he considered whether to lie or not.

  'Tell us the truth,' Benjamin said, 'and you can keep what you took from him. His coins, his rings: I also see the knife sheath on his belt is empty. You could hang for such thefts.'

  'He arrived here just after Vespers,' the landlord replied in a rush. 'He hired a chamber, a jug of wine and two cups. A short while later a stranger entered the room.'

  "What did he look like?'

  'I am a busy man, not the parish constable,' the landlord whined. 'I saw a cowl and a hood: the lower half of his face was masked. His voice was gruff. He asked me where Henley was, and one of the scullions took him up. A short while later a message was sent down asking for a pure beeswax candle.'

  'Pure beeswax?' Benjamin asked.

  'Yes.'

  'But they had a candle in here already.' I pointed to the fat tallow sitting in its own grease in a small earthenware bowl.

  'Look, I own a tavern. Some people like tallow candles. Others don't. I made a good profit from selling beeswax, so I sent it up. Afterwards, one of the maids,' the fellow smirked, 'was serving one of the customers in the adjoining chamber. Anyway, she heard Henley laugh, a deep-throated bellow as if his companion had told him an amusing story. A short while later the stranger left.

  We thought Henley was staying for the evening and that's all I know.'

  'Where's the beeswax candle now?' Benjamin asked.

  The landlord sighed, hurried off and came back with it.

  'Where did you find this?' Benjamin asked, taking the candle and scrutinising it carefully. 'It's hardly been used.'

  ‘I know that,' the landlord replied. 'It was just left lying on the table and that,' he added flatly, 'is all I do know. I have a tavern to run.' He gestured down. 'What about the corpse?'

  'Do you have a wheelbarrow?' Kempe asked.

  'Yes.'

  'Pay the archer a penny,' Kempe declared. 'Some of the profits you stole from Henley's purse. Have the body taken to Greyfriars. The good brothers will bury his corpse in a pauper's grave.'

  Chapter 8

  We went downstairs into the street. Kempe muttered about continuing his searches for Hubert Berkeley, and Benjamin grasped him by the arm.

  'Where did Henley live? You must know,' he added, 'if you were keeping a watch on his ilk?'

  'Nearby.' Kempe withdrew his arm. 'That's right, in Old Jewry. Skinn
er's Lane, opposite the hospital of St Thomas of Acorn. Why?' Kempe's eyes slid to me. 'Are you thinking of augmenting your relic collection? And what was all that business about the candle?'

  Benjamin shook his head. 'I was just intrigued.'

  'And so will the King be,' Kempe added, hitching his fur robe round his shoulders.

  His eyes strayed over my shoulder. I glanced round and saw two well-armed bullyboys standing in the mouth of the alleyway. Men like Kempe didn't go anywhere unless they were protected.

  'I really must be going,' he insisted. 'It is important that we find Berkeley.' He prodded me in the chest. 'But meanwhile, what about this business of Lord Charon?'

  'We also need to take counsel with His Eminence,' Agrippa said, coming out of the tavern. He smiled apologetically and wiped his lips on the back of his glove. 'They say a good ale is strong and clear. I, too, Master Daunbey, was thinking about candles. But, as Sir Thomas says, Berkeley has to be found and counsel has to be taken.' He winked at both of us. 'The court has moved to Sheen. I shall go there. Sir Thomas has Berkeley to find. Where were you when Charon,' he added, turning to me, 'first met you?'

  'At the Flickering Lamp tavern,' I replied.

  'Go back there,' Agrippa ordered. 'Sir Thomas and I will meet you later on.'

  Agrippa collected his horse from the stable and nonchalantly rode off. Kempe followed a short while later.

  'Why were you interested in the candle?' I asked, watching Kempe's bullyboys stride off.

  'Collect our horses and I'll tell you.'

  Benjamin rode close beside me, as if he sensed we were being followed or watched.

  'Describe the Orb to me. I know I have seen it but just describe it to me.'

  And so I did. Benjamin paused, absentmindedly stroking his horse's muzzle, unaware of the chaos and confusion he was causing in the narrow streets behind him.

  'It's the amethyst,' he declared.

  ‘I beg your pardon, master?'

  'Look around, Roger,' he murmured, stooping to check his saddle as if there was something wrong. 'Is that dog-faced man still following us?'

  I glanced around but could see no sign of him.

  'He'll be there,' Benjamin declared, urging his horse on. 'Anyway, Roger, I have a deep suspicion that the Orb taken from Malevel Manor was not the genuine one.'

  'But Egremont checked it!' I exclaimed. 'And Kempe told us the real Orb contained a secret: surely Egremont would have known this.'

  'Roger,' Benjamin laughed. 'Gold and silver are easy to replicate and you can collect precious stones to match. However, I wager a jug of wine against a jug of wine that the amethyst on the top of the Orb is special: that's why Henley asked for a beeswax candle. The light from a tallow candle is not pure, the wick gives off a great deal of smoke and it splutters. The flame on a beeswax candle provides pure light. I suspect Henley was one of the few people who could recognise the true Orb of Charlemagne. The person who stole it from Malevel Manor took it to Henley for our relic-seller to inspect. He did so, realised it was a forgery and burst out laughing.'

  'For which he promptly had his throat cut,' I added.

  'Oh yes, our assassin will be angry.' Benjamin paused. 'We really must check where Kempe, Egremont and Cornelius were yesterday evening.'

  'Not to forget Lord Charon?'

  'Yes,' Benjamin agreed. 'Our assassin was not only angry, he had to keep Henley's mouth shut. The relic-seller was a fool. He was dead as soon as he entered that tavern garret.'

  'And you think something in Henley's house will reveal the secret?' I asked.

  'Possibly,' Benjamin replied.

  We reached Old Jewry and made our way to the hospital of St Thomas Acorn. A beggar who sat squatting on the steps, scratching his sores, pointed across to a narrow, mean house wedged between two shops.

  'That's where Henley lives,' the fellow croaked. 'We all know what he does. Often comes out to sell his trickery to pilgrims.'

  We left our horses in a nearby tavern, paid an ostler a coin, walked across and knocked at the door. It was locked but what are keys and bolts to a man like Shallot? I soon had the door open. Inside the house was dark, rather eerie, full of strange smells. The front parlour was all shuttered, cobwebs hung on the walls and dusty sheets covered the furniture. The kitchen and buttery were stale and ill washed. In a room at the back of the house we found Henley's workshop. Here the smell was so offensive we had to open the shutters. Benjamin looked at the pot suspended on an iron rod over the white ash in the hearth. He took his dagger out and fished amongst the contents. I gagged at the mess of cats' heads, birds and other small animals boiled in there. The stench was so bad I drew back and retched. Benjamin remained impervious and went around scrutinising the different items on tables and shelves.

  'A cunning man,' he breathed. 'He could have taught you a trick or two, Roger. Relics are always bones, pieces of cloth, wood or leather.' He picked up a small silver gilt case. 'Henley must have made a prosperous living out of it. He'd take a bit of cat bone, boil it, clean it, place it in a silver-gilt case and there was part of the finger bone of St Amisias, or whoever you want.'

  My master must have caught the look in my eye.

  'No, Roger, there'll be no more relics at our manor.' He waved a finger at me. 'Relics are forbidden.'

  He went across and looked at a shelf which contained some ledgers. He took them down and glanced through them: they were accounts, showing monies owing or salted away with the bankers.

  'The King will be pleased,' he murmured. 'I am sure Agrippa will tell him about Henley's death and the Lords of the Treasury will soon have their fingers on all this.'

  A leather-bound folio was more interesting. It was an index drawn up by a Dutch scholar, published and printed in Bruges, which listed the principal relics of Western Christendom. Benjamin found the entry for the Orb of Charlemagne. There was a crude drawing above it which I recognised as the relic. The writing was more accurate: in the main it faithfully described the Orb; how it had been owned by the great Emperor and sent to Alfred of England and how the English kings had kept it in the most secret place. However, when it came to a detailed description of the amethyst the writer was silent. Instead Henley had scrawled in the margin: 'Per ig. Cruc. lxthus vid, 'What is that?' I asked.

  My master, who was skilled in secret ciphers, studied it. 'A mixture of Latin and Greek,' he replied. 'Ixthus is the Greek title for Jesus Our Saviour.' 'And the rest?'

  'Bearing in mind Henley's request for a candle, I'd say that per ig means per ignem, through fire. Cruc is Latin for cross: vid means Videtur, can be seen.' Benjamin closed the book. 'That's why Henley wanted the beeswax candle. Hold the Orb up, place the amethyst against a brilliant flame and, somehow or other, a cross can be seen in the centre of the stone.'

  'Can that be done?' I asked.

  'Not artificially,' Benjamin replied. 'What I suspect is that, when the Orb was made for Charlemagne, this amethyst was particularly chosen because the goldsmith at the time thought it was of a sacred character. That amethyst,' Benjamin continued, 'is probably the only way of ensuring the Orb is genuine.'

  'But that's impossible, master. If Henley knew this, then surely the Emperor Charles V, not to mention his envoys Lord Egremont and Cornelius, would also have known?'

  Benjamin sat down on a stool.

  4When the Orb was placed in that sealed casket in Berkeley's house,' I insisted, 'Egremont must have demanded that a light be held against the amethyst. He would then know that he was being tricked.'

  Benjamin rocked himself backwards and forwards, eyes closed. 'Did they know?' he asked.

  'Oh come on, master. If a tawdry counterfeit-man like Henley knew, then surely Charles V's ambassadors would?'

  'The only person who could answer that,' Benjamin replied, 'is Henley himself and he's now a member of the choir invisible. I suspect that Henley was not just a tawdry counterfeit man but an expert on relics. Somehow he found out the real secret and wrote it in the margin of this
book.' He sighed. 'Yet, in the end, Henley didn't make the replica, Berkeley did. Is our goldsmith the villain of the piece?'

  'No,' I retorted. 'Berkeley acted on the orders of the King.' I paused. 'And that's where the real mystery begins, doesn't it? If Berkeley put a replica in that chest, he must have done so on the orders of the King. If he did, why is Henry now raging? And I don't believe that he's playing one of his little games.'

  'It's possible,' Benjamin replied slowly, 'that Berkeley acted on his own: that he intended to dupe both Henry and Charles V. That the Orb is still hidden away in his shop or wherever Berkeley wanted to conceal it. Our goldsmith therefore might have fled, taking the Orb with him.'

  I recalled Berkeley's honest face. He would carry out the orders of his king in order to dupe a foreign envoy. But steal the Orb and flee?

  'No, master,' I voiced my doubts. 'If Berkeley was ordered to make a replica, he would do so but I doubt he would steal the genuine article. However, that doesn't solve the real mystery. If the amethyst was special why didn't Egremont notice it was flawed?'

  Benjamin opened the book and studied the inscription again.

  'The cross of the Saviour can be seen,' he read aloud. He placed the book back on the shelf. 'Come on, Roger, I want to talk to someone.'

  We left Henley's house, collected our horses and walked through the crowds back to Cheapside. It was just after noon: the Angelus bell from St Mary Le Bow was tolling, calling the faithful to prayer. Most people ignored it, more intent on thronging the cookshops and taverns. Benjamin was growing enigmatic. He strode along the broad thoroughfare ignoring my questions.

  'In a while, in a while, Roger,' he murmured.

  Near the Great Conduit, he gave a cry of exclamation and pointed to a goldsmith's sign.