by Paul Doherty
'The King is angry?' he asked.
'It would be best,' Agrippa replied, 'if you do not show your faces at the court. Egremont is going to leave soon and, if he doesn't have the Orb, the King's wrath will fall on you.'
With that warning ringing in our ears, Benjamin and I left the Tower and returned to the Flickering Lamp. I was all nervous and agitated, jumping like a grasshopper but Benjamin remained stony-faced. He took me into the taproom and sat me down. He ordered some victuals from Boscombe and began to list the possibilities.
'Look at me, Roger,' he declared. 'I do not want to go on my travels either.'
'It's vindictive of the King,' I retorted. 'The bastard ... !'
Benjamin brought his finger to his lips. 'Hush now, that's the way of the world, Roger. The King has lost his treasure. Whatever subtle schemes he has been plotting, he has also been publicly humiliated. Someone will have to pay for that and what better victims than the Cardinal's beloved nephew and his rapscallion of a servant? Henry will no doubt plead that it's not his fault: he must show the Emperor that someone has been punished. Moreover, my uncle is no longer as high in the King's favour as he once was. By exiling us from England. Henry gently raps Dear Uncle's knuckles.' He took a deep breath. 'So, we can sit around and moan, or fathom this mystery and discover a satisfactory answer. Now, let's concentrate on what we know.' He leaned closer over the table so no one could hear us. 'First, Henry has the Orb of Charlemagne: the Emperor wants it. Secondly, the King orders Berkeley to make at least one replica.' 'At least?' I queried.
'Oh yes. We were shown one this morning. We know another was in that chest at Malevel.' Benjamin sighed. 'And, unless we have it wrong, the French have a third.'
'Is that possible?' I asked.
'So it would seem.'
'But why?' I asked.
'If we knew that,' Benjamin retorted, 'we could solve this. However, let's continue. Thirdly, the Orb was taken to Malevel, where there are no secret passageways or entrances. No one entered or left that house except those two cooks. Yet we know that every man jack of the garrison was brutally slaughtered without the alarm being raised. Fourthly, we know an archer was communicating with Sir Thomas Kempe. We have to accept Kempe's word that nothing untoward was reported. What else?'
'Fifthly,' I added, 'we know Cornelius had the keys to the house, to let the cooks in and out. Perhaps he was engaged in some subtle stratagem but, there again, why should Cornelius, the most faithful Imperial servant, turn traitor?'
'Sixthly,' Benjamin intervened, 'we know that, if this Schlachter exists, he certainly sold the Orb stolen from Malevel to the Papal
Envoys. Now that poses even more interesting questions. Who sold the Orb to the French? And where is the real Orb?'
Benjamin paused as Boscombe came back and pushed two bowls of meat on to the table.
'Somehow, master,' I took out my horn spoon, 'the solution lies at Malevel Manor. I have been wondering what led poor Castor to that cellar? It wasn't the remains of some poor, old woman. What did Castor smell? What was so attractive?'
Benjamin pointed at his dish of meat. 'Food. Let us say,' he continued, 'the killers sheltered there. How did they escape unnoticed? Were they there with someone's permission?'
He sat for a while eating, lost in his own thoughts.
'We always come back to food,' he remarked. 'Why had the table been cleared away, the kitchen and the blackjacks washed? Food!' he repeated. 'Perhaps it's time we visited those cooks: perhaps they did see something? Tomorrow at first light we'll go there. In the meantime, search out this scrivener at St Paul's. Give him your full name, tell him we're staying at the Flickering Lamp, and say you want to hire the services of a slaughterer.'
Of course I protested but Benjamin was insistent. So, after a quiet sleep on my bed, I braved the afternoon crowds and made my way up into St Paul's Cathedral. It brought back memories of being hired by Sir Hubert Berkeley. I lit a taper in his memory. As I did so, a serving wench caught my eye: her black curly hair framed the sweetest, prettiest face. She reminded me of Lucy and so I fell to talking. Well, you know how it goes, one things leads to another. We shared a loving cup in a nearby tavern, followed by a most energetic two hours on the bed in a small chamber above.
It was dusk before I returned to the Cathedral but the scriveners' comer was still busy. I espied Master Richard Notley, a cadaver-faced, wispy-haired man. He sat, legs crossed under the table, lips pursed, pen ready to dictate any messages. I remembered my promise to Cerberus so I sat down and dictated a letter to his parents in Nottingham. Notley acted the professional scribe. He faithfully wrote down my farrago of lies, about how young William had lived, then died, in something akin to the odour of sanctity. Now and again Notley's pen faltered and I wondered if he knew the truth. When he had finished I signed it, paid him a fee, plus an extra coin so that a reputable carrier would take it to Nottingham.
'Is there anything else, sir?' His close-set eyes studied me curiously.
'My name is Roger Shallot,' I replied. 'I can be found at the Flickering Lamp tavern.'
'Yes,' he interrupted quickly. 'I know where it is.'
'I am a farmer,' I continued. 'I am looking for a slaughterer: certain beasts have to be killed before Michaelmas. I want someone skilled, not a butcher's lad.'
'That will be one silver piece, sir, just for my searches.'
I paid the coin over.
'And when will I meet him?' I asked.
"Oh, don't worry, sir. You will be informed as soon as possible. Now—' He pushed back the table and pointed to the hour candle burning in its small glass holder. 'My day's work is done.'
I thanked him and left. Once outside the cathedral, I remembered poor Berkeley so I went along the lanes and alleyways to his house. His steward let me in. The man's face was tear-streaked, the household still in mourning. All the walls were covered in mourning cloths and the rooms were shuttered; it was no longer the convivial, merry household I had joined.
'You see, Master Shallot, Sir Hubert had no heirs,' the steward explained. 'His will has still to go through Chancery. All work has stopped.
I expressed my condolences and accepted his offer of white wine and some marzipan wafers.
'It's about his work I've come. Are Sir Hubert's accounts here?'
'Oh no, sir. Sir Thomas Kempe came and took them all away.'
'What was Sir Hubert working on?' I asked. ‘I mean, what different artefacts?'
'None of us know,' the fellow replied. 'For the last year Sir Hubert was hired by the court. He worked by himself without any of his apprentices. God knows what he was doing!'
'Did Sir Thomas Kempe come here often?'
'Yes, he did, sometimes carrying clinking saddlebags. We suspected they contained gold to be melted down. Only once,' the steward continued, 'did I catch a glimpse of Sir Hubert at work. I was in a chamber upstairs.I looked down into the garden, and saw that Sir Hubert had taken a lantern out: he was holding something precious up against the light. I caught a glint...' he faltered.
'A jewel?' I asked.
'Yes, probably a jewel, some precious stone.' I finished my wine, once again expressed my condolences and left.
Darkness had fallen. A watchman stumped along the lane.
'Nine o'clock!' he bawled. 'And the night is fine! Pray to God for grace divine!'
The villains who stood in the doorways of the inns and taverns slunk away at his approach, though these did not bother me. Old Shallot can easily act the ruffler, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger hanging from my belt, chest out like a cock of the walk.
Thank God we cannot judge a book by its cover. I was strutting along, thinking about what I had learnt, when two shadows came out of an alleyway, cloaked and hooded. My hand was seized before I could grab my dagger and I was dragged into the doorway of a tumbled-down house. I was getting ready to plead for mercy, to offer my assailants anything I carried, when one of the figures pulled back his hood. Cornelius's heavy-lidded eyes studi
ed me.
'Going for an evening stroll, Master Shallot?'
'Yes, yes,' I snarled. 'Taking the night air.'
'A busy, busy man,' Cornelius retorted. 'Writing letters for poor old William Doddshall; asking for a slaughterer to kill some beast; then down to the late lamented Sir Hubert Berkeley's house. To find out what?'
Oh, I could have kicked myself. However, you must remember those were my green days. I had not yet learnt to crawl about the streets and so give the slip to any pursuer. Cornelius, his companion standing behind me, grasped my jerkin and pulled me closer.
'Every step you take, Master Shallot, I am there. When you meet the Slaughterer, you will thank God. In Germany we have a proverb: "He who plans to sell the bearskin, even before he goes hunting, often ends up as the bear's dinner".'
'And we have a proverb in England,' I retorted. '"A stitch in time saves nine.'"
He looked at me curiously. 'And what does that mean?'
To be quite honest I didn't know either, but it sounded clever! I pulled myself away and strolled off down the alleyway. (Always remember that: if you are ever in doubt, say something enigmatic and walk away. People will think you are wise and cunning. It's a device used by the playwrights. I have never understood certain lines in Marlowe's Edward II. I was going to invite him to supper to ask him what they meant but then poor Kit was killed in a lodging house on the Isle of Dogs, stabbed in the eye by that bastard Poley!)
I reached the Flickering Lamp and found Benjamin in his chamber, lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling. I told him all I had done, including my visit to Berkeley.
'Why did you come here in the first place?' he asked abruptly. 'I mean, to the Flickering Lamp?'
I told him about the relic-seller I had met whilst he was on his travels in Italy. Benjamin just nodded.
'Why?' I asked.
'And Boscombe gave you licence to sell relics?' 'Yes,' I replied. 'But the Lord Charon had other ideas. I was too successful.'
We heard laughter from the taproom below so we went down for our supper: Iamb cutlets in rosemary sauce, followed by quince tarts. It was a merry evening: Boscombe was dressed up as a bawdy man and he had brought others in for some entertainment. These were the most fantastical-looking creatures: men and women who were known as 'Bawdy Folk'. They were dressed in the skins of animals, mostly otter and fox, whilst some of them wore masks of bears and wolves on their heads. They didn't wear hose but instead had leather aprons across the groin. The men were otherwise naked, crotch to neck. The women had soft woollen bands to cover their generous breasts. They all wore bangles on their ankles and wrists. Large earrings hung from their ear lobes whilst they had painted their faces grotesque colours.
They began with a shuffling dance and followed this with acrobatics, somersaults, and an act of swallowing knives and spoons. They then performed a most scurrilous play about a vicar, a bishop, an inn-keeper and two whores. I will not offend your susceptibilities. It was absolutely disgusting but very, very funny. Boscombe joined in, ever the actor, and the jokes and jests became sharper and more pointed. Benjamin murmured that he had seen enough and went off to bed. I, however, joined in with glee, drinking and dancing until I lost all memory of what followed. I woke up in an outhouse dressed in a bearskin with one of the bawdy women lying by my side. I went out and washed, pouring buckets of water from the small well in the courtyard. I dried myself off, collected my belongings and went upstairs for a few hours' proper sleep: it was good preparation for a day of horrors and bloody murder.
It started well enough. Benjamin kicked me awake. We broke our fast and then made our way along Cripplegate to Oswald's and Imelda's cookshop. It was a bright, clear autumn morning as we passed the traders and merchants preparing for a day's haggling. When we reached the cookshop I rapped on the door but there was no answer.
'Strange,' Benjamin murmured. 'They should be up, baking fresh pies.'
We went down the narrow runnel which ran alongside the house, through a small wicket gate into a narrow garden. The door to the scullery was open and we went in. The first corpse was lying there. In life she had been an old, plump, cherry-faced woman. In death, ashen-cheeked, she lay face down in the pool of blood that had gushed from her slashed neck. In the kitchen a young apprentice lay, flung like a rag doll in the corner, the wound to his neck looking like a gaping mouth. Oswald was in the shop, lying slumped in a chair; his wife was in her chamber on the second floor. Both had been killed silently, quickly, with a jagged cut running from ear to ear. A ghastly sight! Nothing else had been disturbed. The sweet smell of baking mixed with that of blood and gore.
Benjamin felt the ovens.
"They were killed either very late last night or early this morning,' he declared. 'No baking has been done for the day and their cadavers are cold.' He chewed the comer of his lip. 'As at Malevel, there is no sign of any resistance or disturbance. It's as if they knew their killer; who waited until they were separated and then struck.'
Benjamin walked across and looked down at the tray of pies which had been left unsold from the previous day. He picked one up and looked at it curiously.
'Murder again eh, Master Daunbey?'
Benjamin dropped the pie. I spun round. Cornelius and two of the Noctales stood in the doorway.
'Don't you ever sleep?' I snarled.
'No one sleeps, Master Shallot,' Cornelius crouched down and studied the apprentice's face, 'when a mad wolf is on the prowl!'
'Why are you here?' I asked.
'I told you last night: we follow you. I have answered your question.' He got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe. 'Why are you here?'
'Because nobody went into Malevel Manor except these cooks,' Benjamin replied. 'They must have seen something.'
'Master Daunbey, I don't treat you as a fool,' Cornelius sneered. 'I'd be grateful if you would return the compliment.' Cornelius walked over and sat in a small rocking chair near the hearth, pushing himself gently backwards and forwards. 'We noticed,' he continued, 'the arrows missing from the quiver. Jonathan told me about that. But I can see nothing wrong in Sir Thomas Kempe being informed on what was happening in the manor.' He smiled bleakly. 'After all, Jonathan did the same for me.'
'Did he?' Benjamin asked. Cornelius narrowed his eyes.
'Did he?' Benjamin persisted. 'You take orders from the Lord Egremont; did Jonathan do so too?'
Cornelius just waved his hand. 'True, true. However, we also noticed, Master Daunbey, how clean the kitchen and scullery were. Now I don't know about English archers, but it certainly made me wonder why a group of soldiers would spend their evening cleaning the table and washing the blackjacks. Why not just pile them in a heap for someone else to wash? After all, that is why those two cooks were hired. So, I ask you again, why are you here?'
He turned and said something in German to his companions, who left.
'What are you looking for?' Benjamin asked. 'I understood something of what you said.'
'The same as you, my dear Benjamin: Master Oswald's finished accounts.' He waved a hand. 'Not the scrap of paper he gave you but the finished bill that might contain some interesting information.'
'Such as what?' Benjamin asked.
Cornelius wagged a finger at him. 'I don't know and neither do you, yet there may be something, evidence you might not recognise until you see it.' He sighed and let his hand drop. 'Oh, perhaps you're right, the cooks did notice something untoward? Something which they later remembered.' He breathed out noisily. 'Though God knows what?'
One of the Noctales came in and whispered into his master's ear.
'Now, isn't that strange?' Cornelius looked up. "There are no accounts and the strong box containing all these poor people's savings has been broken into and rifled. So, it will be dismissed as the work of some housebreaker. One of your London nightbirds who came in quietly through the scullery, slashed their throats and then stole both the money and the accounts.' Cornelius got to his feet. 'However, we know differently,
don't we? Our assassin worked quickly and expertly. Whoever he was, he was known and respected by these people. They allowed him into their house. Mistress Imelda went to her chamber, perhaps to change her working clothes or put paint on her face.'
'Yes, it must have been something like that,' Benjamin replied.
'Then the assassin struck, starting with the old woman in the scullery, then the apprentice boy. It would have been quick. A hand over their mouths, a quick slash to their throats. Oswald and Imelda came next. My question is, who did it and why?'
Cornelius slipped his hands up the sleeves of his gown. He reminded me of some monk at his prayers. His brain must have been teeming. He knew we were lying and holding back information on what had happened at Malevel. He tapped his foot against the paved kitchen floor.
'Who has the authority,' he said, 'to walk into a house like this?' He glanced sideways at me. 'You were friendly with Imelda and Oswald.'
‘I am Roger's friend,' Benjamin replied, 'but that doesn't mean that I would want to cut his throat.'
'True,' Cornelius replied. 'But there are others such as Doctor Agrippa or even Sir Thomas Kempe
'That's true,' I intervened. 'And there's also Master Cornelius and Lord Egremont. After all, these poor cooks were hired by you to undertake this lucrative work: you would have been even more welcome here.'
'I know,' Cornelius snapped, 'where Lord Egremont was last night.' He rubbed his face, stared at me then snapped his fingers and, the Noctales following, left the house as quietly as he had arrived.
My master and I went out into the street and along an alleyway to a small open space like a village green: there was a duck pond in the centre with battered wooden benches around it. We sat on one of these and watched children play on a hobby horse and chase an inflated pig's bladder.