The Relic Murders

by Paul Doherty

  I nodded, my eyes never leaving Boscombe. The taverner just stared at Benjamin. Never once did he look at me: his cold, calculating gaze was for Benjamin and Benjamin alone. The hair on the nape of my neck curled, this man was intent on our murder. I could only sit and blink as I recalled Berkeley's words on hiring me. I also realised how Lord Charon had found me so quickly.

  'Roger's imprisonment was an unforeseen occurrence,'

  Benjamin continued. 'However, he was released from Newgate and came back here. How could you leave such a tender friend in his adversity? You offered us both chambers, even taking in poor Castor; anything to keep us under close scrutiny.' Benjamin paused, tapping the tip of his sword on the paving stones. 'And then we come to the business at Malevel! God knows how it was done. Boscombe the taverner supposedly left for the West Country; but in reality you adopted your secret profession: the Schlachter, the Slaughterer! Somehow or other -' Benjamin jabbed a finger at him '- you were responsible for the deaths of those men. You stole the Orb and left.'

  'Oh come, Master Benjamin,' Boscombe scoffed. 'And how did I do that? Just walk up to the manor, knock on the front door and fifteen burly men offered their throats to be cut?'

  'Who told you there were fifteen?' Benjamin asked.

  Boscombe's sneer faded.

  'As for how you did it. . . Well, Master Boscombe, when I came here two things struck me as odd. First, here's a taverner who is also a master of disguise. You revel in it. Secondly, I had seen you before: something about your features struck a chord in my memory. On the day that the massacre was discovered, when Kempe and others were milling about Malevel Manor, I am sure I glimpsed your face. To be sure, it was hidden by some disguise, but there was something familiar.'

  'Mistaken identity!' Boscombe sneered.

  'Perhaps,' Benjamin replied. 'However, we now come to another matter: Berkeley's murder. You lured the goldsmith out into that lonely copse north of the Tower. The Orb you had stolen from Malevel was a forgery: Henley the professional relic-seller had told you so when he met you in that tavern. He must have been surprised to see the Orb of Charlemagne given to him for scrutiny but his surprise turned to laughter when he realised it was a fake.'

  'Henley?' Boscombe retorted. 'I don't know any Henley!'

  'Oh, you not only knew him but killed him,' Benjamin retorted. 'And then, full of fury, you and your accomplice - and you do have an accomplice, don't you? - lured the hapless goldsmith to that lonely glade where you tortured him. Asking the same question, time and time again: where was the real Orb?'

  'Very interesting.' Boscombe got up and moved towards the wine vats. 'Thirsty work, Master Daunbey, do you wish some wine? My good friend, Roger?'

  We both refused. Benjamin now stood up, his sword out, but Boscombe coolly filled his goblet and returned to his stool. I noticed he moved it a few inches nearer the wall. He toasted us both silently but there was something in his eyes that convinced me my master was right. Boscombe was the Slaughterer and he was only biding his time.

  'You eavesdropped,' Benjamin continued, 'on our conversations. When Roger expressed a desire to meet the Lord Charon you happily obliged. Now, the Lord of London's underworld should have been pleased that Roger was ready to offer him the Orb of Charlemagne but he wasn't. Why? Because he already had it. Roger was, therefore, an unnecessary nuisance and had to be despatched. He would have been, if it hadn't been for that dog. The rest you know: except that Cerberus, Charon's lieutenant, on the brink of death, gave Roger information on how to contact the Slaughterer.' Benjamin paused, watching Boscombe sip his drink. 'Only then did you become afraid. Perhaps the net was closing in? Notley was stupid, a possible threat, so you killed him and used his corpse to frighten Roger before you attacked him in the Church of the Crutched Friars. However, being disturbed, you fled and, once out into the darkened lane, became again Boscombe the genial taverner, the purveyor of wine and pies.'

  "The pies!' I exclaimed. 'Of course, master, the pies!' I half rose from my stool. 'You bought pies from Imelda and Oswald - I have eaten them here myself - that's how you could get into their shop so easily.'

  'I noticed the same,' Benjamin declared. 'And after Oswald and Imelda were killed, I realised someone had entered their house who knew them well. Friendly, genial Boscombe coming round to place another order. However, once you were in the house you became the Slaughterer: a dagger thrust here and another there, and an entire family was wiped out. Then you stole their accounts. Why, Boscombe? Was there something which had to be left hidden? Or, in their conversation with you, had they let drop that they'd seen something wrong at Malevel Manor? I don't know how you killed those soldiers but, for some reason, you spent a great deal of time cleaning that kitchen, scrubbing down the traunchers, washing out the blackjacks. Why, Boscombe?' Benjamin advanced towards him. 'More importantly, who did you work for? Who hired you? How did you get in and out of Malevel so easily?'

  Boscombe shook his head and stared into his wine cup.

  'Master Daunbey, this is a merry tale for a dark evening. Yet, it's nothing more than old wives muttering round the fire and gossiping. Go through this tavern, search my private chamber, you'll find nothing untoward.'

  'Oh, I agree.' Benjamin declared. 'Much suspected, nothing proved. Indeed, it all rests on coincidence: if Roger had not met the relic-seller and then come here; if we had not hired chambers at the Flickering Lamp after our return from Malevel.' He smiled thinly. 'But God is good. Perhaps he grew tired of your bloody-handed ways and Roger is his vengeance.'

  'I'll say nothing!' Boscombe yelled.

  'You could be taken to the Tower,' I retorted. 'Spread out on the rack like Cerberus was whilst royal messengers are sent to the West Country, to discover all they can about Andrew Boscombe.'

  The taverner stared at me round-eyed. 'Is that so, Roger? Now tell me, what do you think I'll do? Saunter into the barge, sit in the Tower and tell all to Fat Henry's questioners? Oh yes.' He clapped his hands together. 'Have mercy on me for I am a traitor and an assassin. I stole the Orb of Charlemagne. I sold it to the Lord Charon.' He paused and grinned. 'I shouldn't have said that, should I? I'm not supposed to know that, dearie, dearie me!'

  One second Boscombe was shaking his head, the next the wine cup went flying at Benjamin's head. Boscombe sprang across the room, snatching his sword and dagger from his war-belt. He came back, moving sideways like a dancer.

  'I'm not going to the Tower!' he hissed. 'And you are never leaving this tavern! Both of you will die and I've got all night to dispose of your corpses.'

  He came skipping forward, sword and dagger whirling. My master, skilled at fencing, blocked his blows. Boscombe stood back. Again they closed. It was obvious that Boscombe was no taverner: the way he moved, slightly sideways trying to draw out my master's sword and expose his body for a killing thrust of the dagger, showed him to be a professional, a skilled swordsman. The deadly dance continued; the slap of boots against the stone floor; the screeching clash of steel; and the grunts and groans of both combatants. My master was at a disadvantage, he did not know the room like Boscombe did. Twice he nearly slipped. Each time Boscombe closed for the kill. I tried to intervene but Benjamin waved me away. Boscombe stood back grinning, chest heaving.

  'Oh, you fops!' he breathed. 'Ever the gentleman.'

  His sword and dagger went down as he studied my master. Now Benjamin may have been a fop, a gentleman, but old Roger was not. As Boscombe shuffled forward, I did what I was good at. I threw my dagger with all my force and caught him low in the neck, the point rupturing soft flesh and nerve. The blood spouted out like wine from a broached cask. Boscombe dropped his sword, hands clawing at the hilt of my dagger, his face contorted in pain. He stepped back, turning as if he wished to flee to the door. He collapsed, his life blood pouring out through nose and mouth as well as the jagged wound in his throat. I went to turn him over but Benjamin grasped me.

  'Let him die!'

  For what seemed an age Boscombe's body jerked
and moved on the floor. He tried to turn over, move sideways before his body gave a final shudder. Benjamin kicked at his boots.

  'It's a pity, as a prisoner he might have talked.'

  'Aye,' I replied. 'And as an assassin he might have killed you.'

  I turned him over. Boscombe's eyes stared sightlessly up into mine.

  'This was no time for the rules of the duel,' I exclaimed, pulling my dagger out and wiping it on Boscombe's jerkin. 'If he had killed you, what chance would I have had?' I stood up, resheathing my dagger. 'I'm glad the bastard's dead!'

  Benjamin grasped my shoulder and turned me round.

  'I would like to protest, Roger,' he declared. 'I would like to say it was swordsman against swordsman but I'm glad for what you did: I thank you for that.'

  Benjamin dropped his own sword and dagger on a table. He then went round the tavern securing the windows and doors.

  'Intriguing,' he remarked. 'Did you notice, Roger? In all the taverns I know, either here or on the Scottish march, the scullions, maids and tapsters sleep on the kitchen floor. Boscombe, however, lived alone and, since we arrived here, no other customers have hired a chamber. The tavern was a mere front,' he continued. 'A fitting disguise for a man who earned his gold by cutting throats. So now, let's see what proof we can find.'

  We scoured that tavern from the garret to the cellar but Boscombe was like all the professional killers I have met. A very tidy man, neat and precise. Not a stick was out of place, nothing seemed untoward. At last we broke into his own chamber but, there again there seemed to be nothing remarkable - a sword, a dagger, tavern accounts, some silver and gold in a small chest -until we searched the large aumbry or cupboard which stood beside the bed. It contained more clothes than a simple taverner should have owned. Robes, cloaks, broad-brimmed hats, satin breeches, jerkins of different textures and colours, boots and shoes, wigs and hair-pieces. On the floor at the back was a small chest full of face paints, the sort mummers and players use to daub their faces when making a presentation.

  'His disguises,' Benjamin remarked. 'But what else?'

  On a shelf was a sheaf of documents, all associated with the tavern, though we did find bills bearing the marks of Oswald and Imelda for pies and other pastries sold to the Flickering Lamp. We then searched the bed and at last Benjamin's suspicions were proved correct. Behind the chest, at the foot of the small four-poster, was a secret cupboard, noticeable only to someone making a thorough search. Inside were a few personal items: a letter in French, the ink faded; a lock of hair, neatly waxed to the bottom.

  'Some lady love,' Benjamin remarked.

  He pulled out the rest: a receipt from a goldsmith in Nottingham; a gilt-edged dagger and a small box containing about four or five phials. Benjamin sniffed at these and pulled a face.

  'Poisons!' he declared.

  Finally he pulled out a large flask with a stopper on. Benjamin undid this. He told me to bring a cup from the bedside table and poured a little in. For a while he sniffed at it, then laughed softly.

  'What is it?' I asked.

  'Valerian' he replied.

  'He had trouble sleeping!' I exclaimed.

  'I don't think so,' Benjamin replied, putting the stopper back in. 'Men like Boscombe have no conscience. They sleep like a babe, as did those poor soldiers at Malevel Manor.'

  Chapter 13

  Benjamin refused to say any more, becoming more concerned about Boscombe's corpse.

  'It's important,' my master insisted, 'that no one at court learns that he has been killed.'

  We went back to the taproom, took the cadaver and put it in a cellar behind some vats. After that we packed our belongings and collected our horses from the nearby stable.

  'Where to, master?' I asked. 'Eltham? Westminster?'

  'No,' Benjamin replied. 'Malevel. We need to be there.'

  We rode through the night. Benjamin showed the guards at the city gates his special pass and we were allowed through. The first streaks of dawn were lighting the sky as we approached Malevel Manor: in the half-light, its shadowy shape reminded me of some animal crouched, ready to spring. Kempe's men were still on guard at the gatehouse. Benjamin told them to stay at their posts and look after our horses whilst we were at the manor. We opened the front door and went in. An eerie place, black as Hell! The air was stale, yet something else filled my senses. A reek of evil, of wickedness. I wondered if the ghosts of Lady Isabella and the fifteen soldiers slaughtered there watched and waited for justice to be done. Dirt from the cellar still lay heaped on the gallery floor. Dust covered the tables and chairs in the

  kitchen. For a while Benjamin wandered around: up and down stairs, along galleries. I could hear him as he went, floorboards creaking, the house groaning as if it resented our presence. I sat in the kitchen trying to control my own fears and reflecting on my master's confrontation with Boscombe. Everything had now started to fit into place yet it still didn't explain the mystery surrounding the Orb, or how the dreadful murders at Malevel had been carried out. Benjamin came back.

  'What now, master?' I asked. 'And why didn't you tell me about Boscombe?' I challenged.

  'Roger, Roger.' Benjamin patted me reassuringly on the shoulder. 'I didn't really know myself. Only after the attack on you in the church did my suspicions harden into certainty. You see, whilst you were gone, I grew concerned. I went looking for Boscombe, only to find that he himself was nowhere in the tavern.'

  'But he must have been working with someone else?' 'Yes, yes, he was ...'

  (Well, Benjamin actually did voice his suspicions and now my secretary, that little marmoset, that ticklebrain of a quill-pusher, that smelly pudding-bag, is jumping up and down. 'Tell me! Tell me!' he cries. I rap him across the knuckles with my new ash cane. A gentle tap to remind him of his duties. I can't tell him now! The Queen would object: she wants my memoirs to be written as events unfolded. I mean, here is my little puddle-brain of a chaplain; who runs to London to watch Coriolanus and Faust: he'd certainly object if someone came on the stage at the beginning of Act Three^and said, 'Well, that's it! The play has ended, this is what happened!' Ah, the little pudding-bag nods wisely. I have his attention again.)

  Benjamin became busy. I just sat rather surprised by what he had told me. However, once my master was immersed in a task, he was deaf to any questioning. Letters were written to Sir Thomas Kempe, Doctor Agrippa, Lord Theodosius and Master Cornelius. Kempe's ruffians at the gatehouse were given a penny each and despatched to deliver them. I went to a small ale-house nearby and bought some provisions: when I returned, Benjamin had cleaned the kitchen, wiping away the dust from the table and chairs.

  Kempe was the first to swagger in, accompanied by Agrippa and his lovely bullyboys. The sun had risen and it was good to have the sound of voices shattering the eerie silence of Malevel. Kempe swaggered into the kitchen.

  'Well, Daunbey?' He tossed his hat on the table and took a chair at the far end. 'You have a solution to this mystery?'

  'Of a sorts, Sir Thomas. But, first, Doctor Agrippa.'

  The warlock looked up expectantly. He sat on the stool to Kempe's right, his face wreathed in a smile like some benevolent parson greeting one of his parishioners.

  'Benjamin,' he declared, his eyes now blue, dancing with merriment. 'I can sense the end of a hunt! So you'll not be sailing on the PeppercornT

  'Perhaps not,' I snapped. I glanced at Sir Thomas. 'But others might.'

  'Now, now!' Agrippa stretched out one black-gloved hand, admiring the ring on one of his fingers.

  (A little affectation. Agrippa sometimes pushed a blood-red ruby ring over one of his gloved fingers. One of his henchmen once told me that it was a magical ring that housed a demon. I think that was a lie. Agrippa may have had his strange ways but he was as fallible as the rest of us.)

  'I have a favour to ask you,' Benjamin declared. 'Your lovely lads outside . .. ?'

  'Ah yes, my little boys.'

  Agrippa said it in such a way that I wondered about
the true relationship between him and some of the rather girlish-looking young men who made up his retinue.

  (Oh, don't get me wrong, appearances can be deceptive: as Will put it in the 'Merchant of Venice': 'The world is still deceived with ornament'. Agrippa's men were killers, one and all, professional assassins.)

  'I would like to borrow them,' Benjamin said.

  'To do what?'

  'A little game. A military exercise.'

  Agrippa agreed and called his henchmen into the hall.

  'Which of you?' Benjamin asked, studying their grinning faces. 'Can move as silently as a shadow? Stick a dagger into a man's back without him even hearing you come?'

  A young man, his hair falling in lovelocks down to his shoulders, minced forward looking rather bashful. He had a thin face, clean-shaven, with bright red lips but his eyes were dead.

  'I have been known to do that,' he offered. He grinned over his shoulder at his comrades.

  'Then all of you,' Benjamin declared, 'apart from this young man, scatter throughout the house. Take a seat in each room. And you? Your name?'

  'Robert,' 'Lovelocks' replied.

  'Ah yes, Robert. Once this is done, see how near you can get to each of your comrades without being discovered.'

  'And don't steal anything!' I shouted. 'I know you lot. A cozening gang, light-fingered ... !'

  'As if we would!' they all chorused back.

  'Do as Shallot says!' Agrippa snapped. 'No, no, Sir Thomas.' Agrippa pressed Kempe back in his chair. 'Now is not the time to protest. Let us see what happens?'