The Abbey Close

by Steven Veerapen

  ‘I had Archie do that. The witless imp can’t read. He thought it a game, to give the gents sport.’

  ‘And so you corrupted an innocent, ignorant child. Your cruelty knows no limits, Mistress Caldwell. You’re a foul creature,’ spat Martin.

  ‘Am I? Then the world and its people have made me so.’

  ‘Though they have not made a poet of you,’ Danforth observed. ‘But why not let the matter rest? Why bring this poor palliard in. Why cast up the past?’

  ‘Aye,’ Martin enjoined. ‘It’s he who brought Mr Danforth into suspicion of you. It’s your own foolishness has undone you.’

  ‘I had to live when you gentlemen returned to your master,’ she shrugged. ‘I could no’ go on as I had. I would have had Kennedy dead and honourably buried, and been a widow. Who,’ she asked, ‘would have doubted it, when the Lord Cardinal’s own men attested that my husband had returned, ill from his wanderin’, and left me what was mine? I should have put an end to it. It would have been the close of my troubles.’

  ‘As I said, you overplayed your hand. Had you left Kennedy out of it, I might not have wondered. Did you speed that poor creature’s death?’

  ‘I did not, sir, I swear to it. What, do you suspect poisons, the woman killer’s oldest friend? I am innocent of that charge at least. It’s this rotten and cruel world brought him to such a pass, led him to cough up his life, no’ me.’

  ‘No. You sought only to profit by it and bury with him your own misdeeds. It was a desperate act.’

  ‘Too late, too late. And had the girl been thought Mistress Brody and her father the murderer, still I’d have been in dire straits as long as I were thought married to a livin’ Kennedy.’

  ‘Brody ... did you kill him, mistress? Or did you have Archie do it?’

  ‘What?’ asked Martin, angry, ‘corrupt the boy even into doing that wicked deed?’

  ‘No. That wee idiot Archie came cryin’ like a lamb when Brody tried to break into the stable and steal your horses. The old ruin thought to escape the burgh by ridin’ out over the Well Meadow and beyond. I left Archie in the house and caught the shamblin’ wastrel in the act.’

  ‘And then you drowned him in the horse trough and dragged him through the woods to dump him. He still had straw from yonder stable about him. You have been a busy hostess.’

  ‘It was a busy night,’ she cackled without humour. ‘Well, they say there’s no rest for the wicked, and I suppose I prove there’s some truth to that, eh? I had to lie that creature down on my bed,’ she shuddered, ‘and then was disturbed by Brody. He’s lucky to have had so easy a death. It is easier the after the first time, you know. Once damned, there’s no fear of killin’ again. It was thankful I was that the hoor had returned on my own palfrey. I tossed him over it and took him through the woods to the river, though it would no’ take him.’ She shivered. ‘Reminded me of the other week. Goin’ through the woods wi’ the same horse, that time wi’ Agnes’ body over it. Scared that someone would find us there in the woods, and knowin’ if I was caught in the act I’d be killed for it. Locked away by the men of this town and killed for tryin’ to make my own justice. The moon was out then too, over the river... You might thank me. I was able to wash your shirts while I was at labour.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martin, realisation dawning. ‘That old prune Clacher said that your husband and Mistress Blackwood had taken off with your stable of horses, and yet that fine grey palfrey sits out there. It’s the dead woman’s horse.’

  ‘The horse was once mine, and is mine again, for whatever time I have left. Well, gentlemen, now you know all. I would that it had been otherwise.’ Her eyes bored into Danforth’s, and he turned his eyes downwards. ‘But what’s done is done and can’t be undone.’

  Martin gazed at her with barely concealed disgust. Danforth, however, looked upon her with pity. The woman was wicked, her crimes monstrous. Three people lay dead at her hands – each of them unpleasant creatures themselves. If her husband had not tried to desert her, he would live still. If his mistress had not blackmailed her, she would live still. If Brody had not treated his daughter so savagely, she might not have fled him, and he might live still. He looked beyond her, over the fire, to the passageway. There was likely no hope for the creature in the back room. He had been selected because he bore a passing resemblance to her husband. If anything, his part in the wild business had probably given him a more comfortable final few days than had been left to roam in the November air. Mistress Caldwell was a crooked, twisted creature. But she need not have been so.

  ‘And so, gentlemen, what’s to become of me? The gallows? The fire?’ A quiver of real fear came into her voice at the latter. ‘There’s no help for me. I am no’ insane. Or perhaps I was, when Kennedy tried to flee. But no longer. By Christ, I’m glad to be rid of it all. I’ve thought about quittin’ this world many times in the past years. I was a fool to think that I might yet hope for somethin’ different.’ A strange, glazed look passed over her face. The saintly look she had adopted when feigning her husband’s return had gone, replaced with the waxen effigy of a death mask.

  ‘I hope they burn you,’ said Martin. ‘No matter what that wench did to you, you beat the life from her like a very devil. I’ve never heard the like of it. I hope they burn you.’ Danforth put a hand out to stifle him.

  ‘Peace, Martin. The lady accepts her fate.’ Danforth shuddered. It was right, he supposed, that she pay for the lives she had taken with her own. But the reality of it, of knowing that one now living must have their candle snuffed out, never made the knowledge any more pleasant.

  ‘All I’ve ever done,’ said Mistress Caldwell, her voice low, ‘is accept my fate. I’ll go wi’ you, gentlemen, wherever you’re pleased to take me. Death by the noose is preferable to life in this burgh, wi’ its loose tongues and hateful eyes.’

  ‘We must take you to the Tolbooth,’ said Danforth. ‘Though I confess that, despite your crimes, it would grieve me to leave anyone in that place, and with such a gaoler.’ She barked laughter again, wild and humourless.

  ‘Fear no’. I have no desire to escape. Not now.’ She started to ease herself out of the chair. ‘May I fetch my things? They are no’ many. I would no’ go to that place wi’out my beads.’ Danforth nodded slowly, watching her. She paused in the doorway and turned ‘It’s this town has brought me to this. This town and these people. Men’s justice, men’s rule.’

  ‘It is yourself, madam.’

  ‘And now they’ll kill me for it.’

  ‘You have killed yourself.’

  ‘Is that loathsome creature Logan still actin’ as gaoler?’

  ‘I believe he shall be your keeper, until the end be near.’ He did not like the strange gleam in her eyes. They had sharpened, somehow, brightened. ‘Whatever you might be thinking, whatever the Devil is whispering in your ear, I bid you do not entertain it. You might make a good Christian death yet, and be forgiven in time.’

  ‘It’s as you say then, sir. I’ve killed myself. Yet I think this town shall no’ forget me. Goddamn them, they’ll no’ forget me. Nor will you, or that Abbey and its precious men.’ She gave him a long, hard look back and then trod heavily into the back room. He reached out again to stop Martin when he made to follow. ‘Sir, she might yet try and flee – the woman’s an inveterate liar, a madwoman. Beads! She’s murdered three people, one of them a young woman.’

  ‘I think she will not flee.’

  ‘Think on, sir. I’m going outside, to the stables. That would be her means of escape.’

  ‘Better you find the baillies. Bring them hither with speed.’

  Martin hurried out the front door, leaving Danforth to wait on Mistress Caldwell. He moved over to the fire, which was burning itself out. It was over. The Church would not be damaged; the damned Prior would have his secret buried, no one knowing of the elopement of Kate Brody and Brother Hector; Brody might be buried in hallowed ground. But it did not feel like an ending. Still the Church might be damaged by
the Lutherans, unless they could be unmasked. He held up his hands. They were cold, but the mournful, failing, peat-fuelled flames did little. Danforth was surprised to feel a tear running down one cheek.

  Left alone with the corpse, it seemed to lose a little of its power. Often he had seen death and borne witness to its aftermath, but knowing something of the motives that led to it robbed it of its awesome terror. Death had not cut a swathe through this burgh – humans had fought and lost their own petty battles, like animals baited in a ring.

  Martin returned with Pattison and Semple, and graciously told them the whole story, and their part in it. Pattison marched an unprotesting Mistress Caldwell off to the Tolbooth; she refused to speak in defence or confession, but retained an odd smile. The long day spun out like a web, turning into a gossamer night. Semple listened, at first disbelieving, and then with avid interest and excitement. He examined vagrant’s body closely, agreeing that, despite the resemblance, it was not Tam Kennedy. Some burgh servants, he said, would be sent to unearth the remains of the real Kennedy. He then left to write to his peers in Ayr, asking them to confirm that Agnes Blackwood had abandoned her lodgings, that he might confirm that her body lay in the churchyard of St Nicholas. Martin studiously omitted any reference to a monk leaving with Kate Brody on a ship bound for Ireland, looking directly at Danforth as he stated that Jardine had seen her quite alone. Undoubtedly the baillies would ask Jardine; Martin felt that the big fellow would be true to his word. For some hours Martin repeated himself, was queried on points, and emphasised others. Arrangements were made for the remains of the vagabond to be taken away the next morning: some of the burgesses’ servants would do it. Martin did not ask where it was to be taken.

  When they had gone, leaving the bodies on the flock bed, Danforth and Martin went outside and woke up a sleeping Archie. ‘Wake, Archie, arise, you little cur,’ said Martin.

  ‘Whit is it, sir? Shall ye be wantin’ the horses?’

  ‘No; peace, Archie. I have news.’

  ‘Is it the war? We invaded after a’?’

  ‘Be quiet, I said, and listen. Your mistress is taken.’

  ‘Whit, taken where?’ He looked from one man to the other.

  ‘The Tolbooth. She is likely to die.’

  ‘Whit?’ he repeated. ‘The mistress dyin’ an a’? Ye’re at it. She’s strong as any’hin.’

  ‘It’s her strength that will see her to the hangman,’ he said. ‘I thought you ought to be told.’

  ‘Thank ye, sir,’ said Archie, confused. To Danforth’s surprise, tears began to roll down the boy’s dirty cheek.

  ‘Why tears, Archie? asked Martin. ‘That woman was a beast to you. She gave you neither peace or love, despite your lodging in her house, near to kin as can be.’

  ‘Ah knowed them both a lang space. Since ‘fore Ah kin mind,’ he said, sobbing. ‘Whit’s tae become o’ me now?’

  ‘Be still, boy. You might remain here as a servant yet, unless we can find some better position for you. We’ll see. Be of better cheer, and trust in your friends.’

  ‘Thank ye, sir, thank ye. And you,’ he said to Danforth, who still stood silent. They left the boy weeping on his straw.

  Returning to the front room, Martin asked, ‘are we to stay here tonight, in this charnel house? I do not know that I can bear it.’

  ‘Worry not, Martin,’ said Danforth, kneading his forehead. ‘That poor soul cannot hurt us. None of them can. You have some plans in store for that little urchin, now his keepers are gone?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘I fear it will be the worse for him, living without masters.’

  ‘I have some thoughts on that, sir. But not for tonight. You know, I can scarcely credit all that I have seen. I felt certain that the dead girl was Kate Brody, and that the Prior knew who had slain her. I confess I was beginning to suspect that he might have ordered it himself.’

  ‘You have heard too many vulgar and sordid tales of England’s wicked monks, embroidered by their detractors to bring our faith into hatred.’

  ‘It might be so, sir. I might reflect on that later. But what drives a woman to such madness? At one time she was a girl, at another a bride. She was in no fever, she did not starve. I cannot imagine how she could indulge in such horrors.’

  ‘I think,’ said Danforth, ‘that not all madness is raving and fury. Some of it is cunning, and the more wicked for it.’

  ‘Then you think some devil came into her and lodged there these last years?’

  ‘Perhaps. I cannot say. But I have thought on it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘There must be many devils, Martin, to account for all the evils in the world. I am no theologian, no divine – but I have considered before that the devil might cast himself in pieces, and scatter those pieces about the world of men. Perhaps one fragment was attracted to Mistress Caldwell, poor, abandoned creature that she was, and it took possession of her soul.’

  ‘That’s possible, sir. But it’s not a goodly thought.’

  ‘Is there anything pleasant to be found in these events?’

  ‘No.’ Martin’s face was uncharacteristically solemn, his voice low. ‘I just ... it’s just that I can’t believe how deceived we were in her. She was like an actor, on a stage, and we fell for her turn.’

  ‘Ach, all people are actors, Arnaud, masquers, players. We are all of us sewn together from the threads of all the people we have known, or loved, or admired. Or hated. No man or woman is truly his own. Each of us learns our nature. If we are lucky, we blend together good natures. Some are corrupted and weaved together from bad ones.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘It is just as I see it. I have an idea on how the world is ordered, you see.’

  ‘Aye, I think I remember something about that,’ said Martin. ‘When we were having a drink the other night. What’s the idea?’

  ‘Only this. Picture a great tapestry, that runs on forever. That is the world. God’s tapestry, spinning out into eternity. We are each a small part of it, all in ordered rows, kings at the top, and clergy, and then nobility, and down to us, and the animals at the bottom. Some of us are blessed. We can boast bright threads. Others are composed of frayed ones.’

  ‘That’s the idea? A great tapestry of folk going on forever?’

  ‘Yes, forever. Eternally. Millions upon millions of tiny people, including us, stitched into it. And devils, demons, can pull on the frayed threads, making those poor folk come unstuck. Like God, they are not in the tapestry, but stand apart from it.’

  ‘If she were possessed by some devil, might she have been saved by a priest?’

  ‘I cannot say. Somehow I do not think so. But the devil would not forbear to make mischief in such a holy land. Let us pray that if such a thing took hold of Mistress Caldwell, it shall be cast back into Hell with her death. I should not speak of this aloud, Martin. We want to bring no greater scandal upon the heads of these folk, for all they are a prideful, revel-loving lot.’

  ‘For now, all I should like is to make an end of this unpleasant day, and I hope to all the strange happenings in this burgh.’

  Danforth nodded gratefully. When he finally retired to bed, he cried, though he did not know for what exactly. Sleep, when it came, was welcome. Though he was lodged in the grimy shack of murderess, a house of the dead, no dreams plagued him.

  21

  The morning dawned, for Danforth, with a new and strange feeling. For the first time since coming to Paisley, there was no feeling of outstanding business. The Paisley libels had been the work of Mistress Caldwell, eager to distract them from her antics, and the murder of the young woman and her father – or, rather, the man people thought was her father – had been discovered and passed into the hands of the authorities. He could return to life as the Cardinal’s English secretary, tasked only with closing the business of slanderous bills attacking his Grace.He would have to refashion his mind to it.

  He did not rise early to go to Mass. He was eager
to avoid the people of the burgh. Even Mistress Clacher, despite the flea Martin had put in her ear, would be unwilling to pass up the opportunity to harass with incessant questions the men who had lodged under the roof of the murderess. Besides, he had other plans for worship. He spent his time instead writing out a full report of everything that had happened, that he had witnessed, and that Mistress Caldwell had told him and Martin before she had been taken. Committing her actions and her words to paper removed her from the real world, somehow, placing her in the land of legal documents: the realm of stories.

  Eventually Martin’s customary light rap roused him. He poked his head in without waiting for a response. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Martin. I trust you slept well?’

  ‘Not so very well, to be honest. You?’ Danforth noted that he was fully dressed, like himself.

  ‘Well indeed. I have come to think, you know, that we each create our own dreams and with them our own torments. Have you been out to Mass?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve been talking with Archie.’ He ignored Danforth’s bemused gaze and continued. ‘I have bid him keep the house secure until the baillies arrive. For I think we shall not spend another night here.’

  ‘Nor even a day. We shall flit forthwith. Does the little varlet not fear to stay here alone?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. He’s a stouter lad than he seems. I think he’s rather less fearful than he was when Caldwell ruled him.’

  ‘Very well. Have you packed your things?’ Martin opened the door wider, and hunched forward the pack he had slung over his shoulder. ‘Marvellous. Come in and read this report. If you are agreed, you might add your signature below mine.’ As Martin quoted the text aloud, Danforth began gathering up the last of his own possessions and put them in his pack. ‘Now let us be out of here and away. I should like to see the Abbey now that it has been cleansed in my mind. There I might make good my penance.’