A Shrine of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  At last Thomasina, chattering like a magpie, persuaded her mistress to return to her chamber, where Kathryn put on her hose and soft-leather brown boots, dabbed a little paint on her face and finished her preparations. Doors were locked, instructions issued to a sleepy-eyed Agnes, and then the three walked into Ottemelle Lane. They went up St Margaret’s Street through the Mercery and into Bur-gate, shadowed by the soaring turrets, towers and gables of the cathedral. Canterbury was fairly deserted; only the muck-rakers, the night-watch and a half-drunken rat-catcher prowled the streets.

  ‘A late time for supper,’ Colum murmured, his arm now linked firmly through that of Thomasina’s, whom he was gently teasing.

  ‘But physicians are different,’ he added wickedly, glancing sideways at Kathryn, who walked serenely beside him. ‘They can sup late on the fruits of their wealth.’

  Thomasina caught his mood and pointed to the soldier’s gold amulet. ‘At least our wealth is well-earned, Master Murtagh. Not fleeced from that of others!’

  The Irishman laughed, now in good spirits, as Thomasina’s wicked tongue wagged freely. They easily found the collegium, a large timbered four-storied building in Queningate Lane with a good view of both the cathedral grounds and those of St. Augustine’s Abbey. It was really three buildings formed into one, with a large porticoed entrance guarded by wooden gates. Kathryn had heard of such establishments existing in London and Paris, where physicians pooled their resources and skills to amass larger profits as well as establish greater control of their trade. Canterbury, however, was populous enough, with its own burgesses, as well as the thousands of pilgrims, that Kathryn and her father never had any reason to object to such a practice. Thomasina gazed rather enviously at the mullioned windows, the freshly painted black beams and the white gleaming plaster. Colum was equally admiring.

  ‘God be praised!’ he whispered. ‘Not even in all of Dublin could such a house be found. It’s true what the King says: his merchants are princes and he wants to be one of them!’

  Colum rapped at the small postern gate, which was quickly opened by a porter who led them into a yard brightly lit by spluttering torches of pitch and tar fixed on iron brackets in the wall. The yard was as spacious as that of some great tavern, with outhouses, stables, storerooms and a large cone-roofed kitchen which was linked to the rest of the house by a long gallery. Behind this rose a steep red brick wall, and even from where they stood, Kathryn could hear the noise of children playing and shouting.

  ‘That’s where their garden must be,’ Thomasina whispered. ‘A real garden, Mistress. Why should someone who lives here carry out bloody murders?’

  ‘You should go to London,’ Colum jibed. ‘The palaces there are full of assassins.’

  Any further banter was abruptly curtailed by the appearance of Chaddedon and Darryl. Both men were carefully dressed in high-collared white shirts tied at the neck by a small gold chain and sleeveless gowns padded and quilted and trimmed with costly lamb’s-wool against the cool night air. Darryl was formal, and his greeting muted, but Chaddedon’s pleasure at seeing Kathryn was more than apparent. He kissed Thomasina warmly on the cheeks, clasped Colum’s rather reluctant hand and kissed Kathryn gallantly on the fingertips. Kathryn blushed. Chaddedon’s eyes were full of gentle mockery, as if he relished such teasing. He stepped back and spread his hands wide.

  ‘You are most welcome to our humble establishment. But come, the others wait.’

  Chaddedon led them into the house and along a long wood-panelled passageway into a ground-floor solar. The room was large and spacious, with leaden-paned windows, shaped in lozenges, some of them tinted with colour. A fire burning in the large canopied fireplace and candles and torches brought the room to life, making the shadows flicker against the tapestries and cloths hanging round the walls. The wealth of the house was quietly ostentatious: woollen rugs on the floor, high-backed, quilt-seated chairs, padlocked chests and cupboards, heraldic shields above the fireplace. At the far end on a small dais stood a large oaken table prepared for supper. Silver-branched candlesticks bathed the glass goblets, dishes and decanters in pools of shimmering light. A servant took their cloaks as Kathryn stared round in delight. If only her father had lived, he too might have reaped such rewards for his labours.

  ‘The rest are waiting,’ Chaddedon announced and led them over to the group who had now risen from their chairs around the fire. Straunge seemed thin and disapproving. Newington, soberly dressed, his hair groomed, his quick eyes watching everything, smiled thinly and nodded at Kathryn. Cotterell swayed dangerously on his feet, licking thick lips and looking bleary-eyed; he was already far gone in his cups. Beside him stood his wife, flaxen-haired and petite, with a pretty but somewhat sharp face. She reminded Kathryn of a doll she had once owned. Between Matthew Darryl and Newington was Marisa, the alderman’s daughter. She looked like her father, with her narrow face, thin lips and quick eyes. Both women were unwelcoming, making little attempt to put Kathryn or her companions at their ease. Chairs were brought, goblets of white wine served and desultory conversation made about the weather, the pilgrims and the news from the court in London. They wondered about the whereabouts of Faunte and other rebels and Straunge gave them a description of the new stained-glass window King Edward had commissioned for the cathedral. At last Chaddedon got to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.

  ‘On the third Thursday of every month,’ he announced, smiling at Kathryn, ‘we have a tradition here. A banquet is held, guests are invited.’ He waved airily towards the garden. ‘The children are at liberty to play long after dark.’

  Kathryn returned his smile, but the rest just stared; they knew this evening was different from any other, and even Chaddedon’s good humour could not move them. He looked directly at Colum.

  ‘Master Murtagh, you are welcome, as companion to the fair Mistress Swinbrooke as well as for being the King’s Commissioner in Canterbury.’ Chaddedon coughed. ‘Now, we know you have questions to ask. We, or at least I, could think of no better occasion than here at our feast, as we make our final preparations for the great mystery play at Holy Cross Church.’

  He coughed again and looked quickly at Darryl, who whispered to his wife. She and Cotterell’s lady rose and swiftly withdrew. Darryl followed them to the door, ushering out servants, and closed the door firmly behind them. Alderman Newington rose and stood at the corner of the hearth, one arm resting on the mantelpiece; he sipped from his wine goblet and looked at Colum.

  ‘Master Murtagh, your questions?’

  Colum did not rise but stared round the group of doctors, rich and powerful men all, who could buy him and all he possessed with a pittance of what they owned. He was conscious of Kathryn sitting beside him and of Thomasina, who had made no attempt to leave. The maid now stared, hard-faced, at the alderman whose angry looks betokened that he wished Kathryn’s maid were elsewhere. Colum tapped the side of his wine goblet with his fingers.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ he began. ‘And the reasons for my questions are known to you all. Murders have occurred and we think the assassin must be a physician.’ He held up one hand. ‘I know, I know – there could be others, but, like any judge’ – he emphasised the word – ‘I must first consider what is probable. Master Cotterell, you were called to one of the victims?’

  Cotterell just shrugged and slurped from his wine goblet. Colum breathed deeply to contain his anger.

  ‘Apart from that,’ he conceded, ‘there is little connection between anyone here and the victims. So let us concentrate on one fact. Yesterday, about noon, a merchant named Spurrier was murdered in the cathedral itself. So, where were you all?’ Colum eased himself in his chair. ‘I could ask you this singly, but it would be best if each of you answered in the presence of others. Master Cotterell, shall we begin with you?’

  The fat physician, his rubicund features glistening in the candle-light, made a rude sound with his lips.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I was making calls,’
Cotterell answered.

  ‘Where?’

  Cotterell smiled nervously. ‘At Saint Thomas’s Hospital and a house near Saint Alphege’s.’

  ‘And you can provide proof of this?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Then who in particular?’

  Now Cotterell looked at Kathryn. ‘I don’t have to answer in public.’

  Colum rose to his feet, his hand going to the dagger on his broad leather belt.

  ‘Oh, Sir, yes, you do.’

  Cotterell’s eyes pleaded with Kathryn.

  ‘Brantam was allowed his confession,’ he complained petulantly like a little boy. ‘Master Brantam walks out of the room and that’s the last we see of him.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Kathryn intervened quietly. She glanced up at Murtagh. ‘I see no point in revealing secrets. If Master Cotterell wishes to speak to me alone and he is later found to be a liar, then, perhaps, we have found our assassin.’

  Cotterell snorted. ‘I am no assassin!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Darryl snapped. ‘I, for one, do not wish to hear Master Cotterell’s petty secrets. Let him have his way!’

  Chapter 9

  Kathryn could see the situation becoming acrimonious. She rose.

  ‘Master Cotterell, if you please?’

  And, without further ado, she took him down the solar, out of earshot of the rest.

  Cotterell swayed dangerously in front of her, his eyes bleary, his lips thick and slobbery.

  ‘What was Brantam up to?’ he slurred.

  ‘That, Sir, is no business of yours,’ Kathryn lied and made to walk back to join the rest.

  Cotterell caught her gently by the sleeve.

  ‘Brantam’s a bastard!’ he hissed. ‘And my wife will lie for him as well as with him!’ Cotterell looked over his shoulder at the rest of the group, then back at Kathryn. ‘There’s a young man, Robert Chirke. He owns a tenement near Saint Alphege’s church. I was visiting him.’ Cotterell looked away nervously. ‘I don’t have to say any more,’ he mumbled.

  ‘How long were you there?’

  ‘From noon until two, three o’clock.’

  ‘A long time to spend with a patient,’ Kathryn murmured drily.

  ‘Make of it what you will,’ Cotterell whispered. ‘But I see no reason for the rest to know.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ Kathryn replied. ‘But be careful, Master Cotterell; the law is hard on those men who love other men, shall we say, in the full biblical sense?’

  Cotterell stared at her under heavy-lidded eyes. ‘And what about wives who fornicate?’ He laughed. ‘A pretty couple, aren’t we? An adulteress and a sodomite.’ His lips parted. ‘I have no time for the bloody priests and their talk of Hell after death. I am in Hell now,’ Cotterell pleaded. He waved a hand drunkenly. ‘But what’s the sodding use?’

  He turned and lumbered back to his chair. Kathryn followed. She nodded at Colum, who now turned to the rest.

  ‘Well, Sirs?’

  ‘I can speak for all of us.’ Chaddedon got to his feet. ‘Yesterday afternoon we were receiving patients, and after that we all went across to Holy Cross Church to supervise preparations for the Guild play.’

  ‘So, you were moving in and out of the house?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Straunge snapped. ‘There were times when we were alone. We live ordinary lives,’ he continued. ‘I went up to the market in Burgate to buy some cloth. Master Darryl here met an acquaintance in the Red Lion Inn, whilst Chaddedon was the first to leave for Holy Cross Church.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ Newington interrupted. ‘I called in here that afternoon.’ He smiled. ‘Marisa is my only daughter and her children are now my family.’ He spread his hands and grinned sheepishly at his son-in-law. ‘Matthew here knows there’s another reason.’ Newington waved a hand airily. ‘This collegium represents one of my great investments. I stood surety when this house was bought.’ He coughed nervously. ‘Who can blame me for coming down to check that my stock is going well?’

  A murmur of laughter greeted his words and Kathryn sensed how much the alderman’s generosity and support was appreciated by the rest.

  ‘So,’ Colum said harshly, ‘none of you can give me a full explanation of what you were doing? It’s quite possible for one of you to have donned a cloak, joined the stream of pilgrims, administered the poison and disappeared.’

  ‘Yes,’ Chaddedon replied. ‘All things are possible, Master Murtagh. We have talked about this amongst ourselves. Any one of us could have slipped away and committed this terrible crime and planned another. But, for God’s sake, man, I still say there are others in Canterbury who could have done the same.’

  ‘I agree,’ Newington heatedly added. ‘Luberon and I have named these men, but there could be others. Although,’ Newington concluded hastily, catching the warning glint in Colum’s eyes, ‘I cannot see who it could be. I have scrutinised Luberon’s list. All the rest are too old, infirm, or elsewhere.’

  The alderman gently drummed his fist against the fireplace and smiled. ‘At the same time,’ he continued, ‘we cannot blame Master Murtagh or Mistress Swinbrooke. The news of these murders is now common rumour. Already the hostelries and taverns are reporting a drop in trade, and Luberon has told me that the men elected to the King’s new parliament will present a petition complaining of the terrible murders being committed in this city.’

  ‘Have you told my colleagues,’ Kathryn asked, ‘what we discovered this afternoon?’

  Newington shook his head. ‘It was not my place, Mistress.’

  ‘What is this?’ Darryl asked. ‘Have you discovered something else?’

  Kathryn laced her fingers together and carefully watched the faces of the physicians.

  ‘The murderer selects his victims by profession. In itself that was a mystery until we realised that the poet Chaucer, in his Canterbury Tales, lists the same professions in the prologue of his poem.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’ Darryl asked.

  ‘Master Darryl, I think I made myself clear. Do you know the poet Chaucer or his work?’

  Darryl shook his head and looked at his father-in-law. ‘No, I do not. Father, do you?’

  ‘Only the poet’s name. Nothing else.’

  ‘Master Cotterell?’ Colum asked.

  The physician shuffled his feet and nodded his head. ‘Yes, yes. In fact, I have a copy of the Canterbury Tales.’

  ‘So do we,’ Chaddedon spoke up. ‘Matthew, have you forgotten?’ He turned to Straunge. ‘Edmund, you are my witness. Last Michaelmas we were looking at a copy in our own library.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t read it!’ Darryl retorted.

  Chaddedon shrugged. ‘Matthew, Matthew, I am not saying you have. A question was asked and I am answering it. We have a copy in our library upstairs. Both Straunge and I have read it.’

  ‘Is it a crime now,’ Cotterell bleated, ‘to have read a poet’s work? The poet Chaucer is well known. Many have read it, some have not. Possession of his poetry is no proof of murder.’

  Kathryn shrugged. ‘I agree. I simply asked a question.’

  ‘Do you have any more such questions?’ Darryl asked.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Colum intervened. ‘But let me ask them. We have an assassin who is poisoning pilgrims visiting the shrine of the Blessed Thomas. Mistress Swinbrooke believes that the murderer has a grudge against the shrine. Possibly someone who went there for a cure and was sorely disappointed. Would this apply to any of you?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Darryl shouted and got to his feet, staring angrily at the hour-candle. ‘I am hungry. It’s time we feasted and not sit here whiling away the night with stupid questions!’

  ‘Stupid they may be,’ Kathryn replied, ‘but they still demand an answer.’

  ‘Sit down, Matthew,’ Newington ordered. ‘I think I can answer for everyone here save Master Cotterell.’ The alderman hitched his robes closer about him. ‘My wife, Marisa’s mother, died eight years ago. A year
later, Master Straunge lost both his parents during a visitation of the sweating sickness.’

  ‘I am no different,’ Chaddedon quickly interrupted. ‘My wife, sickly after the birth of our only daughter three years previously, also died; followed eight months later by my own mother.’

  Kathryn closed her eyes; she felt as if she was intruding on matters which really did not concern her.

  ‘Master Cotterell?’ Colum asked quickly to break the silence.

  The fat physician stared back, his eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘When the plague came,’ he answered quietly, ‘the old always died; I am no different from the rest. I lost my mother and an aunt. One day they were in the market together, the next they were on their deathbeds, spitting out their life-blood.’ He rose and went across to fill his wine-cup. ‘I have answered enough.’

  His reply was echoed by the rest. Kathryn glanced quickly at Colum, wordlessly warning him that any further questions would only alienate their hosts.

  Colum rose and spread his hands. ‘There, our task is done. We crave pardon for any offence caused, but none was intended. Master Darryl, you are right.’ Colum sniffed the fragrant odours wafting through the hall. ‘My stomach believes my throat is cut!’

  They all rose to their feet, chorusing approval at his remarks, though Kathryn still felt their hostility. Darryl led them out of the hall along a passageway through a side door into a long beautiful garden, lit by torchlight and thick beeswax candles under metal caps. The light bathed a broad expanse of green lawn which ran down to raised flower- and herb-beds. The air was thick with the fragrant sweet smell of roses and other flowers. Cotterell’s and Darryl’s wives were sitting on a wooden bench, chatting quietly and watching three children chase one another up and down the paved paths between the flower-beds.