by Paul Doherty
‘Fitzroy won’t meet me in a field,’ he murmured. ‘He’s an assassin, he could be in that crowd watching us now. No, when he strikes it will be like a thief in the night, suddenly and unexpectedly.’ Colum felt a shiver between his shoulder-blades. He urged his horse forward. ‘Kathryn,’ he warned. ‘I’ll be blunt. Don’t unlock your door to any stranger. Fitzroy is no respecter of persons.’
Chapter 6
Once inside the castle, Gabele and Fletcher took them through a warren of corridors up a flight of stairs and into the small chapel. A polished wooden coffin, ringed by purple candles, lay on trestles before the simple stone altar. Kathryn detected the stench of corruption, of putrefaction like that of a death house. Gabele removed the lid of the coffin.
‘I didn’t nail it down.’ He glanced quickly at Kathryn. ‘I thought you may wish to look.’
Kathryn did, then turned away. Webster’s corpse had not been prepared for burial. Still dressed in the clothes he had died in, the top part of his body looked misshapen, his battered head almost pushed down between his shoulders. Kathryn swallowed and went back to study the body more closely, remembering her father’s words.
‘Don’t be frightened of a corpse, Kathryn. It’s only the shell from which the spirit has now gone. Be gentle and remember there is nothing to fear.’
She told Gabele to remove the lid completely and, grasping Webster’s head between her hands, turned it round.
‘One side of the face is battered.’ She spoke clearly and matter-of-factly. ‘The fall was a great one, the neck and shoulder bones are broken.’ She pointed to the left side of his face. ‘This is how he hit the ground.’ She glanced up but all three men had turned away. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she breathed, ‘you have all seen corpses in your life!’
Colum walked across.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘turn the corpse over.’
Colum did so and Kathryn carefully examined the shattered head. She was about to withdraw her hand but felt again, just behind the right ear, and stood back.
‘Strange,’ she muttered.
‘What is?’ Gabele asked.
‘Well,’ Kathryn said, ‘Sir William fell from the wall.’ She used her hand to demonstrate. ‘The body would spin and turn like a stone. Now, Sir William, when he hit the ground, fell on his left side. Hence the damage to that side of his face and head. He didn’t hit any of the brickwork in his fall, so the right side of his head and face is relatively undamaged.’
‘So?’ Colum asked.
‘Why is there a lump behind his right ear?’ Kathryn replied. ‘To answer you bluntly, before he fell from the tower, Sir William was struck on the back of the head.’
‘Does that mean,’ Fletcher asked, ‘somebody else was on top of the tower with Sir William?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ Gabele asserted. ‘Sir William locked the trapdoor behind him whilst the guards on the parapet-walk below only saw Sir William.’
‘Someone,’ Colum said, ‘could have been waiting on the tower for Sir William?’
‘Impossible!’ Gabele replied. ‘There’s no place to hide up there. Moreover, Sir William was walking around for some time before he fell. Surely he would have noticed and raised the alarm.’
‘It’s useless to speculate,’ Kathryn interrupted. ‘Master Gabele, you say the top of the tower is still padlocked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s time we went up there, isn’t it?’
Gabele sent for the guards, three country lads who had been on sentry duty on the parapet below the tower keep. They all agreed that they had seen Sir William.
‘Oh, aye,’ one of them, a gap-toothed lad, said. ‘He always went there, God rest him, wearing his beaver hat, his military cloak wrapped about him. I waved at him and he waved back.’
‘Did you see anyone else there?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Don’t forget, Mistress, we were on the parapet-walk looking up, some sixty feet! Still, we didn’t see anyone else. The only thing we did glimpse were the flames from the brazier Sir William always lit to keep himself warm.’
‘And you saw that this morning?’
‘Oh, aye.’
‘And how did Sir William seem?’
‘As I said,’ the gap-toothed fellow replied, ‘I waved at him. He waved and shouted some greeting back. I was too far away to hear exactly.’
‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’
‘No,’ they all chorused.
‘And you saw Sir William’s fall?’
‘Well, Mistress, we were walking about,’ one of them replied. ‘We look out over the walls towards the town. We had been there for hours. Suddenly I hear a cry. I turn and catch a blur of colour. I hear a thump, and when I look down, Sir William’s body lies flat on the bailey-yard.’
‘You heard a scream?’ Colum persisted.
‘That’s what I said.’
Colum shook his head, nonplussed. ‘Master Gabele—’ He placed a coin on the table. ‘A drink for these three veterans, but only after we have forced the trapdoor.’
Gabele, Fletcher, the three eager soldiers in front, took Kathryn and Colum along more corridors and up the gloomy spiral staircase to the top of the tower. The steps were narrow, the climb steep, and they all had to stop to catch their breath before continuing. At last the stone staircase ended at a great wooden trapdoor to the roof above. Looking to her right, Kathryn saw a large window embrasure the size of a man, its great shutters held firmly closed by a thick wooden bar.
‘That’s just under the tower,’ she remarked.
‘Yes, Mistress.’
‘And what’s it for?’
‘A small sally-port,’ Colum explained. ‘If the castle is ever attacked, the besiegers would bring ladders or siege towers against the keep. The defenders would open those doors and be able to knock ladders off or set the siege towers ablaze.’
‘Couldn’t besiegers break in there?’ Kathryn asked.
Gabele smiled. ‘No, it would be reinforced and two good bowmen could defend that sally-port until the Second Coming.’
Kathryn stared at the wooden shutters.
‘What’s the matter?’ Fletcher gibed. ‘Surely you don’t think Sir William was thrown out of there, do you?’ He caught the angry look in Kathryn’s eyes and blushed. ‘I mean, Mistress, he was on the tower, with the trapdoor bolted!’
Colum decided to end the deputy constable’s embarrassment by ordering the soldiers to use the huge log they had brought from the bailey. Sweating and cursing, they began to hammer at the trapdoor. At last they broke through, the wood snapping, the trapdoor shuddering. Colum ordered them back. He pushed the trapdoor open and stepped out. Kathryn followed, gasping as the wind caught her breath and whipped her hair. She noticed the bolts and clasps, both on the inside and outside of the trapdoor, were now free. She walked gingerly towards the battlements, peered over and turned away, feeling rather dizzy at the awesome drop. Gabele popped his head through but Colum told him to stay as he examined the top of the tower. In a far corner the charcoal brazier only held a pile of white dust. Colum knelt and carefully examined the footprints in the fine layer of sand which covered the surface of the tower.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ he whispered. ‘Kathryn, come here!’
She did, making her way carefully. Colum pointed to the footprints. ‘Webster’s!’ Colum explained. ‘The same imprint everywhere. There’s no sign of any other person being here on the tower top with Webster.’ He stared around, wiping the sand from his hands. ‘Mistress, are you sure Webster was knocked on the back of the head? For if he was, then it’s a real mystery. Here is a man who climbs to the top of the tower and bolts the trapdoor behind him. He stays here for some while, the sentries vouch for that. The sand shows no one was hiding here; moreover, there’s no place of concealment. So how did the murderer come through a locked trapdoor, walk across sand without leaving his imprint, seize the Constable without a struggle, knock him on t
he head and toss him over the battlements, all undetected by the guards? Then’ – Colum sighed – ‘leave the tower, somehow managing to bolt it from the inside?’
Kathryn shook her head angrily and walked back to the battlements. She looked over. Directly beneath her was the bailey-yard, bounded by a defensive wall, guards were patrolling its parapet-walk. Kathryn shook her head again and came back.
‘I have seen enough,’ she muttered.
Those on the stairs below withdrew to allow Colum and Kathryn back into the tower, then everyone went downstairs. The guards were dismissed and Gabele sent for Peter the chaplain and Fitz-Steven the clerk. They all met in the large sombre hall, sitting uncomfortably on benches just below the dais. Colum began the proceedings.
‘Now here’s a mystery,’ he declared.
He paused as Margotta entered the hall. She grinned girlishly at him and sat beside Gabele, her father.
Kathryn held her hand up. ‘Master Murtagh. Someone’s missing. Where’s our friend the Righteous Man, the pardoner?’
‘He’s gone into the city,’ Peter the chaplain explained. ‘The pilgrim season is at its height and the man is probably looking for a lucrative profit.’
‘Was he in the castle when Webster was killed?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Fitz-Steven the clerk spoke up. ‘He departed just before you arrived. Why, what is all this? I thought Sir William either fell or committed suicide.’
‘That is what we thought,’ Fletcher muttered. ‘But Mistress Swinbrooke here believes Sir William may have been knocked on the head and pushed.’
‘Nonsense!’ Fitz-Steven pompously declared. ‘Who would kill Sir William, and why? What proof do you have of this?’ He stared disdainfully at Kathryn. ‘Sir William was a lonely, rather quiet man. He had no enemies.’
‘I can’t answer your questions, Master Clerk,’ Kathryn replied. ‘If I did, I would solve every mystery under the sun. Nor did I say Sir William had enemies. Perhaps he suspected something was wrong.’
‘Such as?’
‘The truth behind Sparrow’s escape. Or Brandon’s death. Or even the whereabouts of the Eye of God.’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ the chaplain retorted.
‘Fiddlesticks, aye. One stick in particular,’ Kathryn said hotly, ‘hit Sir William on the right side of the head behind the ear. And I have one question for all of you. Did any of you go to join Sir William on the tower?’
Fitz-Steven got to his feet. ‘I don’t have to answer these questions from a mere woman.’
‘In which case your mother and I have a lot in common!’ Kathryn snapped.
Fitz-Steven pushed his face close to hers.
‘I have heard of you, Swinbrooke,’ he hissed, a malicious smile on his dirty, sweaty face. ‘Oh, yes, you with your airs and graces, your knowledge of physic, your appointment to the council or what’s left of it.’
‘Have you heard of me?’ Colum asked, rising and grasping Fitz-Steven by the shoulder. ‘Believe me, sir, I am famed neither for my good looks or my patience, and the latter you are sorely trying. I am the King’s Commissioner in this matter, and, if you are not careful I will educate you briefly in courtesy towards a lady.’
Kathryn raised her hand as Fitz-Steven opened his mouth to add insult to protest.
‘Please, sir, I beg you, sit down.’ She forced a smile. ‘My questions are well-meaning.’
The clerk slumped back on the bench. ‘Then, to answer you, Mistress, I went nowhere near the tower, nor did I notice anything untoward in Webster’s manner.’ He coughed. ‘A little subdued, perhaps, anxious that he may have betrayed the King’s trust, but nothing else.’
The rest chorused his answer.
‘Are you sure?’ Colum asked.
‘No, that’s not strictly true,’ Peter the chaplain said. ‘If he was concerned about anything, sir, then it wasn’t Brandon’s death, he saw that as an act of God.’ The priest chewed his lip. ‘He was more interested in Sparrow’s escape. Last evening, just before dusk, he asked me to come out onto the green before the keep. He played a strange mummery, asking me to pretend to be Sparrow whilst he was the poor turnkey who was killed.’
‘Why did he do that?’
‘I don’t know. He made me go to the middle of the green.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Gabele interrupted. ‘I wondered what you were doing there.’
‘Well, I did as he asked. Sir William pretended to be the turnkey who was killed. We tried to reconstruct the circumstances of Sparrow’s escape. I went into an enclave, Sir William followed, then, quite abruptly, he shook his head and walked away. That was all.’
‘He was very quiet last night,’ Margotta spoke up. ‘At table he just toyed with his food and retired early. He muttered something about you, Colum. He said he had to see you.’
‘Is there anything else?’ Kathryn quietly asked.
They all shook their heads. Colum declared that he was finished. He refused Gabele’s offer of refreshment and said they would find their own way out of the castle. Colum, however, waited until the rest had left the hall.
‘Kathryn, are you sure Webster was struck on the head before he fell?’
‘I am certain. And do you know something, Colum? I don’t think the guards heard Webster scream, that was someone else. I strongly suspect the poor constable was knocked unconscious before being sent spinning into eternity. He was murdered because of what he knew and it’s something to do with Sparrow’s escape.’
They left the hall, pausing for a while on the small green, then walked over to the shadowy recess in the bailey wall where Sparrow and the hapless turnkey had their grim encounter. Colum shook his head.
‘God knows what Webster was hoping to find. Perhaps, in time, it will come to us.’
They collected their horses and rode back into the city. Kathryn asked if Colum would accompany her, for she had calls to make at the Poor Priests’ Hospital. The Irishman agreed so they turned down Bullock Lane and into Steward Street. The sunshine had brought the crowds out. Pilgrims were making their way up from the hostelries to pay their respects to Becket’s shrine in the great cathedral. The streets were so raucous and thronged they had to dismount and lead their horses. As they passed Crocchere’s Lane, Kathryn heard her name called and groaned to see her kinsman Joscelyn, with his waspish-faced wife, bustling through the crowds towards her.
‘Good morrow, Kathryn. And you, Master Murtagh.’ Joscelyn’s narrow face was lit by a false smile.
Sanctimonious prig, Kathryn thought; she studied her kinsman’s prim face and tried to ignore the look of righteous disdain on that of his wife. Joscelyn was her father’s cousin, a spicer by trade and, despite his show of bonhomie, hardly Kathryn’s friend. For a while they exchanged pleasantries. Joscelyn’s wife kept looking at Colum and sniffing disdainfully until the Irishman frightened her by staring back with the grimmest look he could muster.
‘I am busy.’ Kathryn smiled, gathering her horse’s reins. ‘I have business at the hospital.’
‘Yes, yes, sweet Cousin, but how does your application for a licence proceed?’
‘It goes before the Guild, but I am already buying stock. A London merchant, Richard of Swinforfield, has promised to send cloves, mace, saffron, sugar, cinnamon, ginger – oh yes, and some coriander, aniseed and buckwheat whilst’ – Kathryn hid her smile – ‘I have also placed orders for cinnamon cassia, calamus and aloes to be imported from abroad.’
‘And you’ll sell those from your shop?’ Joscelyn’s false bonhomie had been replaced by genuine anxiety.
‘Of course! Now the war is ended there is a great demand, particularly for rue, to keep floor rushes sweet and free of infection.’ Kathryn shrugged, now enjoying herself. ‘As you know, Joscelyn, I also need them for my medicines. Have you ever read Theophrastus?’
Joscelyn bleakly shook his head.
‘According to him,’ Kathryn answered, ‘such spices are an aid to medicine. Or, as Hippocrates more pointedly put it, “Let fo
od be your medicine and medicine your food.”’
‘Yes, yes, quite.’ Joscelyn stepped back, one hand fluttering in the air. ‘In which case, Cousin, I hope your application is successful.’
And grasping his sullen wife’s arm, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Kathryn shaking with laughter.
‘He doesn’t like you,’ Colum commented. ‘And you don’t like him. So why the merriment?’
Kathryn wiped the tears from her eyes ‘Oh, Colum, can’t you see? If Cousin Joscelyn had his way, I’d be married to some boring merchant and know my true place. Instead, I practise as a physician and now intend to sell spices in rivalry to him. Joscelyn does not like that. What old Chaucer wrote about the physician is true of Cousin Joscelyn.’ She smiled wryly. ‘And perhaps of me. How does it go? “For gold in physick is a cordial, therefore he loved gold especial.”’
‘I don’t think so,’ Colum muttered.
‘You don’t think what? And don’t mutter!’
‘I don’t think you love money.’ Colum carefully removed a loose thread from Kathryn’s dress. ‘And if you did, what hope for the rest? As the poet says, “If gold rusts what shall iron do?”’
Teasing and bantering, they walked farther up Steward Street. Kathryn stopped at the Poor Priests’ Hospital opposite Hawks Lane. Whilst Colum held the horses, she went in to see Father Cuthbert, the keeper. However, the old priest was absent, so they continued through the jostling crowds into Hethenman Lane, then up onto the High Street.
‘Where are you going now?’ Colum asked.
‘If you were a pardoner,’ she answered, ‘where would you go?’
Colum just smiled and nodded.
They were just past the Guildhall, pushing their way through the crowds clustered around the Checker of Hope, the greatest tavern in Canterbury and the centre of the pilgrim trade, when a red-faced, perspiring Luberon caught up with them. At first neither of them could make sense of what he was saying. Luberon gabbled out his words and tried to catch his breath at the same time. Colum told him to calm down.
