by Paul Doherty
‘Of course he would,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘And your crew, they are handpicked?’
‘Like cherries in a bowl,’ Chingford nodded. ‘Both the master and I do the hiring. We only take good seamen with wide experience and of sound character. We seal indentures with each and every one.’
‘And the record?’
‘Kept in the master’s cabin with other manuscripts.’
‘And on board The Knave of Hearts, Bramley would also be responsible for the hiring and the management of the crew?’
‘Of course, he and Dorset would welcome each member on board as we do.’
‘And if you had an escort of Tower archers?’
‘Usually,’ Chingford shrugged, ‘there are two. Sir John, you know the type, they would arrive at the ship just before we sail in their chainmail coifs and hoods. They would wear the usual brown and green jerkins emblazoned with the White Hart. They’d also have warrants and licences sealed by the Constable of the Tower; that’s all I can tell you, Brother.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Athelstan turned and walked over to the far taffrail, staring at the grey, swollen river with the mist slowly gathering. He narrowed his eyes and glimpsed the occasional barge, skiff, herring catcher and other fishing vessel, their lanterns glowing before a crude sketch of their patron saint, usually St Peter or, indeed, any man or woman blessed by the church who had spent their lives going out into the deep. Athelstan leaned against the rail and closed his eyes; the cold breeze wafted his face as he reflected on what might have happened on board The Knave of Hearts. He was now reaching specific conclusions, though certain pieces of this murderous mosaic still had to be inserted into their proper place.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
The friar turned. Cranston was standing against the taffrail on the other side of the deck. The coroner beckoned him over as the Fisher of Men came up the gangplank and strode onto the deck as if he owned it. The Fisher was feared and respected by all river folk. Leyton and Chingford immediately welcomed him, but the Fisher, pulling back his cowl, shook his head at their offer of refreshment and pointed at Athelstan.
‘Sir John passed your questions to me and,’ the Fisher tapped the chancery satchel hanging from a hook on his warbelt, ‘I have been through my records.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Athelstan came across, sketching a blessing towards the Fisher. ‘And what have you found? There’s no need to show me the record, just tell me in your own words.’
‘Well,’ the Fisher stepped back, bracing himself against the side of the ship, ‘you asked if we had found a naked corpse, that of a man, his face damaged beyond recognition. Well, we found more than that.’
‘After the The Knave of Hearts was destroyed?’
‘Oh yes, about a week – not one corpse, Brother, but two.’
‘And their faces?’
‘That’s it, Brother, they had no faces because they had no heads. Both had been decapitated and we found no trace of them. The corpses were taken back to our mortuary. No one ever claimed them, so they were buried in the poor man’s lot at St Michael’s.’
Athelstan stepped closer. ‘And no mark of recognition?’
‘Brother, I would say both men were soldiers, as two fingers on the right hand of each of them were calloused, so they were used to drawing a bow. Both corpses were found close together, caught in a reed bank about a mile downriver.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan breathed, ‘Master Leyton, if Tower archers came down to your cog, veteran soldiers not looking forward to days at sea, they would seek refreshment, a few blackjacks of ale and some hot food, yes?’
‘Oh certainly.’
‘And what tavern would they frequent?’
‘Without a doubt, The Prospect of Whitby.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan bowed at both the Fisher and the two sailors, ‘Gentlemen, your help has been invaluable. Sir John, let us our wet our mouths in The Prospect of Whitby.’
The Prospect of Whitby was Queenhithe’s grandest hostelry, dominating trade along that stretch of the waterfront. The tavern’s taproom was a spaciously vaulted hall, its floor covered in coarse matting, and well furnished with proper chairs, stools and tables. The air was sweet with the flavours of cheeses, hams and flitches of bacon hanging from the rafters in white netting sacks, whilst the entire room was warmed by a blazing fire in a hearth that was shaped like the mouth of a wyvern. Minehost, a small, busy man, full of his own importance, presided over the frenetic serving and care of a host of customers. At first, he wasn’t at all helpful, until Cranston banged the long serving table, roaring out who he was and that he needed certain questions answered as honestly as possible. Minehost visibly cringed and a pool of silence spread across the taproom. Some of the customers, realizing who Cranston was, immediately headed for the nearest door. Athelstan even glimpsed one, a mountebank, his tattered leather jerkin festooned with tinkling bells, pull back the nearest shutters and climb – as nimble as a monkey – through the open window.
‘Right.’ Cranston stood over the taverner. ‘We will sit there.’ The coroner pointed towards a window enclave furnished with a cushioned bench and a clean table and warmed by two small braziers. Once they were ensconced and ales had been served, the now abject Minehost spluttered how he was eager to assist the Lord High Coroner in his enquiries.
‘Good,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Do you recall the evening that The Knave of Hearts set sail?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John, its crew had visited our tavern the day before for, as you know, cog masters will not allow any drinking on the actual day of departure.’
‘True, true,’ Cranston nodded.
‘Let us cut to the quick.’ Athelstan put down his blackjack of ale. He pointed at the taverner. ‘I ask you to think carefully. On that day did two archers, Tower bowmen wearing the White Hart insignia, come into this tavern?’
‘They certainly did; swaggered in, as is their custom. They ordered food and ale, and they were later joined by two others.’
‘Tower archers?’
‘No, Brother. Two ordinary bowmen. You know how they are. I would guess that they were mercenaries, garbed in Lincoln green, hoods pulled close over their heads. They came in here and joined the two Tower archers.’ Minehost pulled a face. ‘They were most welcome. They brought good custom, ordering ale by the jug. They drank deep and wolfed down platters of food. Then, early in the afternoon, all four left together, the Tower archers in particular much the worse for wear.’
‘And these two other bowmen, did you see their faces?’
‘Brother, these men like to act the warrior with bracers on their wrists, deep hoods, and those coifs which cover the forehead and come up over the chin. No, I cannot recall their faces so I cannot give you a description.’
Cranston and Athelstan left the tavern. The friar stopped, clutching the coroner’s arm as he stared up at the sky.
‘Come, Sir John, the day is drawing on. Let us visit the water bailiff.’
They walked along the busy quayside. Athelstan was very wary of the ground under foot, which was coated with the guts, heads and tails of the early morning fish catch. The cobbles were slime-covered and slippery, whilst the friar kept a sharp eye on the half-wild dogs that gathered to feast as well as fight the legion of beggars who scoured the quayside searching for anything edible. The air reeked richly of all the river smells, which mingled with odours from the makeshift ovens, grills and cooking stoves, around which the poor gathered to toast the morsels they’d found. Quayside officials, armed with sharpened willow-wands, moved along this horde of dispossessed, ever ready to lash out or lacerate.
They passed Queenhithe gallows, a six-branched gibbet decorated with iron cages containing the corpses of river pirates hanged earlier that day. They eventually reached the end of the quayside, which was barricaded off by a high wooden palisade guarded by two water bailiffs. One of these opened the wicker gate and led both coroner and friar into an enclosure littered with chests, coffers half-covered
by tarred cloths as well as a row of small boats, coffer crafts, skiffs, herring rafts and battered bum-boats. The water bailiff now studied a greasy sheet of parchment, lips moving as he tried to make out what was written there.
‘Ah yes, you are looking for The Knave of Hearts bum-barge? That’s what you said, Sir John.’
‘And that’s what I want to see,’ the coroner snapped.
‘Ah yes, ah yes. Then you’d best follow me.’
The water bailiff picked his way around different craft and pointed to a squat, deep-bellied bum-boat with a scrap of oily parchment pinned to it.
‘There it is,’ the water bailiff declared. ‘I’m afraid its oars were never found but it’s still seaworthy and the small tiller still works.’
Athelstan thanked him and carefully clambered in. He could find nothing amiss, but then he noticed the rope attached to the tiller, which could be tied to a bench in the stern although it had been severed through. Athelstan crouched down and scrutinized the knot which had attached the cord to the tiller. Athelstan smiled in satisfaction.
‘I have it,’ he murmured.
‘Brother?’ The water bailiff came alongside.
‘This knot,’ Athelstan glanced up at the man, ‘it’s not a common one, is it?’
The burly official pushed by the friar, crouched down and studied the knot as if seeing it for the first time. ‘No, no,’ the fellow replied. ‘That’s a true sailor’s knot.’
‘Thank you.’ Athelstan rose, rubbing his hands. ‘Sir John, I want the remains of this rope severed and handed to me, but the knot must not be damaged.’
Once this had been done, Athelstan thanked the water bailiff, and both he and Cranston left his yard.
‘Where to now, little friar?’
‘You sent for the master mason?’
‘The very best, my friend. Henry Tunstal. Master mason and the most high-ranking clerk in the office of the King’s works. Henry loves stone and spends most of his life dreaming about what buildings he can fashion. He will be waiting for us in St Olave’s cemetery. Henry is an old friend and will do anything I ask; even freeze with cold in that dank, dark place.’
Cranston and Athelstan found the graveyard entrance guarded by Tower archers. A serjeant, displaying the young King’s personal emblem of the White Hart, informed Sir John that the master mason was still busy in the arca house and led them along the coffin paths to what Cranston dramatically described as ‘the place of sudden death.’ Athelstan gazed swiftly around. Both cemetery and church seemed eerily deserted and he experienced a sense of loneliness, a chill of the soul, as if the very spirit of this place had gone. So unlike St Erconwald’s, where the bustle and business of everyday life spilled out of the church, across God’s Acre and into the homes of his parishioners. St Olave’s, however, was different, and this cemetery certainly so. It was house of desolation with its sprouting grass, ancient twisted yew trees, and row upon row of battered crosses and crumbling memorial stones. The only sound which broke the menacing stillness was the strident cawing of rooks and crows.
The arca house was as much as Athelstan expected: a squat, square building of darkening stone, with lancet windows and a formidable door recently rehung on its leather hinges by the carpenters working under the supervision of the master mason. Henry Tunstal was a genial-faced, small man with thinning hair, his clothing covered in a sheen of fine dust. He clasped hands with Cranston and Athelstan, gleeful in what he had learnt. Tunstal refused to tell them anything but asked them to wait outside, close to the door, whilst he entered the arca. Cranston shrugged and waved Tunstal towards the entrance. The mason skipped inside, slamming the door shut behind him, shouting at the coroner and friar to await a miracle.
‘God bless him,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Henry was always excitable. Now he is like a boy who has been given a bowl of sweetmeats.’
‘He’s discovered the secret,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I can guess what it is, but let’s wait here.’
Athelstan stood, staring at the fortified door and, even though he expected it, he jumped as he heard Tunstal calling their names from behind them. The friar turned and stared at the grinning mason.
‘Satan’s tits!’ Cranston whispered. ‘Are you fey, can you really walk through stone?’
‘You found it, didn’t you?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I did, Brother, come.’
Tunstal led them around to the rear of the arca and pointed to one of the square stones at the bottom of the wall now partially pulled out. The mason crouched down and slid the stone free, placing it within his grasp when he lay down. Tunstal edged into the gap created and pulled the stone towards him; crawling further back, he dragged the stone into place so it rested in its original position. Athelstan watched the mason go in then, crouching down, scrutinized the wall, noticing how the lichen, dried cement and sheer age of the arca created a covering crust so it looked as if the loose stone was as firmly cemented as the rest. Athelstan got up, wiping his hands and dusting down his robe. He gently kicked the weeds, gorse and wild strong grass which grew close to the base of the wall.
‘No one,’ Athelstan turned to Cranston, ‘would notice anything amiss. The loose stone is at the bottom of the rear wall, disguised as if cemented in like the rest. This place is gloomy at the best of times whilst the weeds and bramble grow thick and fast. All of this helps to protect the arca’s secret entrance.’
Athelstan squatted down again and ran his fingers across the stone until he reached a natural cleft in the rock which could serve as a hand grip. Athelstan placed his fingers in and glanced up at the coroner. ‘It will be the same inside, Sir John. In fact, that’s where the cleft really should be used.’
They went back around the arca. Tunstal opened the battered door and waved them inside, gesturing at the far corner, where he’d pulled away moth-eaten sacks and battered chests.
‘Right, Master Henry.’ Athelstan sat on an overturned barrel, whilst Cranston fortified himself from the miraculous wineskin and squatted down on a chest.
‘Tell us,’ Athelstan gestured at the far corner, ‘why and how?’
The master mason beamed with delight.
‘The short version,’ Cranston growled. ‘Henry, the day is dying and we have other business to attend to.’
‘This is an arca house,’ the mason declared, lifting his arms as if to embrace the entire gloomy chamber. ‘It was built ages ago. The masons employed the hardest sandstone to create these dark blocks. A place of refuge in time of trouble.’
‘Naturally,’ Cranston interjected.
‘Very good, Sir John,’ the master mason blithely acknowledged. ‘Now imagine you are someone who has fled here. It might be the priest or some other parish official. The attackers will naturally concentrate on the door at the front. The roof is too dangerous and too difficult to dismantle. It leaves the assailant exposed to spear, arrow or bolt. Naturally the attackers will believe the arca is a square of the thickest stone with only narrow arrow-slits for windows, so the door must be forced. Inside the prisoner, as his opponents would regard him, simply moves to that far corner. Now,’ the master mason beamed again, ‘Brother Athelstan, you must have found the cleft on the outside stone?’
‘Yes we have.’
‘Good, Brother. There’s a similar one inside. The person preparing to escape simply pulls the stone in. He clambers through the gap and edges out, dragging the stone with him. You can imagine the attacker’s surprise when they do break down the door?’
‘And that would take some time.’
‘Yes, Sir John, it would. Perhaps even hours. By then, the person who escaped would be over the hills and far away.’
‘It’s really to be used from within?’
‘Yes, Brother, a means of easy escape. They could always use the arrow-slits to ensure nobody was at the back of the arca. Once they were satisfied, it would not take very long. As for entering the arca through that gap? Well, look around, it might be a little more cumbersome, but it can e
asily be done. At the end of the day, the cemetery is a gloomy place, whilst the moveable stone is extremely well concealed.’
Athelstan heard sounds from outside. He rose and walked to the far corner.
‘Poor Hornsby,’ he spoke over his shoulder, ‘I believe his assassin entered secretly and stood here deep in the shadows. He killed Hornsby and left, pushing that stone free and creeping out …’ Athelstan broke off and turned. Tiptoft stood in the doorway.
‘I found out where you were,’ Cranston’s messenger mournfully intoned. ‘And thank God for that. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you are needed at St Erconwald’s.’
‘I am sure we are,’ the friar replied. ‘Nevertheless, Sir John, I understand we have one last place to visit.’
‘We certainly have: that haunted house on Slops Alley.’
With Tiptoft hurrying behind them, Cranston and Athelstan made their way along a maze of dirty alleyways going deeper into Queenhithe ward. Cranston seemed to know each and every runnel, striding swiftly with Athelstan trotting behind him. They reached the corner of Slops Alley to find the Sicarius and Wrigglewort awaiting them with an escort of burly dung collectors, whom these two worthies had hired to force the door and, as the Sicarius whispered to Sir John, drag certain items out of the great sewer at the back of the house. Cranston made hasty introductions, both the Sicarius and Wrigglewort exclaiming they’d heard about the redoubtable Brother Athelstan. The friar smiled and bowed at their compliments, even as he wrinkled his nose at the foul smell which gusted out through the half-open door. The Sicarius gestured at the labourers to walk away; he then thrust a pomander into the hands of both Cranston and Athelstan.
‘You are going to need these,’ he lisped, ‘follow me.’
