by Paul Doherty
‘I know why I sent for you.’ He lifted a bony finger. ‘But I also want to ask you about these miracles at the Friary of the Sack.’
He led them into his office at the far end of the dormitory, an austere chamber with a crucifix on the wall, a shelf bearing some books, and a coffer containing small jars and phials. The floor was of polished wood. Father Cuthbert eased himself into a chair, specially padded and constructed for him, as he suffered constant back pain. Kathryn and Colum sat on stools.
‘Do you want some wine?’ Cuthbert asked. ‘I have a jug somewhere.’
‘Father, we have eaten and drunk our fill,’ Colum assured him. ‘I have come to pay my respects to Padraig Mafiach.’
‘Ah yes, the poor Irishman.’ Father Cuthbert’s face wrinkled in concern. ‘I said a mass for him, Colum. No, no.’ He raised a hand, cutting short any protests from Colum. ‘It was the least I could do.’
He sat puckering his lips. Kathryn felt a deep compassion for this old priest, probably one of the most skilled physicians in Canterbury. In his youth, according to Thomasina, Father Cuthbert had been the most handsome of men.
‘The ladies positively swooned after him,’ Thomasina had whispered, dewy-eyed. ‘But then he went on his travels and found God.’
Kathryn suspected her friend’s affection for this old priest ran very deep indeed.
‘I heard about the cures at the Friary of the Sack. I love miracles!’
‘No, you don’t, Father,’ Kathryn teased. ‘You don’t really believe in them, do you?’
‘Yes and no.’ Father Cuthbert eased himself up. ‘I think we look for them in the wrong places. The sun rising; that’s a miracle. How an egg gives birth to a bird; that’s a miracle. A man laying down his life for a friend; that’s an even greater one! So come, Kathryn, tell me what you know about these miracles.’
She gave a summary of her findings. Father Cuthbert nodded.
‘I agree. I agree,’ he sighed when she’d finished. ‘Except for the last one: That could be strange; perhaps the power of the mind? I read once how the ancient Greeks used to put people to sleep to calm their humours and bring respite. An interesting question, Kathryn, isn’t it? Did God use the Blessed Roger and give that old man comfort so his belly might recover? Ah, well . . .’
‘You wanted to see us, Father?’ Colum interrupted. ‘Or rather Kathryn.’
‘Yes.’ Father Cuthbert folded back the sleeve of his gown. ‘Rats, Kathryn! I heard on the breeze about your meeting with Bourchier, and I have met Malachi Smallbones.’ A shift in the old priest’s eye showed that Father Cuthbert had little regard for the self-proclaimed rat-catcher of Canterbury. ‘Have you noticed, Kathryn, that no rats scuttle around here? Go along that dormitory, in the store-rooms-or even the charnel-house. You’ll not hear the squeak or patter of tiny feet.’
‘You’ve discovered some new poison?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Ah!’ Father Cuthbert jabbed a bony finger into the air. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you. Don’t use poison, Kathryn. You know I have a secret chamber?’
‘Everybody in Canterbury knows about your secret chamber, Father.’
Father Cuthbert looked surprised.
‘You carry out experiments?’ Kathryn teased.
‘Yes I do, and I use rats. I believe, Kathryn, they carry disease. Not only in their bite, urine, or faeces: something noxious lurks in their bodies, a fetid air or a malignant odour. I’ve tried to poison rats. Sometimes I am successful, but after a while, their bodily humours oppose the malignancy.’
‘As can happen in men,’ Kathryn added, and told him quickly about Roger Atworth.
‘Yes, yes, I’ve heard of that.’ Father Cuthbert straightened himself up, shaking his head. ‘I never use arsenic for a stomach complaint. You see its properties . . .’
‘Father,’ Kathryn intervened, ‘you were talking about rats.’
‘Ferrets!’ Father Cuthbert replied.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ferrets!’ Father Cuthbert pronounced the word as if it had come directly from God. ‘What you need here, Kathryn, are professional ferreters with their little trained foragers. They’ll soon clean out the nests and kill the rats, especially if they’re starved. After a while they’ll drag the corpses out for you.’
Kathryn recalled Gethsemane.
‘The same thing happened at the friary,’ she declared. ‘There were rats in the garden, but there’s a great curtain wall which houses a colony of stoats.’
‘They are as ferocious as ferrets,’ Father Cuthbert agreed, ‘but impossible to train. Now I want to tell you something very interesting. I keep my little ferret friends in the cellar. I call them “the Twelve Apostles.” Each has a name: Peter, Bartholomew, Phillip. They are the holiest ferrets in Christendom. There are two surprising things about them: first, I used the ferrets only in this hospital and the surrounding buildings, and so far they haven’t found a nest with young ones in it. Isn’t that strange?’
‘I don’t understand,’ Colum broke in.
‘Rats breed like flies,’ Father Cuthbert explained, ‘so it’s strange that they haven’t set up colonies; the only answer is that they haven’t had time. The second thing . . . well, come, I’ll show you.’
He leapt to his feet like an excited young boy and led them down the staircase and across a cobbled yard to a small outhouse. He lit a lantern, and they went in. The pungent smell of herbs did little to conceal the whiff of corruption.
‘Yes, yes, it’s not too special. Anyway, I’ve been saving this.’
He lifted a wooden box on the table, walked away for a moment, and returned with three pomanders.
‘Hold these to your noses.’ He handed them over and lifted the lid to reveal the bloated corpse of a black rat. ‘This gentleman,’ Father Cuthbert explained, ‘was killed by my beloved ferret, Thomas the Doubter. You don’t have to touch it, Kathryn.’ He picked up a small white wand and brushed the rodent’s fur. ‘This rat has also been badly singed.’
Kathryn peered down. Father Cuthbert was right: The singed fur was clearly visible.
‘It was worse when I first saw it,’ Father Cuthbert said. ‘Very much like when I singe my eyebrows or hair when I get too close to a fire.’
Kathryn gestured at him to close the lid and walked away. Colum was only too pleased to follow. Father Cuthbert came over and made them wash their hands; he poured water into a small bowl and sprinkled this with herbs and rose powder.
‘I’ve seen the same,’ Kathryn explained, wiping her hands on a napkin. ‘What does it mean, Father?’
‘I know! I remember the farmers in Ireland,’ Colum interjected. ‘When the hay was stored, most of it was used, but what lasted through winter and spring became coarse with mildew.’
‘A nesting place for rats?’
‘That’s right, Father. We set it alight. The rats would come teeming out, and we would kill them.’
‘Precisely,’ Father Cuthbert agreed. ‘You’d get rid of the old hay, and the vermin it houses, before you bring in the fresh and sweet. To cut a long story short, Kathryn,’ Father Cuthbert sniffed at the pomander, ‘first, these rats have been burnt out of a building. Secondly, I think . . .’
‘I know what you are going to say, Father. They’ve been deliberately brought into Canterbury.’
‘Impossible!’ Colum exclaimed.
‘No, no.’ Kathryn walked out of the outhouse and breathed in the cool night air. ‘All credit to you, Father; I was beginning to suspect something similar.’
‘It’s quite easily done.’ Father Cuthbert came up behind Kathryn. ‘You find a place teeming with rats, the sewers or underground passages of some city. One thing rats fear above all things is fire. They flee by the hundreds. Only this time they were not killed but trapped in cages, baskets, and boxes, loaded onto a cart, and brought into Canterbury. At the dead of night one box was taken here, one box there. They haven’t had time to nest or breed as yet, but a problem has been created, and ev
eryone is looking for a remedy.’
‘Malachi Smallbones!’ Kathryn whispered.
‘Malachi Smallbones,’ Father Cuthbert agreed. ‘Think, Colum, of a large cart covered with a canvas cloth kept out amongst the ruins around Canterbury.’
‘A cunning man’s trick,’ Colum agreed, ‘which would require little silver.’
‘True,’ Father Cuthbert replied. ‘Wood for cages, a cart, a night like this, full of shadows. Who would suspect? Yet the rewards for such mischief are very, very great.’
‘And the solution?’ Colum asked.
‘Holbech,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Take him into your confidence, Colum. Tell him what we suspect and have Master Smallbones carefully watched.’ Kathryn stared up at the light in a hospital window. ‘The sheer cunning of human minds,’ she murmured. ‘What made you suspect, Father?’
‘Kathryn, all my life I’ve waged war against the cunning men, the conjurors, the quacks. Read your Galen or your Hippocrates to discover the most ancient trick of any charlatan. Some patients visit you: They are hale and hearty, but you tell them something is very wrong. You offer the cure. They take it, nothing more harmful than rose water, and of course the illness doesn’t develop. You praise the charlatan, pay him good silver and gold for his trickery, and recommend him to your friends. As soon as I met Malachi Smallbones, I thought, here’s a man who could sell fleas to a dog. He’s created the problem. He knows how Canterbury is terrified of its pilgrim trade being interfered with.’
‘I’ll have him followed and watched.’ Colum stamped his heel on the ground. ‘I’ve spent hours out at Kingsmead chasing those rodents. Oh yes, he’s been there. He’s made his presence felt in important parts of the city: the Royal Stables, the Cathedral, the friary. And, what’s truly unforgivable, a hospital for sick people!’ Colum gnawed at his lip, his hands tapping the hilt of his dagger.
‘Don’t, Colum,’ Kathryn warned, ‘don’t take the law into your own hands. Every rogue has his day. Malachi has had his. We’ll need solid evidence, and then he’ll feel the full lash of the law in more ways than one.’
Father Cuthbert rubbed his hands together, pleased with her words.
‘Come!’ he urged.
They crossed the cobbled yard and went down a small alleyway into another square. Father Cuthbert pointed across at the small chapel.
‘Your friend lies there, prepared for burial. I have done the best I can, both for the savage wound and to stave off corruption. Go on! The door’s open, and candles have been lit.’
Colum took off his war-belt, walked across, and placed it on the steps outside.
‘I want to show you something, Kathryn,’ Cuthbert declared.
He led her across to a small, red-bricked building with a flat roof. He pushed open the metal-studded, black-timbered door, and they entered a white-washed chamber, bleak and cold. Tables stood around the walls. On each lay a corpse covered by a sheet. Incense was burning, and jars of herbs stood on every niche and shelf to sweeten the air; this was the charnel-house, where the corpses of strangers were brought for burial. Father Cuthbert stopped at one table and pulled back the sheet: The remains beneath were pathetic, nothing more than a skeleton with pieces of rotting hair still clinging to the skull.
‘A fisherman found her on the banks of the Stour,’ Father Cuthbert declared. ‘Probably a young woman, but I’ve searched the records, going back months: There has been no report of a young woman being missing. But what are these?’ He pointed to the feet.
At first Kathryn was mystified. She could make out the bones of feet and toes, but tied underneath the feet by a cord was another piece of bone, thick with a shiny surface.
‘When she was alive,’ Kathryn mused, ‘she couldn’t have walked on those. Why should a young woman have pieces of bone tied to her feet? Can I have a closer look?’
‘I already have, but . . .’ Father Cuthbert pulled one of the bones away and handed it to Kathryn.
The bone was a long cube, and both the top and bottom were smooth; the rotting cord had been threaded through metal clasps on the side.
‘Oh, Father!’ she exclaimed. ‘Haven’t you ever gone skating?’
Father Cuthbert shook his head.
‘Never?’ Kathryn persisted.
Father Cuthbert’s crumpled face broke into a smile, and he smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand.
‘Of course!’ He breathed. ‘I never thought of that!’
‘I suspect,’ Kathryn explained, ‘that this poor woman died many years ago. She went skating on the Stour when it was frozen, but the ice broke, and she sank to the bottom, her corpse tangled in the mud and reeds. Years later the river gave up its dead.’
‘Ah well, Kathryn, that’s one mystery solved. I was curious; this is different.’
He covered up the skeleton, moved to a second table, and gently folded back the sheet. This time the young woman’s corpse was whole and preserved. Despite the ravages of death, she must have been a beautiful young woman: Lustrous blonde hair framed an oval face with high cheekbones. The eyes were held closed shut by two coins, and her body was smooth and comely with generous full breasts and broad hips, all marred by the hideous wound on her left side, a deep, red-black gash.
‘Who is it, Father?’
‘I don’t know. She was found on the edge of a marsh in Bean Woods, covered in slime and mud. The morasses there are not too deep. The water bubbles up, and eventually a corpse will rise. She was brought in this morning, and I had her washed. She is beautiful. And look, Kathryn.’ He took the dead woman’s hand. Kathryn felt the skin of the palms; it was soft and silky to the touch.
‘A woman of substance, don’t you think?’
Kathryn agreed.
‘I’ve made enquiries.’ Father Cuthbert shook his head. ‘But again, I could discover nothing. Here we have a beautiful young woman who enjoyed certain wealth and status. Very recently she was lured to Bean Woods, brutally stabbed, and stripped of everything, and then her corpse was tossed into a marsh. Yet no one has been reported missing. I did find one thing.’
Father Cuthbert crouched and drew out a small wooden coffer from beneath the table. He opened this and took out a pewter hair clasp.
‘Her hair must have been very thick and lustrous,’ he explained. ‘The killer missed this.’
Kathryn took it over to one of the thick tallow candles.
‘It’s a pewter hair brooch,’ she observed.
She made out the emblem, a pilgrim carrying a staff, and the letters round the rim: CANTERBURY and, on the other side, FALSTAFF INN. Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat.
‘What’s the matter?’ Father Cuthbert asked.
‘Look, Father, here’s a wealthy young woman, barbarously murdered, probably in the last two or three days. She was killed, her corpse concealed. She cannot be from Canterbury, otherwise a hue and cry would have been raised. She definitely stayed at the Falstaff, where Mafiach was also murdered. I just wonder if the two killings are connected. Father, can I keep this?’
‘Of course.’
Kathryn slipped the hair clasp into her wallet.
‘One other favour, Father. I want you to send a messenger to mine host at the Falstaff. Ask him to come here. Show him this corpse. If he recognises it, tell him to come and see me at first light tomorrow. Would you do that?’
Father Cuthbert agreed.
‘A worthwhile visit.’ Kathryn smiled.
They left the charnel-house, and a short while later Colum rejoined them. They bade Father Cuthbert good night. Kathryn surprised Colum by insisting on walking as swiftly as possible back to Ottemelle Lane.
‘What is the matter?’ Colum pressed Kathryn’s arm. ‘If I let go, you’d run!’
Kathryn paused and kissed him quickly on the lips.
‘I will not be sleeping much tonight, Colum. You and Holbech deal with Master Smallbones. I have an assassin to catch, and trap him I will.’
They found the house in Ottemelle Lane all quiet. Thomasina
, crouched over a piece of needlework, was talking to herself.
‘Nothing’s happened whilst you’ve been gone.’ She lifted her head, eyes red-rimmed. ‘How’s Father Cuthbert?’
‘Very well: He sends his regards.’
Thomasina smiled, rose, and kissed her gently on the brow.
Kathryn went along to her writing office and lit the candles and table lamp. She took a sheet of vellum and wrote at the top, MAFIACH. She closed her eyes, recalling everything she knew. She wrote facts down as she would a list of ingredients and picked up the copy of Mafiach’s cipher. She wrote down all the names of the people she had met since this business had begun. She made good progress, despite Thomasina’s constant interruptions to see if she wanted something to eat or drink. One by one Kathryn crossed off names, and, as she did so, the face of the assassin became clearer. She moved to a second piece of vellum, writing on the top ATWORTH. She heard a soft knocking at the door and then Thomasina’s curses about patients and their cures. The door opened. Kathryn heard a woman’s voice, hushed but firm. She looked at the crucifix.
‘Thank you, Lord,’ she whispered and, pushing back the chair, went out to meet the Duchess Cecily, cloaked and cowled, escorted by Venables. The Duchess looked pinch-faced, as if she had been crying.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke, I apologise. Brother Atworth is dead, so perhaps you can hear my confession. Venables, you stay outside!’
And following Kathryn into the chamber, Duchess Cecily herself closed and bolted the door behind them.
Chapter 11
‘Ye, sterve he shat, and that in lesse while
Than thou wolt’ goon a paas not but a mile . . .’
—Chaucer, ‘The Pardoner’s Tale,’
The Canterbury Tales
Kathryn had finished her task and sat half-dozing. Dawn was breaking, greeted by the clanging bells of the Cathedral and the other churches of the city. A dog yelped in an alleyway. Carts, bringing fresh produce in from the countryside, trundled along Ottemelle Lane to the different markets. The Duchess had left in the early hours. Kathryn had refused to discuss her visit even with Colum. She had been sworn to secrecy, and she’d keep her word. But despite her midnight visit, Kathryn suspected Cecily had not told her the full truth.
