by Paul Doherty
The loud knocking on the door made her jump. Thomasina was not yet awake, so Kathryn answered it. Eadwig, red-eyed and pale-faced, his lean face unshaven, gazed beseechingly at her, stumbling over his words. Kathryn noticed the ash stains on his hands and face.
‘Oh no.’ She grasped Eadwig by the arm and pulled him through the doorway. ‘Mathilda Chandler?’
Eadwig didn’t answer but groped along the passageway, holding the wall. Kathryn helped him sit down on a stool and brought him a black jack of buttermilk. The lay brother drank it greedily, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.
‘The Ancient One saw it first,’ he gasped, ‘a fire out in the copse. By the time we got there, Mistress, the fire was a furnace. Nothing could have survived. You’d best come.’
Kathryn put her face in her hands. If she hadn’t been so tired, she would have burst into tears. All she could think of was Mathilda Chandler’s sad eyes, her profound happiness at standing free under God’s sky, smelling the bracken and the weeds, rejoicing in her new-found freedom. Kathryn stared at the crucifix.
‘It’s my fault,’ she muttered. ‘The killer must have known.’
‘The steel plate was slipped back,’ Eadwig explained. ‘The poor woman must have been unable to escape.’
‘And her remains?’
‘Brother Simon said we would have to wait till dawn. I think it’s best you come; so does Brother Timothy.’
Kathryn sat, hands to her mouth. She felt slightly nauseous, and a cold sweat had broken out on her back. She closed her eyes and begged forgiveness even as she cursed her own fecklessness.
‘Mistress, are you all right?’
‘No, I am not!’ Kathryn snapped.
She got to her feet and, going to a shelf, took down a jar of camomile powder, poured herself some milk, and stirred a spoonful in. She lowered the wire bread basket and cut a slice for herself and one for Eadwig, who refused at first.
‘No, no, eat!’ she insisted, placing the bread on a wooden platter and sliding it across. ‘It will calm your stomach. Go back and tell, well, tell Prior Anselm I cannot come immediately. I’ll be there soon.’
Eadwig wolfed the bread down. He licked his fingers and stared appreciatively round the kitchen.
‘Mistress, it’s many a year since I’ve been in a place like this. Oh dear, I left my staff outside the door.’
Eadwig drained his tankard and got to his feet. He made Kathryn promise again that she would come.
‘I’ll pray for you, and I’ll pray for her,’ Eadwig muttered as he slipped through the door, grasping his staff. Kathryn watched him go. Goldere the clerk, standing in the mouth of the alleyway opposite, scratching his stomach, stared blearily across. Kathryn closed the door and drew the bolt across.
‘Who was that?’
Thomasina, now fully dressed and smelling of lavender, came downstairs, a white apron already placed over her dress of dark sarcanet, a white, gauze wimple firmly planted over her hair and kept in place by a piece of green baize cord.
‘Just a visitor.’
Thomasina peered at Kathryn. ‘You haven’t slept.’ Her black button eyes scrutinised Kathryn’s face.
Kathryn walked back into the kitchen. ‘I can’t explain.’
‘Can’t explain what?’
Colum, soft-footed as a cat, boots in his hand, came down the stairs along the passageway. He looked fresh-eyed and clean shaven, a new shirt under his boiled leather jacket.
‘Will you take me to the friary?’ Kathryn asked.
‘I’ll do better.’ Colum took Eadwig’s tankard, went across to the jar of buttermilk, and filled it to the brim. ‘I’ve already sent a message out to Holbech at Kingsmead. He knows what to do. He’ll keep an eye on Malachi Smallbones.’ He slouched in a chair at the top of the table and drank, watching Kathryn carefully. ‘What’s the matter, lass?’
Kathryn, Thomasina towering over her like a guardian angel, described how Mathilda Chandler had been burnt alive out at the friary. Colum lowered the tankard to gape at Kathryn. Even Thomasina stopped her muttering and stood in horrified silence. Kathryn was almost pleased to hear the knock on the door. Thomasina bustled out.
‘Let him in!’ Kathryn called. ‘I know who it is!’
Clitheroe, mine host at the Falstaff, came lumbering down the passageway, mopping his red face and bald head with a rag. He nodded at Colum and, without being asked, sat down on a stool just within the doorway. He sniffed.
‘Is that buttermilk? Can I have some?’
Thomasina thrust a black jack at him. Kathryn sat, determined not to put words into this man’s mouth.
‘Well, I never! Well, I never!’ Clitheroe smacked his lips. ‘How did you know, Mistress? I mean, apart from the hair clasp?’
‘Know what?’ Colum demanded crossly.
‘I’ve just been down to the Poor Priests’ Hospital,’ Clitheroe replied, ‘about the woman who was stabbed, stripped naked, and thrown into a marsh.’
‘Oh Lord in His heaven, more deaths!’ Thomasina wailed.
‘Hush!’ Kathryn raised her hand.
‘She was the same one,’ Clitheroe continued blithely, ‘the wife of the merchant who stayed in the chamber above Mafiach’s the night he died. You don’t think her death’s connected with his? I don’t want this being bandied about. With these bloody rats, trade is bad enough!’
‘You are sure it was her?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Of course. Pretty as a picture she was. Even in death she’s comely.’
‘And what was her husband like?’
‘Ah, he was secretive, grey-haired, much older. Didn’t really clap eyes on him.’
‘Are you sure it’s her?’ Kathryn insisted.
‘Oh come, Mistress, pretty face, blonde hair. Ah, that’s right.’ He raised a hand. ‘She came downstairs for the meal. Some customers ask for it to be sent up; others don’t trust our scullions. I remember her coming down to the tap-room, all a-smiling and dove-eyed.’
‘And what did she order?’
‘Oh, Lord’s sake, Mistress, it’s some time now: bread, a bowl of meat and vegetables. I have the accounts back at the inn.’
‘And wine?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh yes, a large jug for two.’
‘Very similar,’ Kathryn asked, ‘to the one Mafiach ordered? Do you remember?’ Kathryn leaned forward. ‘You said that after you discovered Mafiach’s corpse, you took the jug back to the kitchen, that you and your tapsters finished it?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Colum,’ Kathryn looked over her shoulder, ‘was Mafiach a heavy drinker?’
‘No, a goblet or two of wine, no more.’
Kathryn turned back to the taverner.
‘So why should Mafiach, a wary man’ – she smiled thinly at the description – ‘yes, a very wary man, who was on his guard, order a large jug of wine for two people?’
Clitheroe lowered the tankard. ‘Do you know, Mistress, you are right. If you were staying at the Falstaff by yourself and you ordered wine . . .’
‘I’d get a smaller jug,’ Kathryn intervened.
‘Yes, a measure for one person.’ Clitheroe looked puzzled.
‘So why should Mafiach get a larger jug?’ Kathryn asked.
Clitheroe closed his eyes. ‘But you are wrong, Mistress. I’ve just remembered. It was a small jug. I also recall Mafiach hadn’t drunk much.’
Kathryn closed her eyes and swore under her breath.
‘What’s the matter, Kathryn?’ Colum asked.
She stared at the taverner. ‘No, no, I am correct,’ she declared. ‘Let me approach it from another path. You said that Mafiach hadn’t drunk much? Yet I smelt wine from his mouth. You do remember that?’
Clitheroe nodded. Kathryn tried to concentrate. ‘But you never found out if Mafiach ordered the meal and wine?’
‘Well, he said that he would have an evening meal.’
‘But you never recollected him sending down for it?’
; Clitheroe shook his head.
‘And you can’t remember ordering a scullion to take it up?’
Again the shake of the head.
‘And you have never found,’ Kathryn spoke slowly, ‘the scullion, pot-boy, or slattern who took that meal up?’
‘No, Mistress, I haven’t.’
‘Kathryn!’ Colum exclaimed. ‘What are you implying?’
Kathryn raised her hand for silence.
‘Master Clitheroe, if I was staying at your tavern, could I get a small jug and one of your standard wine goblets? I mean, empty? Would you charge me for it?’
‘Well, of course not.’
‘Can you remember the merchant and his wife asking to borrow such a jug and goblet?’
‘Well no, Mistress, I can’t, but they could come down and ask for such. I wouldn’t give it a second thought. I mean, we are a tavern, Mistress, such jugs and goblets can be found on a table.’
Kathryn smiled. ‘I am sure they can be.’
‘What is this?’ Colum asked in exasperation.
‘Why, Master Murtagh, murder!’ Kathryn got to her feet. ‘The assassins were that young woman, whose corpse you have just seen, and her so-called husband.’
‘And who could he be?’ Clitheroe spluttered.
‘Was he clean shaven?’ Kathryn asked.
‘No, he had a beard and moustache.’
‘His hair?’
‘Grey. I can’t truly remember if there was much of it or not.’ Clitheroe shook his head.
‘He was in disguise,’ Kathryn replied.
‘Who?’ Colum asked. ‘One of the Friars of the Sack?’
‘Possibly,’ Kathryn replied. ‘They have money and wealth enough. They leave their friary. They can disguise themselves and hire some courtesan.’
‘A courtesan?’
‘I suspect the dead woman was a prostitute of some wealth and status,’ Kathryn replied, ‘especially hired to act the role, lured into Bean Woods, and cruelly murdered. She was hired to act as the assassin’s wife. Given enough gold and silver, she’d keep her mouth shut and do what she was told. The assassin was probably watching the Falstaff Inn. When did this merchant and his wife arrive, Master Clitheroe?’
‘Oh, about two days before Mafiach did.’
‘And I suppose they left the following morning?’
‘Yes, they did. They gave a name, but I forget it now. They paid well.’
‘Of course they would. The fewer questions asked the better. To answer your question bluntly, Colum, this so-called young wife went down to the kitchen. She ordered two bowls of food, some bread, a large jug of wine, and two goblets. She then took them back to her own chamber. In the days beforehand she or her accomplice had managed to obtain a small jug and a clean goblet. Anyway,’ Kathryn picked up her tankard of buttermilk and drank from it, ‘once she was back in her chamber, this young wife changed her appearance, putting on a ragged dress and sandals; perhaps she greased her face and hands, smeared on ash and dirt. She took the food . . .’
‘But that would be cold.’ Clitheroe interrupted. ‘I pride myself on serving hot food.’
‘Each chamber has got a brazier, hasn’t it? It can he kept hot over that.’
Clitheroe agreed.
‘Moreover,’ Kathryn continued, ‘your young murderess is moving very quickly. She has to. She takes the tray, puts a bowl of food on it, takes the small jug and cup, and fills the jug with wine heavily laced with a sleeping potion . . .’
‘And takes it down?’ Colum asked.
‘Mafiach answers the door,’ Kathryn explained. ‘All he sees is some young slattern carrying a tray with some food, a jug of wine, and a goblet. Mafiach makes his one and only mistake, but it is his last. He probably wouldn’t give the girl a second glance. Mafiach is expecting danger, but only from some assassin, a hired killer, not some dirty, greasy-faced slattern in a ragged dress carrying a tray. He is distracted, and his mind is on other matters. He ordered food, and food has come up. He sits down, enjoys his meal, and drinks a goblet of wine. Many sleeping draughts are tasteless; they give no odour. Mafiach’s tired, so he loosens his clothing and lies on the bed.’
‘But how did the assassin get into the room?’ Clitheroe demanded, gazing in admiration at Kathryn. ‘What you say is possible. Slatterns and maids are going up those stairs all the time. They are tired, hard-working, and they wouldn’t give another a second glance.’
‘Darkness falls,’ Kathryn continued, determined to prove her theory. ‘Yes, it would be nighttime. Customers leave, the tavern is silent, the cobbled yard deserted. Our assassin has hired the chamber above Mafiach’s.’
‘But how did they know which chamber Mafiach would have?’ Colum asked.
‘They didn’t,’ Clitheroe broke in. ‘Now I remember! The merchant asked for two chambers on the top floor. He said his wife wished to be by herself. She acted the great lady.’
‘So here we have this merchant and his wife,’ Kathryn continued. ‘They hire two chambers on the top floor. When Mafiach comes, they discover where he is staying. They have been watching the tavern for some time. The only thing the assassin had to do was discover that.’
‘No, no!’ Colum banged his black jack on the table. ‘Why didn’t they just release a crossbar or stab him on the stairs?’
‘Too dangerous,’ Kathryn replied. ‘It had to be done by stealth. They needed time to search his chamber and make their own escape without provoking any suspicion or outcry.’
Colum agreed.
‘Anyway,’ Kathryn continued, ‘Mafiach was not fast asleep.’
‘How did they know that?’ Colum asked.
‘What are you,’ Kathryn exclaimed in exasperation, ‘a lawyer?’ She sighed. ‘No, I apologise; it’s evidence. They would take a staff and tap at the shutters. If Mafiach opened those shutters, they would know their plan had failed. But he didn’t, so they’d been successful! They have hidden a ladder. In the dead of night our merchant, the assassin, climbs up. He carries a long dagger. He slips this through the slit between the shutters and lifts the bar. The shutters are now released. He pulls up the ladder and climbs into the room. Mafiach is fast asleep. He’s dragged from his bed, and his brains are dashed out. The assassin now has as much time as he needs. He’s brought a sack with him. The wine jug is replaced, so is the goblet, and the tainted wine is poured out onto the cobbles below. The assassin makes one mistake. He fills the fresh jug a little too much. He seizes Mafiach’s psalter. The tainted wine goblet and jug are placed in a sack. The assassin leaves, but as he does so, he ties a piece of thin cord around the bar.’
‘Ah, and I know why – ’ Clitheroe broke in.
‘One shutter is pulled closed, then the other one, and using the piece of twine, the bar is lowered. The twine has probably been tied in a slip knot and can be pulled free. Everything is as he wants it.’ Kathryn paused. ‘They’d been waiting for the Irishman. Mafiach didn’t help matters; he was tired. On reflection he made two mistakes: He used his alias, and he trusted that slattern. Whilst the assassin was in the chamber, she would keep a look-out. A very clever murder! The assassin drew Mafiach’s sword and dagger to complicate matters and make it look as if a fight had taken place. Yet he also made mistakes: Mafiach possessed a second copy of that cipher; the killer filled the jug too full, and he was too hasty in tying up the points on Mafiach’s hose.’
‘Ah, yes!’ Colum exclaimed. ‘I remember that!’
‘Anyway,’ Kathryn continued, ‘the assassin returns to his chamber; the tainted jug and goblet are scrupulously washed and left on the table. The following morning, whilst Mafiach’s corpse stiffens in his chamber, this precious pair leaves. She probably moved to another tavern or hostelry. Later that night the woman goes out to Bean Woods to meet her accomplice and receive the rest of her reward. Instead she is murdered. The assassin makes a further mistake: Unbeknownst to him, the woman has bought one of those pilgrim brooches at the tavern. She has this in her hair, which is rich and luxurio
us; when he strips the corpse, he fails to notice this.’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Who says the dead don’t speak?’
Thomasina, who had been standing in the corner listening to it all, approached Kathryn.
‘But, Mistress, how did they know about the gap between the shutters?’
‘Oh, I can answer that,’ Clitheroe declared. ‘Very few taverns have windows; their upkeep is too costly. In spring and summer, shutters are used. There’s always a gap between to allow air in.’
‘And in winter,’ Kathryn went on, ‘you have a roll of leather covering the inside, which is let down like a curtain. Thomasina, go round our house; I haven’t yet seen a pair of shutters which fit snugly together.’
‘It has to be that.’ Clitheroe nodded vigorously. ‘What Mistress Swinbrooke says is correct. Any of us could do that. You climb a pair of ladders carrying a long Welsh stabbing dirk. You push it between the slits beneath the bar. You prise the bar loose from the clasp. In fact, you could even lock it again the same way, no need for thread or twine.’
‘I suspect,’ Kathryn got to her feet, ‘the assassin is the high-ranking spy. He knew Mafiach was going to stay at the Falstaff, where he was to be collected by you, Colum. If he could disguise himself once as a merchant, then why not later as a chapman or a wandering tinker? He could study the Falstaff for any weakness and soon find it. He would realise how silent the tavern became in the early hours and profit accordingly.’
‘But this young woman?’ Clitheroe asked.
‘It’s only been a matter of days,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Perhaps someone will report her missing or . . .’
‘Or what?’ Colum demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Kathryn said. ‘Master Clitheroe, I thank you for coming. What you heard is secret and not to be discussed.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Clitheroe got to his feet. ‘I want people to forget as quickly as possible that a man was murdered at my tavern. I’ve already slapped the slatterns and scullions for talking about ghosts.’ He went across, hand extended; Kathryn clasped it. ‘What you say makes sense, Mistress. Poor Mafiach! He thought he was safe.’
