The Serpent Garden - Judith Merkle Riley

by The Serpent Garden (epub)

  “Feel this, Ludlow? It’s eight inches of Spanish steel pricking your liver. If you do not want to be skewered with it, come into this alley, where the passers-by will not disturb our little conversation.” I could feel Tom’s arm pressing me against the wall of the shop, into the shadow, as the lawyer entered the fast-darkening alley, the menacing figure of Septimus Crouch close with him, embracing his neck as if in friendship.

  “I haven’t the center, Sir Septimus. I—I couldn’t get it. Here—take my portion—gratis, free. In—in token of our friendship.” The lawyer reached beneath his robe and held out some sort of bundle to the antiquarian.

  “In token of your oath to me, I now own your—soul—” There was a ghastly cry, and the lawyer fell to the ground. Smiling, the antiquarian leaned over the groaning body and felt through his clothes with his gloved hands. Then the strange, heavy eyebrows drew together, and the pallid, lined face grew distorted. “Gone! Not here! You lying whoreson, where did you hide it? At home?” He shook the dying man, and a sort of gurgling sound came from him; black blood oozed from the corner of his mouth. “I swear, I’ll find it, if I have to go to the ends of the earth.” Swiftly, he cut the lawyer’s purse from his belt, and then stepped quietly from the alley and vanished from view. Deep purple rimmed the edge of the sky now, and the first stars had come out. How odd, how terrible, to be bleeding to death on a sweet summer’s night. Was this how the curse had ended? Had it been my fault, somehow? What would happen to me now?

  “Master Ludlow, Master Ludlow.” Tom was leaning over the body. “Lie quiet, now, and we’ll carry you into the shop.”

  “I am killed, boy. It’s my corpse you’ll carry. Seven years…it has been…since I pledged my soul. And now…the contract is up. Beware the demon master, boy…don’t be lured…by false promises of wealth…ah, God, I am damned….” The gurgling breath had faded away to nothing. The tall, close-set houses had blocked the last of the twilight from the alley, and we were thrown into absolute darkness. But there, in the stillness of fear, I thought I heard the soft “huff, puff” of a heavy man’s breathing.

  “Assassinated by street ruffians, you say, Eustache?” Maître Bellier smiled as he put down the cup his servant had offered, then took up the lark’s wing delicately between thumb and forefinger. “Ah, this is excellent,” he said, crunching it down, bones and all.

  “The sauce, Master, or the assassination?”

  “Both, of course. Our hostess has developed a sure touch, since you have instructed her. It is the garlic, I think. Or possibly the rosemary. Delicate, but fearless. And the Sieur Crouch has now collected the entire manuscript for us, proving in so doing that it was not sent to Rome.” Before him on the table was propped a curious painting. It depicted a most lascivious Eve, being spied upon by the serpent as she bathed. It was brown with age.

  “Master, I suspect he does not have it, or at least all of it, if it was in fact divided,” said Eustache, pouring more wine into the silver goblet. “I have been watching his house. Almost immediately after the, ah, accident, he went to Maître Ludlow’s rooms, under the pretext that he must recover some books he had lent to him. He searched frantically, then left, his face desperate, and hurried off somewhere. That leaves the third person.”

  “The widow? Then it is already in the hands of Wolsey, you may be assured of it.”

  “It may not be.”

  “But her sudden fortune…”

  “Master, I have investigated. The widow has been engaged as a paintrix. She makes portraits.”

  “A likely story. Have you seen one?”

  “I have not, but I have been told they are very good. I suspect she has entered into a secret partnership with a foreigner who paints for her.”

  “Or an arrangement has been made to give her the appearance of a legitimate trade while she serves his secret vice…The bishop is a canny man. Or one of his servants is. No, it must be he, not some lesser priest. Who else would go to such trouble to cover his tracks?” Bellier finished the wine in the goblet, then wiped the tips of his fingers on the napkin his servant handed him. “Eustache, what you have brought me here is a puzzle. What do you see in this picture?”

  “They told me it was very old. I saw immediately it must be concealed. An allegory of the Secret, to anyone who can read it, exposed to the public! See, here? The arrangement of the apples in groups of three? The stone, and the shape of the cloud? Here are the initials P, S, Priory of Sion, worked into the picture, and here is the portrait of our sacred mountain, a depiction of the Original Sin at the beginning of time, which God answered with our Secret and the destiny of the world.”

  “No, look closer at the color. It is new, smoked up by those charlatans in Guthrun’s Lane.” With a hand, he quelled Eustache’s expression of indignation. “It was doubtless intended for another customer, when you demanded they sell it to you. Eustache, your following of Sieur Crouch has led you to more than you even know.” He smiled ironically, then continued. “I have seen a copy of this very painting kept behind a curtain in Maître Montrose’s rooms. He is ignorant of its meaning. Someone is taunting us, I believe. Someone who knows the Secret.” He reached out with his dinner knife, and scraped lightly across a corner of the painting, then rubbed it with his thumb. The fresh color, still slightly smoke stained, emerged. “Yes. New, you see? Very new. You can even smell the pigment still.” Eustache picked up the picture and ran it under his nose.

  “Yes. New. Who would know the Secret here? Who would paint such a picture, but the widow’s secret lover?” Bellier’s servant shifted from one foot to another, his face a study in worry.

  “A lover, we imagine, who has gone through her things, has seen the value of the manuscript, and kept the Secret for himself, to sell in his own good time. You must watch her more closely. We need to find this man,” said Maître Bellier, taking back the picture and propping it before him again. “This mockery—he has gone too far, do you understand?” Eustache nodded.

  “Some fruit and cheese, Master?”

  “Ugh, this English fruit. What is there?”

  “Cherries, but still a bit unripe, I think.”

  “At least their cheese is reasonably worthwhile,” he said, using his knife to remove the rind from the slice his servant proffered. “Would I could say the same for their climate.”

  “This lover, he hides himself well.”

  “Of course. It is a conspiracy. Look for a man who has traveled, who has been to Montségur. I rely on you, my bloodhound, to discover his identity.”

  “I think, perhaps, this Crouch will lead us to him.”

  “A possibility, a possibility. I begin to breathe easier. Rome and the Valois must continue to dwell in the darkness of ignorance.” With growing good cheer, Maître Bellier cut himself another slice from the second-rate, but reasonably acceptable English cheese. It had become almost delicious.

  Twelve

  MURDER is never easy, but the afterwards part is harder yet. What with telling the authorities about finding a body, and having it taken away by holy monks who devote themselves to things like that, it got very late. And the later it got, the more worried I got. We couldn’t tell that we knew who did it because Sir Septimus was a very important man, and then he would know we knew and something bad could happen to us. But maybe, if we didn’t tell, he wouldn’t suspect we’d seen. But then, maybe again if he knew we’d seen but didn’t tell, he might leave us alone for now. So the only person we told was Master Ailwin, because we needed a plan, and it is always wiser to have an older person of experience guide you when you are in trouble. Master Ailwin looked into the air a bit and then said never tell the authorities anything because it Fed Power, and all Earthly Power was due to vanish soon, so it shouldn’t be fed. Not bad for a man whose brains have been floating as loose as an unmoored boat for a long time. Then all those fellows from the society came for their meeting, and they were a fair raggedy pitiful lot who looked up to Master Ailwin as a Great Philosopher because he was eve
n odder than any of them. But then they all discussed our problem, and it did us good in the end.

  First the society all grumbled and said this murder had spoiled their evening, and after that someone said they could discuss the Evil of Earthly Power as a change from heaven, and then someone else said they thought Sir Septimus might have seen us, from what I said, and so we were in great danger. So after that, they had a bit to drink, and shouted and scuffled and debated about what to do. The result was they decided that Tom should hide at my place because I was protected by Wolsey and that they should all escort us home because it was very dark out and no moon. So they all lit torches and surrounded us and marched through the street singing a drinking song that didn’t have very much religion in it at all. People opened their shutters and shouted and threw out their chamber pots and also old shoes and rotten fruit just to be annoying, but the watch didn’t bother us because there were too many.

  “What’s this?” cried Mistress Hull.

  And Nan said, “Never again, no never, shall I let you out alone like that. We thought you’d been killed!”

  “Come in, come in. Who are all these fellows with the torches?” asked Mistress Hull.

  “Good Christian men, come to escort Mistress Dalbert home in safety,” announced Master Ailwin, and Mistress Hull looked very impressed at a man who had so many friends and such an excellent long white beard in the bargain.

  “My, who did you say that thoughtful man was, Susanna? Master Ailwin?” Mistress Hull said as she closed the door with a thump behind us and barred it tight. “I do like a man with pale blue eyes like that. I can tell they’re full of thought.”

  “That they are,” I agreed.

  “And is Tom staying for supper again this time?”

  “He’ll be staying over. We saw a man murdered, and he needs to hide here, until we can think of a better place.”

  “My, that’s splendid, to have a man about the house,” she said, and Tom began to look more pleased with himself, and less downcast.

  “And now, you’ll tell us all where you’ve been, while we eat.”

  “In a bit, Nan, but first I have to put my things away upstairs.” I took a rushlight upstairs into the darkened studio, but as I put my new colors on the shelf, the shadows felt all dark and heavy on me, and I had the sense that something evil was in the room. It was just like the feeling I had had in the alley when Master Ludlow was killed. Oh my dear Lord, I thought, I am very much in need of help even if I haven’t done much to deserve it lately. There was a sort of metallic grating sound I didn’t like and a smell of something rotten. I was very sure of it then. Somebody or something very nasty was in the room. I could feel my knees tremble, and I put my hand on my heart to keep it from beating so hard. The rushlight flickered and went out, and the blackness rushed in around me.

  There was an eerie, silent howling sound in my ears that made my blood freeze with fear. The black was thick and heavy and made the hair rise up on my neck, my arms, my head. Then something strange, like wind that was not wind, was swirling in the room. It was pale glowing stuff, like light, swirling and mingling with the fearful dark, mixing and pounding like silent ocean waves, as if there were some secret struggle going on. I was so terrified I couldn’t move, and hardly even dared breathe. I clutched the dead rushlight to me. Then all at once, as if nothing had happened, the blackness became ordinary dark. I looked down and saw that the flame of my rushlight had burst up again, as if it had been only hidden, or as if something invisible had rekindled it. I thought then that I heard an odd sound. Feathery and rustling, like when I was painting the picture for the Frenchmen. Then there was a laugh a little like chimes, very sweet, in the distance. Somehow, my voice came back to me. “Who’s there?” I cried, turning around.

  “Don’t worry,” said a charming voice, “nothing I can’t take care of.” Something, or someone, was standing in the corner of the studio, furled in a dark cloak. My hands trembling, I held up the rushlight and saw in its flickering orange circle the prettiest face I have ever seen. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.

  “How did you get in? Did you follow me?”

  “Oh, I’ve been following you awhile. But I think you need me just now. It has followed you home, so I thought I’d drop by.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, it will just worry you to think about. Chaotic spirits exist to make trouble, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just follow you downstairs to make sure you get there.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, frightened.

  “Oh, it might trip you and catch your skirts on fire. It’s rather puffed up with the trouble it has made just lately, and it knows I favor you. Come, I’ll hold your elbow as we go down.”

  “But the stair is too narrow for two.”

  “I don’t need the stair,” said the lovely thing as it came closer. It had great brown curls that seemed somehow translucent, and I could see a bit of a handsome gown beneath the plain cloak. But the poor thing was hunchbacked. Behind its head was a huge, quivering mass, hidden beneath the heavy cloak. It was barefoot, too, and its pale feet looked too tender for our splintery floorboards. But as I went down the narrow spiral stair, holding the rushlight in one hand and the book under the other arm, I could feel something very strong holding me, and my feet felt unusually sure, even though the stairs are very worn and slippery in places.

  “Who’s this?” cried Mistress Hull. “How did he get into your rooms? I swear I let no one up today. Well, knowing your friends, I suppose he’ll want supper, too.” The visitor’s face crinkled up in the most amused smile, as if he couldn’t imagine anything funnier than Mistress Hull.

  “I’m Hadriel,” he or maybe she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Well, Master Hadriel—or is it your Christian name? Surely not, it doesn’t sound very Christian to me—I mean, not to insult, but, well—you’re invited to supper, if you want any—well, you know, I mean, not to sound stingy—that is, if you’re hungry, you’re welcome—” Hadriel laughed to see Mistress Hull so flustered, and the sound made the shadows vanish from the corners of the room.

  “I’d love supper,” he said—or was he a she? I still couldn’t tell. And a name like that, well, it wasn’t a proper baptismal name so you couldn’t tell from the name either. At any rate, Mistress Hull had no doubts, so Master Hadriel it would be. He followed me into the kitchen, looking amused, then stood by the wide stone fireplace, inspecting the cooking pot that hung bubbling there as if he had never really seen anything like it before. Everyone was sitting in the kitchen, where it was cozy and agreeable and fine smelling.

  “Who’s that?” asked Tom, with a suspicious, jealous-sounding voice. I could hear a fluttering sound, like a bat caught in the chimney. A sort of heaviness seemed to be oozing into the room. Hadriel took up the poker and leaned over the boiling pot, clattering the poker in the chimney.

  “Master Hadriel, who’s come to dinner,” announced Mistress Hull. “But what are you doing there, Master Hadriel?”

  “I hear you up there, Belphagor,” said Hadriel, speaking into the chimney. “Begone.” The fluttering ceased, and Hadriel beamed at Mistress Hull. “You had a little something stuck in your chimney, but I’ve chased it out. Now, how’s that supper coming?”

  “All done and waiting for you. Wash your hands and we’ll set out the bowls. Oh, where’s the bread knife?” As Nan began to bustle, I turned to see Hadriel sitting on the kitchen bench wiping the soot off his fingers onto his old homespun cloak. His pale, almost translucent feet were crossed one over the other, while the loveliest little smile played across his face.

  “The things I do. There are those who say I’d fare better if I didn’t get my hands dirty.”

  “If anything’s worth doing, it usually dirties your hands. Look at me and my painting. I couldn’t be happy being a lady with clean hands.” As I brought him the basin and ewer, Hadriel looked at me and smiled again. “It’s more than your hands, Susann
a. How did you get that bit of ochre on your ear?”

  “Oh!” I said, and clapped my hand to my ear. Hadriel laughed.

  “Let’s see, two more dishes…”

  “Oh, since there’s company, let’s have the wine, here….” Suddenly, everyone felt light and joyful. It had to do with Hadriel laughing. We all laughed, too, for no reason. Dishes clattered and the wine went around, and Cat had a giggling fit that ended in hiccups with her mother slapping her on the back.

  “Hold your breath, Mistress Cat,” suggested Tom.

  “Count to ten,” said Nan.

  “Try sipping water through a cloth,” said Hadriel. “I’ve been told it’s infallible.” His face had gotten pinker from eating and drinking, which really was a mercy, since he looked much too pale for health.

  “Yes, yes, try the guest’s remedy!” everyone cried, and after several tries, Cat managed to drink through a dish towel.

  “All gone,” she spluttered, her face still red, and we all laughed and passed the wine around again. Master Hadriel was looking definitely tipsy, even though he had hardly drunk anything. Mistress Hull splashed some more wine in his cup.

  “Oh, not a drop more, dear Mistress Hull, I simply can’t,” he said. “Wine goes straight to my head, I have it so rarely.”

  “Then have a bit more to eat, Hadriel, dear,” said Mistress Hull, who had had quite a bit to drink herself.

  “Sweetheart,” he answered, tilting dangerously to one side, “I can hardly touch a bite. I usually don’t eat or drink.” Was I imagining it, or was the hump on his back quivering?

  “Your mother should have looked after you better—you’re far too thin. Not eat or drink! And what ever possessed her to give you a name like that? Now George is a nice name, or maybe Michael—but Hadriel?”

  “Well, actually, it was my father’s idea,” said Hadriel, all pink.

  “Well, doesn’t that account for it!” said Mistress Hull. “Men! I’d say you look much more like a Michael to me.”