by Greg Hoover
“Yes,” said the old man, his long white hair flowing down to his shoulders. “I sweep the area after every service.”
“Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Not especially.” Alban scratched his beard. “While we were setting up for the service, there was a ghost sighting in the hall. That’s not unusual, but we went to investigate, anyway.”
Father Talbot shook his head. “And after one ghost sighting, others always happen in rapid succession. It’s a wonder we ever get any work done.”
“The palace is that haunted?”
Talbot shrugged. “People see what they expect to see.”
“What about after the service?” I asked Alban. “Was there anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes,” said the man, stroking his long beard. “He had coughed up a little blood before he died. Other than that, it seemed typical.”
“I’m sorry, but I have business to attend to,” said Father Talbot. “If I can be of further help, please come by later. I will be happy to assist your investigation in any way I can. Until then, Alban will be happy to answer any questions you may have.”
The young priest left, and I asked the sexton if he would show me the sacristy. He led me to the small room used to store items needed for the service. There were brass candle holders, liturgical books, vestments, chalices, and patens. Everything I would have expected to find in a sacristy.
“Why are there two sinks?” I asked Alban.
“One is for general use,” he answered. “The other is a piscina, a sink that goes directly into the earth.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, puzzled.
“It’s for cleaning chalices so that the Sacrament returns directly to the earth,” said Alban. “Rather than into the common sewer, that is.”
“And that’s where you cleaned the chalice after today’s service?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Alban. “Is something wrong?”
“Pouring the wine down the piscina was unfortunate,” I said. “We lost an important clue.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Alban replied. “I should have thought of that.”
I nodded my head. “Can you think of anything else that may be helpful?”
“Not really,” said the old man. “I wonder why someone would want to murder one of God’s children.”
“Some would say original sin,” I shrugged. “We inherit Adam’s iniquity, I suppose.”
“Nonsense,” said Alban. “God has given us freewill. The only thing that we can inherit from Adam is his bad example; it’s up to us if we follow it.”
“Then what do we gain from our Lord’s sacrifice?” I asked, surprised at his candor.
“We gain his good example,” said the old man. “He inspires us to make better choices. God has given us the strength to follow his teachings if we choose to do so.”
“Sir,” I whispered. “I would not speak so openly if I were you.”
“Oh, rubbish,” said Alban. “I’m eighty-seven years old. I’ve survived many waves of persecution. What do I have to fear now?”
Alban crossed the room and sat in a chair against the north wall. I followed him and sat in a chair opposite him. He picked up a brass candle holder and began polishing it with a clean white towel.
“How long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Twelve years,” he said, concentrating on his work. “I came during the reign of Queen Elizabeth.”
I picked up a candle holder and towel and began helping him polish the brass.
“When I was a young man, I was a monk,” said Alban as he worked. “It was a wonderful life. I studied Hebrew and Greek, and read ancient writings, some of which are now lost. When King Henry dissolved the monasteries, however, I had to find a way of making a living. I only knew the religious life. So, I spent the last sixty years working for churches in various capacities.”
He held up the brass he had been polishing and inspected it as it gleamed in the light. He seemed satisfied, set it aside, and took up another and began polishing it.
“I’ve served in Catholic, Reformed, and Church of England parishes,” he smiled. “Depending on who was in power at the time. I have polished brass, tended cemeteries, archived manuscripts, and sewn vestments. And all the while, I listened and I thought.”
“And what have you learned?” I asked, intrigued by his story.
“God more often intervenes from within than from without,” he said. “God works within our hearts and within our heads. He inspires us to cooperate with him to change the world for the better. He calls us to use our physical hands to do the work that a spirit doesn’t have the hands to do.”
“How you escaped arrest all those years is beyond me,” I said, setting down the brass I had been polishing. It was time for me to leave and to continue my search for answers elsewhere. I reached out, shook Alban’s hand, and smiled. “Please do us both a favor and be careful with whom you share your religious views.”
“William,” he smiled back, shaking my hand. “When investigating this murder, be sure to listen to your heart as much as your head. Follow your intuitions. Trust your feelings.”
“I will,” I said, and turned to leave.
As I paused at the door to say a final goodbye, I noticed something lying on the floor. It was barely visible from under the edge of the piscina. I picked it up; it was a small glass vile. I showed it to Alban.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I have no idea, sir,” said Alban. “I’ve never seen it before.”
I sniffed the bottle, and the stench seemed familiar. I thought for a moment, sure that I had smelled its scent before. I sniffed the bottle again, and then I remembered.
“The smell from the hallway,” I said aloud, and I sniffed the odor one more time. “And from the physicians’ room.”
Chapter Six
What was the connection? As I left the chapel, I pondered the meaning of the vial. I was hoping the smell in the hallway would still be in the air, but it was gone. There must be a connection to it, the odor in the physician’s room, and whatever was in the vial. I was hungry and thought something to eat would help me sort this out. I went to the kitchen to find out if there was any food available.
Delightful sights and scents greeted me as I entered the busy kitchen. The warmth from the ovens and cooking fires cheered me, lifting my spirits. Delicious-looking turkeys and hams were roasting over crackling fires, and dozens of servants prepared sweet delicacies. Six large ovens blazed in the kitchen, and near them were two young women, one blond and one brunette. They were covered in flour and kneading huge piles of dough.
“Pardon me,” I said. “My name is William Shakespeare—”
“Oh!” exclaimed the blond who appeared to be in her late teens. “You’re an actor with the King’s Men! Our sister Violet told us she met you earlier.”
“That she did,” said the brunette, wiping her forehead and leaving a streak of flour. “She said that you were handsome.” She then whispered something to the blond, and the two girls looked at each other and giggled.
“Violet?” I said. “Oh yes, Violet Lewis, the herbalist. She mentioned she had two sisters working at the palace.”
“She told you about us?” said the blond, her blue eyes bright and cheerful. “I don’t believe you!” She looked up and smiled. “What did she say?”
“Only good things, I’m sure,” said the brunette, glancing at her sister. “My name is Janet.”
“And I’m Elspet,” said her sister. She extended the back of her hand towards me, almost as if she wanted me to kiss it; her sister slappe
d it away.
“Fancies herself a proper lady, this one,” said Janet, nodding towards Elspet. “Thinks she’ll be the Queen of England one day!”
Janet laughed, and her sister shot her a stern look. The two seemed to speak volumes to each other with nothing more than a glance.
Thoughts of my own daughters, Judith and her older sister Susanna, filled my mind. I wished Susanna would have joined us here at the palace, but she was an adult now and chose to stay in London. I hoped she was safe from the plague; I wished she was here to keep Judith company. And I realized that I didn’t know Samuel Winston very well.
“Perhaps she will be queen one day,” I said, and smiled.
“Oh, don’t encourage her, my lord,” said Janet, her green eyes radiant. “She’s hard enough to live with as she is. Now me—”
“You, a queen?” Elspet laughed. “Oh, that’s rich, that is. Who ever heard of a Queen named Janet? Besides, no king will marry the likes of you.”
“Stranger things have happened,” I said. “Pardon me, but may I have something to eat?”
“Here you go,” said Janet. She handed me a fistful of raw rye dough and popped a pinch of it into her mouth as well.
“Janet!” said her sister. “He’s right proper, he is. You don’t serve a gentleman raw dough.” She wiped her hands on her clothes. Elspet then reached behind her to a stack of fresh-baked bread cooling on a wooden rack. “Here you go, sir.”
She handed me a fragrant piece of dark-brown bread. The rich scent filled my nostrils, and my hunger increased. I was about to excuse myself when I sensed someone behind me.
“Break time, ladies.” It was Myles Lewis. “That is,” he smiled, “if you haven’t spent your entire shift talking again.”
“Sorry father,” said Janet, brushing the flour from her clothes. “We were helping the gentleman.”
“Sir,” he said to me. “May I help you find something?”
“Thank you, Myles,” I said. “But your kind daughters have been—” I heard shouting in the Great Hall.
“Oh no,” said Myles. “They’re fighting again.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Anglicans and the Puritans.”
***
As I hurried into the Great Hall, voices echoed throughout the room. Two groups of men were facing each other. One group included several priests, bishops, and their supporters. The other group had an equal number of Puritans and their followers. I noticed several faces who were present at the murder. Both men who asked the king to be the first to drink from the chalice were there.
“Please,” said a regal-looking man. He was average height, with short black hair and beard. I recognized him immediately as John Whitgift, the Archbishop of Canterbury. “That’s not at all what we’re saying.”
“That’s right,” said Lancelot Andrewes, the Bishop of Chichester.
“But do you believe in the doctrine of Transubstantiation?” demanded a Puritan. It was the Puritan from earlier who suggested that the king drink from the chalice first. “That the bread and wine literally become the Body and Blood of Christ?”
“Malachi,” said Andrews. “There is a real change in the elements—”
“Sir, that’s not biblical,” said the Puritan, who I now knew was named Malachi.
“It is, sir,” said Archbishop Whitgift. “At the Last Supper, our Lord said, ‘This is my body, this is my blood.’”
“And that’s not all,” said the priest who had also invited the king to drink the chalice first. “Our Lord added, ‘Do this in remembrance of me.’”
“You’re taking the text too literally, Oliver,” said John Reynolds to the young priest. Reynolds was a well-respected academic and Puritan. “And it brings up another point. We need a better English translation of the Holy Scriptures.”
“We agree on that point,” said Lancelot Andrewes. “Correct, Oliver?”
“Yes,” said Oliver, nodding. “We need a better translation.”
Now I had the names of the two men I wanted to question next.
“Archbishop Whitgift,” said Malachi. “Christ also said he was ‘the gate.’ Was he truly a gate? He said he was ‘the vine.’ Was he really a vine? He was not literally a shepherd, sir. That was a metaphor.”
“Metaphor depends on context,” said Bishop Andrewes.
“And Scripture must be interpreted in light of both reason and history,” said Oliver. “The early Church Fathers believed in Real Presence.”
“Nonsense,” said Malachi. “Sola Scriptura. Scripture alone. That’s all that matters.”
“That’s right,” said a Puritan that I didn’t know. “No compromise on this point is possible.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse,” said the archbishop. “Gentlemen, I suggest we table this discussion until after our meetings with King James.”
“I agree,” said John Reynolds.
Malachi shouted at Reynolds, “We will never purify the church as long as you’re so afraid of conflict!”
He turned to run out of the room and smashed into me, crushing the bread I was holding. Malachi glanced at me, and then left the room without apologizing.
“Are you okay?” asked Oliver, as the room cleared.
“Yes, thank you.” I looked at the broken bread at my feet. “Oh well.”
“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” said Oliver. He extended his hand to me. “I’m Oliver Fletcher.”
I thanked him and introduced myself. After we exchanged a few pleasantries, I showed him my letter of appointment from the king. He read the letter, nodded, and handed it back.
“May I ask you a question?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Oliver.
“Why did you suggest that the king drink from the chalice first?”
“For a simple reason,” said the priest. “I didn’t want Malachi and other more radical Puritans to gain the favor of the king before the conference even began.”
“But someone poisoned the chalice.”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “We know that now.”
“Do you know anyone who would want to murder Father Page?”
“Martin Page was almost a saint,” said Oliver, shaking his head. “He was my mentor in seminary. When the plague first hit, he left his safe teaching position and went to serve victims of the plague. It’s a miracle he didn’t contract the disease.”
“Only to fall victim to a vicious murderer,” I said. “It doesn’t seem fair. Someone told me once that God is in complete control, and either causes or allows everything that happens. Why did God cause or allow Martin Page’s murder?”
“God doesn’t cause suffering, Will,” said the young priest. “But God is working in the hearts and hands of all those who are trying to ease suffering.”
Alban’s words from earlier came to mind.
“Consider yourself,” he said. “You can solve this crime and bring a killer to justice. This will have a far-reaching effect on England. You may even stop more murders and prevent the king’s assassination. But you can’t do it alone. To solve this mystery, you need God.” Oliver paused for a moment, and looked me straight in the eyes. “And God needs you.”
I was quiet for a moment. Little did he know that I didn’t relish my assignment. He had given me something to think about.
“Do you have any other questions?” asked Oliver, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Yes,” I said. “Who do you believe is the murderer?”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “But if I were you, I would investigate Malachi Hun
ter. He was the Puritan who first suggested that the king drink first. Now if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.”
We said goodbye, and I wanted to return to the kitchen to get another piece of bread. I was ravenous. As I turned to leave the Great Hall, people hurried through the room. Some of them seemed excited, and others afraid. It relieved me to see my daughter Judith and Samuel Winston among them.
“Judith,” I called. “Over here.”
“Hello, sir,” said Samuel, smiling.
“This is so exciting!” said Judith, glancing at Samuel.
“What is?” I asked, as more people funneled through the Great Hall and out again. “Where’s everyone going?”
“We missed seeing the ghost this morning,” said my daughter. “But people are saying she could return at any moment.”
Sybil Penn, the young woman I had seen earlier, came to mind. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. Could she have really been a ghost?
“Come on,” Judith said as she pulled me towards Gallery Hall. “Let’s go!”
Chapter Seven
Adventurers filled Gallery Hall hoping to see a ghost. Not having any other leads, I joined them. It was cold, much colder than the connecting halls, and there was an odd scent haunting the air. It surprised me to see Richard Burbage among the sightseers.
“I was thinking,” said Richard. “You should play the ghost of Hamlet’s father in your new play.”
“And who will you play?” I asked.
“Why, the lead role, of course,” said Richard.
Smiling back, I realized that Richard was one of the few people I could trust at Hampton Court Palace. And since he already knew about the witch’s poppet, I decided to take him into my confidence about the murder. I spent the next several minutes quietly telling Richard all that had happened since we last spoke. He seemed intrigued, and it pleased me when he asked if there was any way he could help.
