by Paul Doherty
Mine Hostess returned with the food and Cranston, cloak unhitched and warbelt looped over a wall hook, ate and drank as if there was no tomorrow. Athelstan put a little of the food on his platter and ate carefully and slowly, sipping occasionally from his goblet of wine. Once he’d finished he moved to a nearby table and took out the documents collected from the Golden Oliphant: Whitfield’s despairing letter, the strange document depicting two triangles, their apexes meeting, and beside these, that puzzling litany of saints. The third document rendered in cipher remained unintelligible. Athelstan hid that deep in his chancery satchel and, whilst Cranston cleared the platters, carefully made copies of the other two and handed them to the now sated coroner for safekeeping.
‘I agree with you, Friar.’ Cranston deftly used his toothpick and sat back on the settle. ‘Those attackers did not intend to hurt, maim or kill but to seize something, and logically the only item I – we – can think of is what we received at the Golden Oliphant. Now that cipher was originally taken from Reynard, the Upright Men’s courier, so the Upright Men want it back. But what does it mean? Why is it so important?’
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan?’ Mine Hostess came out of the kitchen with a scroll, a dark purple ribbon tied around it. Athelstan wiped his fingers and took it, then opened and read it.
‘Brother Philippe,’ he declared. ‘He scrutinized Whitfield’s corpse. He cannot account for some slightly reddish marks on the dead man’s waist, though he said that this had nothing to do with Whitfield’s death.’
‘So what does?’
‘Nothing, Sir John.’
Athelstan handed him the letter. ‘According to Philippe, Whitfield hanged himself. He can find no other trace of violence on the corpse or any symptom of poison or any baleful potion.’ Athelstan sat back in his seat. ‘Nevertheless, Sir John, I suggest that Whitfield no more hanged himself than I did.’
‘So, let’s begin from the beginning – perhaps we will stumble on the truth.’
‘In which case, shouldn’t we leave immediately for St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Lebarge must have the truth of it.’
‘You can deal with him later,’ Cranston replied brusquely. ‘Let us concentrate on what we know, or think we know, little friar.’
Athelstan intoned his conclusions. ‘Item: Amaury Whitfield, Lebarge, Odo Gray, sea captain, Adam Stretton, Arundel’s mailed clerk and Matthias Camoys gathered four days ago at the Golden Oliphant to celebrate the Festival of Cokayne, which salutes a world turned upside down, where male becomes female and so on … Really,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘an excuse for licentiousness and bawdy humour. Item:’ he continued, ‘this revelry is held at the Golden Oliphant, a high-class, fairly sophisticated brothel owned by Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, ably assisted by her troupe of moppets and maids, all available to anyone who pays for their services. She is also supported by leading members of her household: Joycelina, chief of the strumpets; Foxley, Master of Horse; and Griffin, Master of the Hall – in this case, the Golden Hall, the main taproom of that brothel-cum-tavern. Item: there is a history to this establishment. It was bought by Reginald Camoys for his doxy Elizabeth Cheyne. Reginald, a former knight and warrior, returned from the eastern marches. He and his brother Everard brought back the embalmed corpse of Reginald’s bosom comrade, Simon Penchen. Reginald also secretly brought back a great treasure of the Teutonic Knights, his former patrons, the Cross of Lothar, an exquisitely beautiful and precious object. Reginald settled down into city life, thoroughly enjoying the charms of Mistress Cheyne, and he developed an undoubted skill as a sign writer, winning the favour of leading guilds in the city.’ Athelstan paused as Cranston nodded in agreement, then raised a hand, beckoning a slattern to refill the jug of Bordeaux.
‘Everard Camoys,’ Athelstan continued, ‘also settled down to emerge as a leading city mercer and goldsmith. Item: Reginald, lost in his own world, used his wealth to found that chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, to house his bosom friend’s corpse as well as to prepare for his own mortal remains when God called him to judgement, which he eventually did.’
Athelstan paused. A tinker with a tray hung around his neck slipped through the door and went to sit on a corner stool at the far side of the taproom. The tinker’s tray was crammed with geegaws and other petty items. The man’s face was hidden deep in a dirty cowl, but the friar was sure he was looking in their direction. Athelstan breathed in slowly. Surely no tinker would have a tray so full at this late hour, and why hide his face and head? Was he a spy sent in by the Upright Men to keep himself and Cranston under close scrutiny?
‘Item, dear friar?’
‘Yes, yes, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘but just keep an eye on our tinker friend over there. Anyway, item: Reginald, before he died, left mysterious and enigmatic messages which might reveal the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. No one is really concerned about this except Matthias Camoys, who haunts both the Golden Oliphant and St Mary Le Bow, the two places where the insignia are shown. Now, whether these ciphers do contain the truth about the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar is just an educated guess. Matthias certainly believes they do. He joined the Cokayne Festival to sample the delights of the sisterhood and to drink deeply, but also to seek the help of a skilled cipher clerk, Whitfield, to resolve the riddles of his uncle’s carvings. Whitfield may have offered his assistance, telling young Camoys to meet him at the Tavern of Lost Souls, a place he had already visited.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘But why there, why not the Golden Oliphant? And what was Whitfield’s real business with Mephistopheles? Item: we know very little about what truly happened during those evenings of festivity at the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield was often deep in his cups. Was this because of the threats from the Herald of Hell? According to reports, both he and Lebarge were frightened and anxious. What else, dear coroner?’
‘Reginald Camoys certainly loved to carve those symbols, wherever he could. What do the letters IHSV mean? And that salutation to “The Unconquerable Sun”? Why carve both on the tombs as well as at the Golden Oliphant?’
‘For the moment, Sir John, let’s leave the inscriptions. I have seen, or heard about them before, but I cannot place where or when. Anyway, item: Whitfield’s mysterious death. Last night he left the revelry and went up to his chamber. Sometime in the following hours, or so it would seem, he locked and bolted his chamber door, closed the eyelet, turned the key and apparently sat down to write that final letter. Once finished, dressed to leave, he took the fire rope, fastened the noose to a rafter, moved that stool and,’ Athelstan blew his cheeks out, ‘the rest, God bless him, we know. Except,’ he lifted a finger, ‘Master Whitfield intended to go to the Tavern of Lost Souls. He invited young Matthias to join him there. So, why Whitfield’s interest in meeting Mephistopheles and his minions? Was it just the sale of objects from his dwelling place? In which case, why have Matthias there with him, eh?’
Cranston just shook his head.
‘Item: that bundle of clothes lying on the floor of Whitfield’s chamber. Is that significant? And why did Whitfield, a fairly prosperous man, hire a room on the top gallery? To protect himself, to keep something safe and the curious at bay? Then there’s Foxley’s offhand remark that Whitfield seemed slimmer in death than he did in life: what did he mean by it? Why were Whitfield’s chambers in Fairlop Lane cleared of possessions? I noticed something amiss there but I cannot recall it for the moment. To continue. Item: where are Whitfield’s chamber possessions and Lebarge’s baggage? The scrivener arrived in St Erconwald’s with little to show. Item: why is Lebarge sheltering in sanctuary? What crime has he committed? If he is not careful he could fall under suspicion, but, to return to my question, where is the property of both Whitfield and Lebarge? The curtains, the strongbox, the covers of damask, the candlesticks, the books – the usual items owned by a prosperous clerk? Have they been sold to Mephistopheles? Yet the Master of the Minions claims that Whitfield only approached him about a possible sale.’
�
�What are you saying, little friar?’
‘Amaury Whitfield did not kill himself; he was murdered before he could leave, which explains why he was dressed. He was going down to the Tavern of Lost Souls; he was definitely meeting Matthias there. Nor must we forget Master Gray’s ship, the Leaping Horse, all ready for sea …’
‘In other words, Brother, Whitfield was preparing to flee?’
‘Patience, Sir John. Let us go back to the beginning and the root cause of all that has happened.’ Athelstan felt a glow inside him, a sense of serenity as he moved towards a logical conclusion to a most vexatious problem. ‘Whitfield and Lebarge worked for Thibault, therefore both men would be marked down for destruction when the Great Uprising occurs. Whitfield was worried by the warning from the Herald of Hell and became deeply anxious. He confided in his friend and scrivener Lebarge; both decided to flee across the Narrow Seas and seek sanctuary elsewhere. They stripped their personal chambers in Fairlop Lane of valuable possessions and sold them to Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls. I suspect they had other minor items which they would also wish to pawn or sell to that cunning miscreant. Whitfield was continuing these negotiations when he moved to the Golden Oliphant for the Cokayne Festival. He and Lebarge would use that as a pretext to cover their escapes. Both planned to sail from London on Odo Gray’s ship, the Leaping Horse, and our sea captain attended as their guest, probably part of the bribe to take them across the seas.’
‘And Thibault?’
‘He will be furious that his chief chancery clerk was about to desert him.’
‘And the cipher Whitfield was working on?’
‘Oh, Whitfield wouldn’t really care for that except,’ Athelstan tapped the table, ‘we know that the Golden Oliphant houses at least one member of the Upright Men. If so, they would have approached Whitfield to retrieve that cipher.’ He pointed at Cranston. ‘Apparently Reynard was murdered in Newgate, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suspect that somewhere on his person Reynard still had the key to that cipher. He may have been mulling over the possibility of surrendering it to Thibault in return for a pardon. Instead, those two felons murdered him, they took it and gave it back to the Upright Men during that fatal affray around Tyburn scaffold.’
‘If Whitfield was so engrossed in fleeing, why did he offer to help Matthias Camoys with his late uncle’s cipher?’
‘I can’t say, Sir John, although I will reflect on that. Suffice to suggest that Whitfield and his scrivener plotted to cover their flight on the Leaping Horse with some accident or pretended suicide, hence that letter and the bundle of clothes separate from the rest which, I think, would have been found floating on the Thames.’
‘And the Tavern of Lost Souls?’
‘Mephistopheles – correct me if I am wrong – pawns goods. Whitfield went down to see to the last of his property, sell all those little objects he could not take with him, be it a candlestick, statue, book or painting, which explains why both Whitfield and Lebarge’s chambers were empty. Mephistopheles would be a natural choice. Any other merchant might report Whitfield’s trading back to Thibault; Mephistopheles certainly wouldn’t. I would hazard a guess that for a few days before he moved to the Golden Oliphant, Whitfield was a fairly regular visitor to the Tavern of Lost Souls.’
‘And so all his possessions are in Mephistopheles’ safekeeping?’
‘I suggest so, and the Master of the Minions will not be forthcoming, which is why the likes of Whitfield go to him in the first place.’
‘Very well.’ Cranston moved the goblet and platter aside and leaned across the table. ‘Whitfield, witless with fear,’ the coroner smiled at the play on words, ‘plotted to finish the pawning of all his moveables and to arrange his own death by leaving a bundle of clothes floating on the river as if he had slipped, been pushed or took his own life. In truth, Whitfield was planning to disappear, and Lebarge with him. They were terrified at what is about to engulf this city.’
‘In a word, yes, Sir John, but someone intervened – who, how and why I do not know. Whitfield was killed, Lebarge panics, hides whatever baggage he has and flees for sanctuary.’ Athelstan laughed drily. ‘Lebarge realizes that Whitfield’s plan has been foiled. He thinks he is now in the safest place. Once forty days have passed, our scrivener will be compelled to leave sanctuary and seek shelter in the nearest port, which is down by the Thames. Who knows, he may still board Odo Gray’s Leaping Horse. True?’ Athelstan picked up his goblet. ‘Lebarge cannot be convicted of any crime, he cannot be accused of involvement in Whitfield’s death …’
‘But he can declare that he is living in mortal fear for his own life,’ Cranston added. ‘And that he fled to protect himself. The sheriff’s men would accept that, they have to. They would also arrange safe escort to the nearest port, which is what our scrivener wanted in the first place.’ The coroner paused. ‘Do you think Lebarge could have been involved in Whitfield’s death?’
‘I don’t think so. True, he and Whitfield were master and servant, but they also seemed to be close friends. Lebarge fled because he thought he might be the next victim. He is, as you say, in mortal fear for his life.’
‘Could Thibault have a hand in this?’
‘For what reason, Sir John?’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘If Thibault had suspected his trusted henchman was about to flee, he would simply have detained him. Thibault was beside himself with fury because Whitfield died without breaking that cipher.’ Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts. ‘We have three pieces of manuscript. The first is Whitfield’s letter of desperation, hinting at suicide, an accident or whatever. What he was actually going to do, I don’t know, and I don’t think we ever will. Remember, what we see now are shadows, the way things might have been. Secondly, there is the cipher; close, cramped and secret with all sorts of symbols and signs. I have only given it a cursory glance, but it was enough to see that it is intricately locked. I doubt if I could break it. Thirdly, there is that drawing of the two triangles and the list of saints, which is probably Whitfield’s work. He had begun to unravel the mystery; perhaps I might make sense of that. So, Sir John, there you have it. We see the truth but dimly as if in a mirror. We will have to work a little harder to make matters clearer.’
‘Could Stretton, Arundel’s man, be caught up in this murder?’
‘Possibly. He may have learnt something and hoped to bribe, coax or threaten Whitfield into betraying Master Thibault’s secrets. I truly don’t know, Sir John, except a great deal of mischief occurred in that brothel before Whitfield’s mysterious death.’
‘And the Herald of Hell, Brother? This invisible creature who crawls out of the darkness to challenge and threaten – he too may be involved?’
‘Your friend Everard Camoys believed he recognized the voice, yet this herald moves across the city like a will-o-the-wisp.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I do wonder if this so-called herald is no more than a figment of people’s fevered imagination.’
‘Brother, he exists! Sir Everard is a trusted friend and veteran soldier, he does not suffer from such imaginings.’
Athelstan sighed. ‘I agree, but this herald appears here and there, never glimpsed, never caught. The Herald of Hell plays a game of mystery, just as mysterious as the Cross of Lothar. Indeed, Sir John, I am truly intrigued why Mistress Cheyne is not interested in its whereabouts. Or perhaps she is, yet she seems almost to dismiss the relic as some cheap trinket, not worth bothering about. Matthias Camoys searches for it, she doesn’t, and, despite her late paramour leaving enigmatic devices and signs for others to follow, she shows no interest whatsoever. I do wonder about that as I do about a terrified clerk like Whitfield offering to help Matthias Camoys discover the whereabouts of this precious treasure. I mean, at a time when Whitfield was fleeing for his life and couldn’t give a fig about anything.’ Athelstan paused as Mine Hostess, like a war cog in full sail, came charging out of the buttery. She came across and filled Sir John’s goblet, but Athelstan put a hand o
ver his as she offered a cup against what she called, ‘the weariness of the day’. Cranston thanked her and toasted Athelstan with his brimming goblet.
‘And all this,’ the coroner murmured, ‘shrouds what you truly suspect: that Whitfield did not commit suicide but was murdered. True,’ he nodded, ‘I can see the logic of your argument. Whitfield was dressed, ready to go, he had promised to meet young Matthias, and that’s another mystery: Whitfield was to meet Camoys in the early evening, so why was he already dressed to go out before dawn even broke?’ Cranston cradled his goblet. ‘Satan’s tits, Athelstan! We have overlooked something very important.’
‘Which is?’
‘If Whitfield and Lebarge cleared their chambers and later disappeared, leaving the possibility that Whitfield was dead due to an accident or possible suicide, Thibault would eventually discover the truth. He’d realize that Whitfield had fled or died trying to. Indeed he probably has. Albinus visited those chambers in Fairlop Lane; it would be obvious that those who’d lived there had left for good.’
‘Sir John, Sir John,’ Athelstan smiled bleakly, ‘Whitfield didn’t care about what might happen later: all he needed was a little time to throw Thibault off the pursuit, to block his master for a while.’
‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Whitfield knew a storm was imminent which would engulf Thibault, who would have other, more pressing matters to worry about. Whitfield expected that Thibault would not survive. By then he would be long gone into hiding where he could lie quiet for many a day, begin a new life and even return to a London greatly changed from the city of today.’
