House of the Red Slayer smoba-2

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan dipped into his purse and drew out a coin.

  ‘Here.’ He pressed it into the fellow’s grimy paw. ‘This is not for your stone. Keep it. It’s your ingenuity I am rewarding.’

  The man gaped, open-mouthed, and Athelstan and Cranston walked on, quietly laughing at the relic-seller’s quick response. They passed the Littlegate of St Paul’s where a lay brother was feeding a group of lepers with mouldy bread and rancid pork slices, as laid down by the city fathers who judged such food actually helped them. Cranston glared across in disgust.

  ‘Do you really think it does?’ he asked Athelstan abruptly.

  ‘What, Sir John?’

  ‘Such food, does it really help lepers?’

  Athelstan gazed at the grey cowled figures with their staffs and bowls for alms. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps.’

  The lepers made him think about the two who lurked in the cemetery of St Erconwald. A memory stirred but he could not place it so pushed the matter to one side. They turned into an alleyway off Friday Street and Cranston began to bellow at passersby for the whereabouts of Parchmeiner’s shop. They found it on the corner of Bread Street a narrow, two-storeyed tenement with a shop below and living quarters above. There was a stall in front but because of the inclement weather this was now bare so they opened the door and went inside. Athelstan immediately closed his eyes and sniffed the sweet odour of fresh scrubbed parchment and vellum. The smell reminded him vividly of the well-stocked library and quiet chancery of his novice days at Blackfriars. The shop itself was a small, white-washed room with shelves along the walls stacked with sheets of parchment, ink horns, pumice stones, quills, and everything else one would need in a library or chancery.

  Geoffrey himself was sitting at a small desk. He smiled and rose to greet them.

  ‘Sir John!’ he cried. ‘Brother Athelstan, you are most welcome!’ He went into the darkness beyond to bring back two stools. ‘Please sit. Do you want some wine?’

  Surprisingly, Cranston shook his head.

  ‘I only drink when Sir John does,’ Athelstan mockingly replied.

  The parchment-seller grinned and sat down behind his desk.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you? I doubt you want to buy parchment or vellum — though, Brother, I have the best the city can offer. I am a Guild member and everything I sell carries their hallmark.’ Geoffrey’s good-natured face creased into a smile. He shook his head. ‘But I don’t think you come to buy.’ His face became grave. ‘It’s the business at the Tower, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Cranston answered, moving uncomfortably on the small stool. ‘Does the name Bartholomew Burghgesh mean anything to you?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘I never met him but I heard Sir Fulke talk of him, and once Philippa repeated the name in her father’s presence. Sir Ralph became very angry and stormed out. Of course, I asked Philippa why. She just shook her head and said he was an old enemy of her father’s, and refused to be drawn any further.’

  Athelstan watched the young man intently. Could this languid, rather effete, fop be the Red Slayer? The terrible murderer who stalked his victims in the Tower?

  ‘Geoffrey?’ he asked

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘You have known Philippa how long?’

  ‘About two years’

  ‘And Sir Ralph liked you?’

  The parchment-seller grinned. ‘Yes, though God knows why. I can hardly ride a horse and the call of arms does not appeal to me.’

  ‘You were with him the night he died?’

  ‘Yes, as I have said, I was with him in the great hall. Sir Ralph was morose and became maudlin in his cups.’

  ‘He was drunk?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You helped him across to his chamber?’

  ‘Well, again, yes and no. Master Colebrooke assisted me. I took Sir Ralph to the top of the stairs into the North Bastion tower but the passageway was so narrow Colebrooke helped him the rest of the way.’

  ‘And you stayed with Mistress Philippa that night?’

  The young man looked embarrassed and his eyes dropped.

  ‘Yes. If Sir Ralph had known, he would have been most angry.

  ‘But,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘he favoured your courtship of his only daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I think he did.’

  ‘Why?’ Cranston barked. ‘I mean, as you have said, you’re no soldier.’

  ‘No, I am not. I am not a lord or a knight but a merchant, Sir John, and a very good one. I am one of those who lends money so the King can hire his knights.’ The parchment-seller gestured round his well-stocked shop. ‘It may not look much but my profits are high. I am a wealthy man, Sir John.’

  ‘One other matter.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We have touched upon it before. You went to rouse Sir Ralph. What happened?’

  ‘The guards opened the passageway door and locked it behind me as Sir Ralph had ordered. I went down and tried to rouse the constable. There was no answer so I went back. I told the guards and took the key to Whitton’s chamber. I was going to open it myself but changed my mind and went for Colebrooke.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Geoffrey pulled a face. I knew something was wrong by the silence, not to mention the cold draught under the door of Whitton’s chamber.

  Athelstan remembered the gap under Sir Ralph’s door and nodded. Someone standing outside the room would have felt the powerful draught and know something was wrong.

  ‘Why didn’t you open the door yourself?’ Cranston asked

  The young man smiled weakly. ‘Sir John, I was frightened. Sir Ralph was not a popular man. Looking back, I suppose I was worried someone might be in the chamber.’

  ‘And the night Mowbray died?’

  ‘I was with Mistress Philippa, drunk as a lord. Ask the others.’

  ‘And you never left?’

  Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Like the rest, I went to use the privy along the corridor. When the tocsin sounded I lurched out with the others to see what was wrong. I didn’t do much. I was drunk and I hate those parapet steps. I wandered around, looking busy, and found Fitzormonde and Colebrooke standing over Mowbray’s body.’ The young man paused and looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘I know why you are here. There’s been another death in the Tower, hasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured and gave Parchmeiner the details of Horne’s death.

  Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. ‘I suppose,’ he said wearily, ‘you wish to question me about that?’

  ‘It would,’ Cranston observed, ‘be helpful to know where you were last night.’

  Parchmeiner shrugged. ‘I worked in my shop, then I got drunk as a bishop in a nearby tavern, the Golden Griffin. You could ask there.’

  Athelstan smiled. What would be the use? the friar thought, Horne could have been killed at any hour. He studied Parchmeiner’s girlish face. ‘You are London-born?’ he queried, trying to look at the parchment lying on Geoffrey’s desk.

  ‘No, Brother, I am not. My family are Welsh, hence my colouring. They moved to Bristol. My father traded in parchments and vellum in a shop just beneath the cathedral there. When he died I moved to London.’ Geoffrey picked up the piece of parchment. ‘My sister, now married, still lives there; she has just written inviting herself to town for the Yuletide season. She, her husband,’ his face grew mock solemn, ‘and their large brood of children will bring some life to the Tower.’ He turned to Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, you have more questions?’

  Sir John shook his head. ‘No, sir, we have not.’

  They rose, made their farewells, and stepped out into the cold, icy street

  ‘What do you think, Brother?’

  ‘A young man who will go far in his trade, Sir John. He has his roots.’ The friar grinned. ‘Yes, Sir John, like you I wondered if he could be Burghgesh’s son. But I am sure he is not.’ Athelstan stopped and stared hard at the coroner. ‘We are looking for a kille
r without ties, Sir John. Someone who is pretending to be something he or she is not. Someone who knows about the great act of betrayal so many years ago. The question is, who?’

  ‘Well!’ Cranston clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll not find it here, Brother, but perhaps in Woodforde…’ The coroner wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stared up at the sky. ‘I don’t want to stay in London,’ he murmured. ‘The Lady Maude needs a rest from me. And you, Brother?’

  ‘My parish,’ Athelstan drily replied, ‘will, I think, survive the continued absence of their pastor a little longer.’

  They separated at the corner of Friday and Fish Streets, agreeing to meet within two hours at a tavern outside Aldgate on the Mile End Road. Sir John stamped off, leading his horse, whilst Athelstan continued down Trinity into Walbrook, along Ropery to London Bridge. Thankfully, he found St Erconwald’s fairly deserted except for Watkin to whom he gave strict instructions about the custody of the church, and Ranulf the rat-catcher who had come to remind him of his promise that if a Guild of Rat-Catchers were founded, St Erconwald’s could be their chantry church.

  ‘I promise you, Ranulf, I will think on the matter,’ Athelstan replied, trying to hide his amusement at the thought of St Erconwald’s full of tarry-hooded rat-catchers, all looking like Ranulf. The fellow’s yellow, wizened face broke into a sharp-toothed smile. He skipped down the steps as happily as any boy.

  ‘Brother,’ Watkin mournfully moaned.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well — ’ The dung-collector turned on the top step of the church and pointed towards the frozen cemetery. ‘We still haven’t set a watch.’

  ‘Why should we, Watkin? The grave robbers have moved on.’

  The dung-collector shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Brother, and I am afeared worse might happen.’

  Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Nonsense. Now look, Watkin, I will be back late tomorrow evening. Take a message to Father Luke at St Olave’s. Ask him to be so kind as to come here and say Mass tomorrow morning. You will know where everything is? And tell the widow Benedicta to help you. You’ll do that?’

  Watkin nodded and stumped off, muttering under his breath about priests who didn’t listen to tales of the dark shapes which did dreadful things in city churchyards. Athelstan watched him go and sighed. How could he deal with the cemetery when there was no evidence of any danger threatening? He checked the door of the church was locked and stood engrossed in his own thoughts about Cranston. The Lord Coroner was proving to be as difficult a problem as the dreadful deaths they were investigating. What was wrong with the Lady Maude? Athelstan wondered. Why didn’t Cranston ask her outright?

  Athelstan smiled as he went across to his own house. Strange, he concluded. Cranston, who was frightened of nothing on two legs, seemed terrified of his little lady wife. Athelstan checked that the windows and doors of the priest’s house were locked, slung his saddle bags over a protesting Philomel, and both horse and rider wearily made their way along the icy track. He stopped at an ale-house to leave further messages with Tab the tinker for Benedicta and Watkin; they were to lock the church after morning Mass and, if the widow felt so inclined, she should take Bonaventura back to her own house. The friar then made his way back on to the main highway, past the Priory of St Mary Overy and across London Bridge. He stopped midway to say a prayer in the Chapel of St Thomas for the safety of their journey and then continued on his way.

  Cranston was waiting for him at the small tavern just outside Aldgate in the Portsoken overlooking the stinking city ditch. The coroner seemed in good spirits. Athelstan concluded it was due to the large empty wine bowl in front of Sir John but Cranston, winking and burping, staunchly kept his hidden resolve not to vex Athelstan further with his own worries and anxieties. The friar joined Sir John in one last cup of mulled wine, heated with a red hot poker and spiced with cinnamon, before they reclaimed their horses from the stable and made their way along the darkening highway towards Mile End. Cranston remained full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan, tired and saddle sore, prayed and cursed whilst Cranston, farting and swaying in the saddle, chattered about this or that. Finally Athelstan reined in Philomel and grasped the coroner by the wrists.

  ‘Sir John,’ he asked wearily, ‘this business at the Tower — we are making no headway. How long can we spend on the matter?’

  ‘Until we finish.’ Cranston’s eyes gleamed back. ‘By the sod, Brother! Orders are orders, and I don’t give a rat’s fart about mumbling monks, icy roads or cold journeys. Now, have I told you of the Lady Maude’s preparations for Christmas?’

  Athelstan groaned, shook his head and kicked Philomel forward as Cranston regaled him with Lady Maude’s intended banquet of boar’s head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts and junkets of apple-flavoured cream. The coroner chattered like a magpie as the weak daylight died and dusk fell like a grey powder, shrouding the wide waste stretches of snow. The distant forest became obscured by a misty darkness which closed in round them, broken by the odd pinprick of light as they passed some hamlet or village. No wind blew but it was deathly still and bitterly cold.

  ‘I am sure,’ Athelstan mumbled to himself, ‘the very birds will freeze on the trees and even the hares on the hill will remain underground.’

  Cranston, the wineskin now surprisingly empty, only replied with a short stream of belches. They passed a crossroads where a cadaver hung, black and frozen, its head twisted to one side, face unrecognisable after the crows had feasted there. Cranston stopped and pointed down a track to a light blinking in the distance.

  ‘We’ll stop there for the night, Brother. A good, snug tavern, The Gallow’s Friend.’ He leaned over and smiled at Athelstan. ‘Despite its name, you’ll like it.’

  Athelstan did. It was a clean, well-swept establishment with secure stables, a fresh herb-smelling tap room, a large roaring fire with the logs piled high — though he baulked at the huge four-poster bed he’d have to share with Sir John.

  ‘No, no, My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I insist you sleep alone.’

  ‘Why, monk?’

  ‘Because, coroner, if you rolled over in your sleep, you’d crush me to death!’

  Laughing and joking, they left their bags there and made their way down to the tap room where the landlord’s wife served them huge fish pies, the crust, golden and crisp, hiding a savoury sauce which dulled the flavour of the rancid fish. Athelstan tactfully asked the landlord for a pallet bed to be placed in their chamber and sat down to eat almost as heartily as Cranston. Of course, the coroner drank as if there was no tomorrow and when he had had his fill, leaned back against the pillar of the huge fireplace, belched, and pronounced himself satisfied. Athelstan stared into the flames, half listening to a wind which had suddenly sprung up, now whining and clattering against the tightly secured shutters.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John?’

  ‘This business at the Tower, could it be black magic?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the head that was sent to me.’

  Athelstan stretched his hand out to the flames. ‘No, no, Sir John. As I have said, we are not dealing with a demon but something worse, a soul steeped in mortal sin. But whose?’ He looked up at Sir John, who had his fiery red nose deep in a wine cup again. ‘What’s puzzling,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is why now? Why has the murderer chosen this moment? And how can they know about the dreadful events surrounding Burghgesh’s death?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cranston slurred.

  ‘Well,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we should be looking for a man or woman with no background, someone who has suddenly appeared on the scene, but everyone we have talked to has their own little niche.’

  Cranston burped. ‘I don’t know,’ he slurred. ‘It could still be black magic because I’m damned if I can find a way through the tangle. Now, as I have said to Lady Maude…’ The coroner suddenly
stopped and stared into his wine cup, and the good humour drained from his face.

  ‘Come, Sir John,’ Athelstan said quietly. ‘It’s time we slept.’

  Surprisingly, Cranston agreed, drained the cup and slammed it down on the table. He stood up, swaying and smiled benevolently down at his companion.

  ‘But do you believe, Brother?’

  ‘What, Sir John?’

  ‘In the black arts? I mean, the business in your cemetery?’

  Athelstan grinned. ‘To be perfectly honest, Sir John, I am more frightened of the human heart than any mischievous demon. Now, come. Let’s rest.’

  Athelstan was pleased he had judged the moment right because, by the time they reached the top of the rickety wooden staircase, Cranston was half-asleep and beginning to mumble piteously about how he missed Lady Maude. Athelstan led him down the cold, darkened passageway and into the small chamber. He gently lowered Cranston on to the bed, pulled off the coroner’s boots and made his companion as comfortable as possible. The coroner turned, belched, and quietly began to snore. Athelstan grinned and covered the huge frame with a coverlet. Sleeping, Cranston reminded the friar more than ever of the huge bear in the bailey of the Tower. Athelstan went over and knelt beneath the small, horn-glazed window, crossed himself and gently mouthed the words of David’s psalm.

  ‘Out of the depths have I called to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice.’

  By the time he had reached the fourth verse Athelstan was already distracted. Was Sir John right? he wondered. Did the great demon, the Red Slayer, haunt both his cemetery and the Tower of London? He closed his eyes, finished the psalm and made his way to the pallet bed. For a while Athelstan lay listening to Cranston’s heavy snoring and fell asleep almost at the very instant when, back in the darkened cemetery outside St Erconwald’s, shadows flitted across the graveyard to crouch over a freshly dug grave.

  CHAPTER 11

  In his dream, Athelstan stood on a darkened ship. The bowsprit, mast and sails were covered in black crepe. Above him on the poop, a skeleton, face a white, leering mask, held the wheel and grinned wickedly down at him. The sea was smooth and clear as thick, dark glass. The sky overhead was empty of stars and hung like a purple-blue cloth around the ship as it drifted towards the horizon where a fiery red glow lit the gateway to Hell. On one end of the mast a figure jerked spasmodically. Athelstan glimpsed the blackened, twisted face of Pike the ditcher hanging by the neck. The friar turned as someone tapped him on the shoulder. His brother Francis stood there: his face was blueish-white under a shock of black hair. A thin red snake of blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth; his chest was an open, bubbling mass of blood where he had received his death wound.