Book of Shadows

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Because,’ Hetherington stammered. ‘Because . . .’

  Mistress Dauncey spoke up. ‘Because we were the last to visit Tenebrae before . . .’

  ‘Before his murder?’ Colum finished, staring across at the ravaged beauty of the widow’s face. ‘And why should you do that?’

  ‘We were worried.’ Fronzac the clerk spoke up, wiping his greasy chin with the cuff of his jerkin. ‘Master Tenebrae had powerful patrons.’

  ‘Which one of you,’ Kathryn intervened tactfully, ‘was the last to see Tenebrae?’

  ‘I was,’ the widow Dauncey said. ‘The porter Bogbean saw me leave.’

  Kathryn made a note to hunt this strange-sounding porter down.

  ‘He let me out. I returned to our tavern.’

  ‘Which is?’ Colum asked.

  ‘The Kestrel, the other side of Westgate,’ Hetherington said.

  Kathryn was about to continue her questions when she noticed that the scullion who had brought the stools was still hovering, apparently interested in all that was being said. Fronzac followed her gaze and leaned over the table.

  ‘Must we speak here?’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Sir Raymond, we have been here for over an hour. The scullions and tapsters knew Tenebrae and, I believe, are now listening in on our every word.’

  Kathryn stared round the tavern and, although only a few other people were there, she was forced to agree.

  ‘We are holding a banquet tonight at the Kestrel,’ Hetherington trumpeted. ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, you and Master Murtagh will be our most welcome guests.’

  His eyes twinkled with merriment, and Kathryn smiled back. Beneath his pomposity, Hetherington seemed a kind, affectionate man. She glanced at Colum, who nodded.

  ‘We gratefully accept,’ she replied. ‘Though we would like to know more about you.’

  ‘My business is in Cheapside,’ Hetherington pronounced. ‘And I am third guildmaster. It is my job to carry the silver mace in the procession and always sit to the right of the Chief Guildmaster at any banquet.’

  Kathryn nudged Colum with her knee. The Irishman had an infectious sense of humour and, when he did laugh, found it difficult to stop. Hetherington beamed at Kathryn as if he fully expected her to be totally overcome by such a revelation.

  ‘Sir Raymond,’ Colum intervened. ‘Your name is known here in Canterbury.’

  Hetherington was flattered by the lie.

  ‘This year it is my turn to visit the Blessed Shrine. Master Neverett here is my assistant. He has completed his articles and next year, God willing, might be admitted to full membership of the Guild.’ He affectionately patted the young man on the shoulder. ‘I have no son,’ he said, leaning over the table. ‘And Richard is God’s consolation to me. Louise here,’ he turned to his left, and a young woman simpered coyly up at him. ‘Is my niece. She and Richard are betrothed and are to be married, just after May Day. Master Fronzac and Brissot are, of course, highly respected officers of the Guild. You, Mistress Swinbrooke, must have heard of physician Brissot’s reputation? He has, on many occasions, quietened my own humours and made accurate predictions after studying my phlegm and urine.’

  Hetherington stared suspiciously at Kathryn, who was now furiously chewing the corner of her lip.

  ‘And I, too, am a member of the Guild,’ Dionysia Dauncey intervened drily. She winked quickly at Kathryn. ‘My husband died ten years ago. However, much to the surprise of many,’ she glanced disparagingly at Hetherington, ‘I managed to hold my own.’

  ‘And how long have you been in Canterbury?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘We arrived two days ago,’ Hetherington replied. ‘And we have seen all the sights. I have kissed the remains of Becket’s shirt and visited the monks at Christchurch priory. We hope to begin our journey back to London tomorrow.’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ Colum spoke up, stilling the clamour with his hand. ‘A crime has been committed within the jurisdiction of this city.’

  ‘Are you accusing us?’ Brissot snapped.

  ‘We have business in London,’ Neverett declared.

  ‘If you left Canterbury,’ Colum replied, ‘some people might say you are fugitives. After all, you were the last to see Master Tenebrae alive.’

  ‘It’s best if you stay,’ Kathryn insisted tactfully. ‘If you return to London, others more harsh than Master Murtagh might take up his task. You have met the Queen’s emissary Theobald Foliot?’

  Hetherington nodded. ‘Aye. A dark shadow that, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ He wetted his fat lips. ‘We will stay.’ He concluded and made to rise but Kathryn gestured at him to remain seated.

  ‘We will leave soon,’ she said. ‘One thing, however, does puzzle me.’

  ‘Which is?’ Fronzac asked.

  ‘Well, you are all powerful members of a London Guild, prosperous men and women, loyal subjects of the kingdom and Holy Mother Church.’ Kathryn deliberately emphasised the last three words.

  ‘And so, what were we doing with the likes of Tenebrae?’ Widow Dauncey asked.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite simple,’ Hetherington explained. ‘We are goldsmiths, Mistress Swinbrooke, and Fortune’s fickle wheel often takes a sudden turn. We fashion and sell precious objects, but we also loan money.’ He looked down at his podgy fingers spread out on the table-top and gave a loud sigh. ‘The Civil War has ended.’ He glanced up, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘What happens, physician, to those goldsmiths who lent money to the House of Lancaster? And what for the future? The Lancastrian faction still survives, albeit in exile. We have the words of the Bible: “How a shrewd man always looks to the future and arranges his affairs accordingly”.’

  Kathryn knew enough about the great merchant princes to realise they calculated on who held power, whose star was in the ascendant and whose was about to fall. She also suspected that the likes of Hetherington and the rest might have a great deal to hide.

  ‘And Tenebrae could see the future?’ she asked.

  Hetherington chuckled. ‘Come, come, Mistress Swinbrooke, we are all hardheaded. To be sure Master Tenebrae had his gifts. More important, he had sharp ears: the tittle-tattle of court, the gossip from abroad, the scandals of Church and State.’

  ‘He was also a blackmailer,’ Colum declared.

  Hetherington’s face became grim.

  ‘He knew secrets,’ Kathryn said. ‘Not only about those at court, but even perhaps the respectable members of a Guild.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Neverett spluttered, lowering his cup.

  Kathryn studied this arrogant young man, who had been staring at her disdainfully ever since they’d arrived.

  ‘Are you so sure, Master Neverett?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Can you vouch that no one at this table has secrets to hide?’

  Sir Raymond clapped his hands. ‘Enough is enough. Mistress Swinbrooke, I will also send an invitation to Master Foliot to be our guest tonight. We have hired a private room at the Kestrel.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathryn agreed, getting to her feet. ‘It’s best if such questions are asked then.’

  ‘At which hour, Sir Raymond?’

  ‘After Vespers, just as the cathedral bells finish tolling.’

  Kathryn smiled her thanks. She and Colum made their farewells and they walked back to Black Griffin Lane.

  ‘Well, my sharp-eyed healer,’ Colum murmured. ‘What do you make of those?’

  ‘Wealthy and powerful,’ Kathryn replied. ‘They might have a great deal to hide.’

  ‘And murder?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She glanced up at Murtagh. ‘Which begs other questions. First,’ she continued. ‘What did the grimoire hold? And, second, will its new owner use its secrets?’

  ‘If she or he does,’ Colum observed, ‘I wager Tenebrae won’t be the only one to die.’

  They passed Tenebrae’s house. Colum made to go on along Saint Peter’s Street when Kathryn stopped and stared up at the dead magus’s forbidding mansion.

  ‘You are looking forward to tonight,
Colum?’

  ‘An evening with you?’ Colum replied. ‘Good food and wine: perhaps interesting company? Many men would regard that as heaven itself.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ Kathryn teased. She pulled him by the sleeve and pointed to the alley-way that ran alongside Tenebrae’s mansion. ‘Let’s first search there.’

  Colum followed her down the narrow, evil-smelling runnel, not more than two yards wide. On their left rose the wall of the next house, nothing but timber and plaster, on their right the wall of Tenebrae’s mansion. Kathryn paused at the corner of the alley-way and pointed up to the shuttered window.

  ‘That’s the one we examined on the gallery.’

  They continued round the back of the house, noting the door and the wooden outside steps leading down.

  ‘Each of Hetherington’s party left, using this,’ Kathryn explained.

  She stared at the heaps of rubbish piled in the alley-way: scraps of rag, the decomposing contents of night-jars, bits of mouldering food, scraps of parchment.

  ‘Tenebrae must have used this as his midden-heap,’ Kathryn exclaimed, pinching her nostrils against the smell.

  They continued round the alley-way. Kathryn, looking up, noticed the shuttered window on the second floor.

  ‘Tenebrae’s chamber,’ she declared. ‘It looks as if Morel has closed the shutters.’

  ‘I can see no other entrance,’ Colum said.

  They went back into Black Griffin Lane. The one-eyed tinker was still on the corner bawling hoarsely.

  ‘A few needles! A few needles and threads for sale! Ribbons and bows!’ He waved Colum over and picked up a scrap of pink silk. ‘For your lady, Master? It will make a nice bow. Or perhaps a brooch?’

  Colum was about to shake his head and pass on. Kathryn, however, took the pink ribbon from the man’s hand and gave him a penny. The tinker’s dirty face broke into a grin.

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  ‘First,’ Kathryn pointed to the sore on the man’s dirty fingers, ‘buy some fig wort or bethany mixed with water and your chilblains will disappear.’

  The tinker stared at her curiously. ‘I can’t buy that!’

  Kathryn passed another penny across. ‘Come to my house in Ottemelle Lane. Ask for Thomasina. She will give it to you free. But that’s for your belly: buy some hot broth.’

  ‘And what do you want?’ the tinker asked suspiciously.

  ‘The whereabouts of Master Bogbean?’

  The tinker gave his gap-toothed smile and pointed to a small, dingy ale house.

  ‘You’ll find him in there, drunk as a fart. Bogbean has two homes. That alehouse, where he cleans the pots probably in his own urine, so I wouldn’t touch a drop, and the alley-way behind the magus’s house. Buy him a drink and he’ll tell you everything. Buy him two and he’s yours for life!’

  Kathryn thanked him. Both she and Colum entered the dingy alehouse, nothing more than a low timbered shed, with one narrow window, a few rickety tables and small tuns serving as stools. The shabbily dressed customers looked up as they entered.

  ‘Bogbean!’ Colum shouted. ‘I wish to buy Bogbean a drink!’

  A shabby, fat man rose from his stool where he had sat slouched tipsily against the wall and staggered towards them. Kathryn gazed at him in astonishment: small and squat, he had a face as round and red as a berry, blue veins high in his cheeks and a fiery nose, which declared him to be a toper born and bred. However, it was his hair which made Kathryn gape. Black and greasy, it stood up from his head like a cluster of spikes.

  ‘Bogbean’s the name,’ he slurred. ‘And what, shir, can I do for you?’

  ‘An answer to some questions.’ Colum pressed a coin into the man’s hard, calloused hand.

  Bogbean stared back and gave a lopsided grin. He swayed dangerously on his feet as if the floor of the alehouse was the deck of a ship.

  ‘Ask your questions,’ the fellow breathed, leering at Kathryn, ‘and I’ll give you honest answers. But for God’s sake sit down!’ He blinked wearily around. ‘This bloody place is beginning to move!’

  Kathryn, hiding her giggles, sat down at the slop-stained table. She felt rather precarious on the small tun. Bogbean shouted at a thin-faced slattern and the girl brought over blackjacks popping with ale. Kathryn remembered the tinker’s advice: she refused to touch the tankard. Bogbean finished his drink and started on hers.

  ‘Well.’ He smacked froth-rimmed lips. ‘Ask your questions.’

  ‘You worked for Tenebrae?’

  ‘Aye, the evil bastard’s dead. And worse, Bogbean is out of office.’

  ‘What was your office?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Porter to the back chamber,’ Bogbean pompously announced. ‘Whenever Master Tenebrae had guests.’ He leaned closer. ‘And believe me, Mistress, he had guests! The great and the mighty, Princes of the Church.’ He winked slowly and tapped the side of his fleshy nose. ‘What Bogbean sees, Bogbean never forgets!’

  ‘And what were your duties?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I guarded the door. No one went in.’ He slurped again from his tankard. ‘Well, no one could go in. However, no one came out without Bogbean’s knowledge.’

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘Well, it was raining heavily. Sir Raymond Hetherington’s party came. Morel told me about them.’ Bogbean leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. ‘You have met Morel?’ He shook his head. ‘As strange as his master: he’s a few pennies short of a shilling is old Morel.’

  ‘Sir Raymond Hetherington?’ Colum insisted.

  ‘Oh aye, the goldsmith. They all came down: Hetherington first, Neverett, Condosti, Brissot, Fronzac and Greene. Finally, that old widow, I forget her name.’ He tapped his head. ‘My brain’s going soft. Ah, yes, Dauncey.’

  ‘How do you know all their names?’

  Bogbean brought a dirty scrap of parchment from the inside of his even dirtier cuff and laid it on the table.

  ‘May we have that?’ Kathryn asked, examining it closely.

  ‘It’s a list of names,’ Bogbean explained. ‘And I can read. When I was a boy I went to the cathedral school. Master Tenebrae always gave me a list of who were visiting him and in what order.’

  ‘And this is the list?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And how were they?’ Kathryn asked.

  Bogbean shrugged. ‘They all came tripping out. Never spoke a word, except that old one, Dauncey: she smiled and gave me a coin. She dropped her purse. I helped pick up the pennies. She thanked me and said I would see her again, God willing, next year.’

  ‘And nothing else?’

  Bogbean shook his head. ‘No. Why, should there be?’

  ‘Did anyone go in through that door?’ Colum asked.

  Bogbean shook his head. ‘Not a mouse, not a sparrow. Master Tenebrae was a hard taskmaster. If I’d left, even for a piss, he’d have taken my head!’

  Colum put a coin on the table.

  They left the alehouse and walked back into Saint Peter’s Lane, unaware of Morel standing in the shadowy corner of a shop, greedily watching Kathryn’s retreating back.

  Chapter 4

  Kathryn and Colum returned to Ottemelle Lane. The Irishman decided it was too late to go out to Kingsmead.

  ‘Holbech,’ he said, referring to his lieutenant, ‘will take care of everything.’ He chewed his lip. ‘Yet there are accounts to be drawn up; the Exchequer will need them by Lady’s Day.’

  Kathryn, too, became busy as a number of patients arrived: first, Rawnose the beggar suffering from a scabied head, though his tongue was as busy as ever. He insisted on telling Kathryn the gossip of the city.

  ‘There’s fairies been glimpsed in Bean Wood dancing round the upright stone. A two-headed lamb was born at a farm near Maidstone. They say the King is going to declare war on the French and his Commissioners will soon be looking for troops . . .’

  Kathryn half listened as Rawnose prattled on. At last she sent him away happy, having rubbed som
e peterswort into his scalp. Mollyns the baker arrived next, complaining of a sour mouth and left with a concoction of ale hoop. Peterkin the butcher with a cut on his wrist was also waiting. Kathryn made up a poultice whilst Thomasina loudly scolded the fellow for not being more careful with his knives.

  Kathryn found it difficult to concentrate. She kept remembering that sombre chamber and Tenebrae’s body slumped there. How was he murdered? Kathryn wondered. No one forced their way in yet the magus was alive when Morel came up after all the visitors had left.

  ‘You are day-dreaming!’ Thomasina snapped. ‘Not about the Irishman again, surely? He’ll addle your wits! I remember what my father said about Irishmen . . .’

  ‘Thomasina! I know only too well what your father said about Irishmen.’

  ‘Well, he should know,’ Thomasina replied. ‘He was Irish himself.’

  Kathryn started. ‘I never knew that, Thomasina.’

  ‘Oh, yes, for a few years he was in service with the Duke of Cambridge. He served in France as an archer.’

  Thomasina was about to continue her family history when there was a knock on the door and an old, bent, white-haired man shuffled in.

  ‘Oh, it’s Jack-by-the-Hedge!’ Thomasina cried.

  She helped the visitor to a stool by the table. Jack threw her a toothless smile, his rheumy eyes twinkling with pleasure.

  ‘Thomasina, you are as plump and happy as ever? A toothsome piece between the sheets, eh?’

  Thomasina slapped the old man playfully on the hand as Kathryn crouched down before him. She never knew his real name, but Jack-by-the-Hedge was what everyone called him, because he lived in a hut of mud and wattle out in the fields near the Stour.

  ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘I have a pain,’ the old man said. He opened his mouth and pulled up his dry lip to show the inflamed gums. ‘I thought it would go away. Always hurt me it has. When I followed King Hal to Agincourt my gums hurt as if I was in hell.’

  Kathryn smiled at this old man. No one really knew his age but he claimed to have been a boy when King Henry V fought at Agincourt in 1415 and slaughtered the French. Kathryn gave him some rose-hip syrup, an astringent made from wild briar, as well as a small piece of cotton to dab it on his gums. She looked into his wily, old eyes.