The Gallows Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Benjamin must have got up early the following morning. He was already washing and changing when a clamour broke out on the stairs outside. Vetch's pounding on our door sent me scurrying, heavy-eyed, from my bed.

  "You'd best come!' Vetch declared hoarsely. He glanced quickly at me. 'And, if your stomach's fickle, you'd best hold your mouth!'

  We went downstairs, across the mist-shrouded green and into the base of Bowyer Tower. It was very much like the cellar we had visited at the Beauchamp, but this one was well-lit by torches. Kemble and Spurge stood just within the doorway, as did a pallid-faced Mallow.

  At first, because my head wasn't clear, all I could see was a faint figure in the gloom, lying on what I thought was a bed. When I went down the steps and looked more carefully, I realised the full horror of the scene. Now many of you young men have seen hangings and decapitations, men quartered and disembowelled, but a man stretched out on 'Exeter's daughter' is a most hideous sight. (Oh, excuse me if I digress! My little chaplain is quite ignorant as to what 'Exeter's daughter' is. According to legend, during the reign of Henry VI, the Duke of Exeter introduced the rack into England, hence the name.) The rack was shaped like a bed with posts at each end. On that sun-filled morning, in the centre of the rack, sprawled Wormwood's body. Someone had slipped his wrists and ankles into the loops of heavy hempen rope, and then turned the wheel at either end, so the rack stretched, cracking muscle and sinew. Wormwood's face was a mask of indescribable horror; eyes popping, mouth open. His legs had been stretched, one arm had been pulled out of its socket. His entire torso looked as if it had been pummelled and beaten. I rushed back up the steps and cleared my stomach of what was left of that stale ale. Benjamin, though as gentle as a fawn, found such sights easy to stomach: he and the rest later joined me outside where I crouched, my back to the wall, gulping air. 'Who did that?' I stammered.

  'I don't know.' Kemble scratched his unshaven cheek. 'Very much like Horehound. A young girl found the door open and went inside. The torches were lit, Wormwood's body lay stretched on the rack. The rest you know.'

  'And no one heard anything?' Benjamin exclaimed. 'Such cruelty would have provoked the most hideous of shrieks. It's a wonder he wasn't heard in Petty Wales.'

  ‘I have already investigated that,' Kemble replied. The guards on the ramparts heard nothing but an owl shriek.'

  Other members of the garrison were now hurrying across.

  This is not the place to discuss it,' Kemble muttered. ‘Vetch, Spurge, Master Daunbey, we shall meet in my quarters.' He turned and went down the steps where Mallow stood, leaning against the door. ‘I want the members of your guild to join us.' Kemble ordered.

  Mallow nodded, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. I hastened back to our quarters where I hurriedly shaved, washed and changed my soiled jerkin, then joined the rest in Kemble's chamber.

  'How could this have happened?' the constable began.

  Mallow and his hangmen, grouped in a frightened cluster at the foot of the table, mumbled under their breath.

  'Well?' Vetch barked. 'Are you going to answer the constable's question?'

  'Oh, don't come the high and mighty with us!' Snakeroot snapped. We were all in the Tower last night. Wormwood was alive - drunk, but very much alive!'

  Who saw him last?' Vetch asked.

  We were all drinking outside Bowyer Tower,' Toadflax replied. Then we went to our quarters. After that, you know as much as we do. Why?' He leaned on the table. 'Are you going to claim Wormwood was killed by one of us? Sir Edward, you were in the Tower last night, as were Vetch and Spurge.' His eyes slid towards us. "Not to mention our guests.'

  Benjamin scraped back his chair, stood up and walked over to the window. There's a killer in the Tower,' he said softly, speaking over his shoulder. 'A man whose real name is Robert Sakker.'

  I gazed round quickly: Mallow and his executioners looked disconcerted.

  'Sakker!' Toadflax exclaimed. ‘Here in the Tower!'

  Who is this man?' Kemble demanded.

  'He was an outlaw, the only surviving member of a gang who terrorised pilgrims going to Canterbury,' Benjamin replied. 'Mallow and his confederates hanged the rest of his family. Robert Sakker has returned to wage war against these executioners.' Benjamin walked back to the table. 'Somehow, Master Constable, I believe Robert Sakker is involved in the blackmailing letters being sent to the King.'

  'But there's no Sakker on the muster roll,' Kemble retorted. 'I, alone, am responsible for that!'

  Benjamin shrugged. The felon's probably using another name. Under-sheriff Pelleter described him as a tall, red-haired man with a scar across his chin.'

  ‘I have seen no one like that,' Vetch replied, 'either amongst the garrison or the servants.'

  'Or the masons working on the wall,' Spurge spoke up.

  Kemble, balancing a quill between his fingers, sat back in his chair, staring narrow-eyed at Benjamin. 'But you, Master Daunbey, believe he is in the Tower?'

  ‘Yes I do,' my master replied. 'And that wouldn't be hard, now the gates are opened.'

  ‘But he would need a pass, or the guards would refuse him entrance,' Kemble pointed out.

  'Well, I believe he's here,' Benjamin said once more. 'And last night he went hunting poor Wormwood. Master Mallow, Wormwood had been drinking, yes?'

  The chief hangman nodded.

  'So.' Benjamin took his seat. 'Let's just imagine Wormwood staggering round the Tower in the dark, in very much the same condition as poor Horehound. Somehow or other, he is lured into some dark corner. He's knocked on the head, his body dragged and strapped to the rack. The man's half-conscious, drunk, gagged! Small wonder we heard no screams. Whoever killed him must have enjoyed every second!' Benjamin drummed his fingers on the table-top. 'It must be Sakker!' He glanced across where the sunlight was pouring through a half-open window. 'Sir Edward, I want you and your officers to scrutinise every man in the Tower. You have Sakker's description. I want guards put on every postern-gate.'

  ‘You can't order—!'

  ‘Yes, I can,' Benjamin replied. 'Or I'll ride to Windsor and bring the King himself back here.'

  Kemble hastily agreed. 'You say he's red-haired, scarred?'

  "Yes, across his chin,' Benjamin replied.

  Now I had been sitting there, as usual, watching everybody. God knows the workings of my own mind, but the mention of Sakker's scar made me think of Greene. You may remember, Sir Thomas More said he was one of the murderers who killed the little Princes. According to Agrippa, Greene had an ugly red scar across his wrist. I remembered being back in our parish church at Ipswich when I had been baiting the Poppletons. Old Quicksilver, outside in the graveyard, hands stretching out to take the purse, the way he covered his wrists, then his drunken boasting about serving in the Tower when the Princes were confined. I was so excited, I sprang to my feet, clapping my hands in glee.

  The rogue! The villain!' I exclaimed. The sparrow-turd! The ancient pig's-dropping!'

  'What on earth?' Kemble half rose from his chair. 'Master Daunbey, has your servant lost his wits?'

  Benjamin was staring at me curiously. 'What is it?' my master asked.

  And then I made my terrible mistake. Oh, I have these bright flashes of intuition, a keenness of wit, a prodigious memory, but I also babble too much, I know that. And that day was no different: I sat down chattering like a child.

  'Master, you remember Dr Quicksilver?'

  'How could I forget?' Benjamin caustically replied.

  'He's a quack, a cunning man,' I explained to the rest of my bemused companions. 'He was always boasting about what he did in his glorious past. Now I rejected it because Quicksilver is a liar, born and bred.'

  "What on earth has this got to do with the matter in hand?' Vetch snapped.

  I explained. 'Quicksilver is well past his sixtieth year. However, he once told me that he visited the Tower when the Princes were imprisoned here. He talked of secret passageways and chambers. I dismissed this as mere ra
nting, but I also noticed he kept his hands and wrists always covered. No matter what he did or where he went, his wrists were always hidden.'

  Benjamin clapped me on the shoulder. 'Of course, Roger.' He squeezed my shoulder, his face wreathed in smiles. 'According to beloved Uncle, Greene had an ugly scar on his wrist. You are saying Greene and Quicksilver are one and the same?'

  'I do,' I replied. 'Sir Edward,' I glanced at the constable, who slumped, half-bored, in his chair, 'of your goodness, please send a message to Under-sheriff Pelleter in Catte Street. Ask him to inform his bailiffs and criers throughout the city that a charlatan known as Dr Quicksilver is to be arrested immediately'

  Kemble's fat face threatened to turn sour, clearly resentful at having to take orders from the likes of me.

  'Do it!' Benjamin ordered. 'And it must be done quickly. Master Shallot and I are to meet the under-sheriff very soon; there's no time to lose!'

  Kemble nodded at Vetch, who hastened from the chamber.

  'And what about us?' Mallow wailed. 'If Sakker is hunting us, how safe can we be?'

  ‘You are in the Tower,' I snarled, 'the king's principal fortress. You should heed my master's advice. Go nowhere by yourself

  We'd best go,' Snakeroot whispered. Wormwood at least deserves a Christian burial.'

  ‘Your numbers are declining, Master Mallow,' Spurge taunted.

  The chief executioner stopped and gazed hatefully at the King's surveyor of works.

  'Oh, don't worry about that, Master Spurge. Haven't you heard the old proverb: for every villain there'll always be a hangman?' And, with his two apprentices trailing behind him, Mallow strode out of the chamber.

  Benjamin waited until he had gone, then whispered for the piece of parchment Mistress Undershaft had given us. I passed this to him and he tossed it to the constable.

  'Sir Edward, does that drawing mean anything to you?'

  Kemble opened the parchment, smoothing it out on the table-top.

  'A rough drawing of the Tower,' he muttered. 'And the letter ‘T". Master Daunbey, what is this nonsense?'

  'Master Spurge?' Benjamin asked.

  The surveyor grabbed the piece of parchment, studied it, shook his head and passed it back.

  'What does it mean?' Kemble asked.

  ‘I don't know, Sir Edward, but when I find out...' And Benjamin rose, indicating for me to follow him from the chamber.

  ‘I think I know who the assassin is,' Benjamin whispered as we went down the stairs and out into the sunlight. 'Roger.' He gently tapped my chin. 'Close your mouth or you'll catch flies!'

  ‘You know who the assassin is?' I gasped.

  'So do you,' Benjamin replied. 'It's Master Spurge!'

  'Spurge!' I exclaimed.

  'He's the surveyor, Roger. He knows all the secret entrances.'

  'But we've seen his map, Benjamin,' I replied. There was nothing hidden there. Remember when the villain collected the gold in the city, when I was pushed into the wolf-pit, when Horehound was crushed to death; Spurge was always elsewhere.'

  'Of course he was.' Benjamin linked his arm through mine and walked me back across the green to our chamber. "What I am saying is that there must be a secret gate or postern-door which Spurge deliberately omitted from that map: probably overlooking the moat or the river. Somehow or other, Spurge struck up an unholy alliance with this Sakker, whom he can bring in and out of the Tower whenever he so wishes. Sakker was watching you that day near the wolf-pit. He also killed Undershaft, Horehound and Hellbane, as well as poor Wormwood. He collected the gold at St Paul's. He also delivered those blackmailing letters and proclamations to frighten the King.'

  'Two cheeks on the same arse,' I replied. 'Spurge and Sakker working together.' I squinted at the clear blue sky. 'But how would they meet?' I replied. ‘Why should they trust each other? Sakker may enter the Tower secretly, but this is a close community, people would recognise a stranger. And, above all, where on earth did they get those seals from?'

  Benjamin paused, finger to his lips. 'Roger, do you remember when you were at Windsor and you discovered that secret chamber? What happens if there was a similar room here in the Tower? And, let us say, someone found a pouch or casket in that chamber bearing the seals of this long-dead Prince? What better person than the surveyor of the King's works, whose job it is to know every nook and cranny of this sinister fortress?'

  Benjamin stopped speaking as Ragusa came screaming across the green, rags flying out like banners behind her. Her stiff, vein-streaked hands were beating the air like the wings of a pinioned bird; behind her hurried Mallow. The old woman's mad gaze caught mine and she stopped.

  ‘You are the handsome youth who visited me,' she screamed. ‘You came to ask old Ragusa questions. Remember?' She drew closer: in the daylight she looked even more hideous, and made the air about her foulsome. 'Help me!' She turned as Mallow caught up with her. 'Go away!' she screeched. 'Go away, leave old Ragusa alone!'

  Mallow stopped, hands on his hips, chest heaving. 'For the love of God, woman!' he grated, 'we will pay you well.' He glanced at us. 'Someone has to dress poor Wormwood's body for burial.'

  'All flesh and gore! All flesh and gore!' Ragusa shrieked. She held up her hands. 'Stiff and cold they be, stiff and cold! They can't feel flesh, be it alive and quick or cold and dead.'

  I grasped her hands: they were cold and hard, like stones on a freezing winter night. ‘You'll be paid well,' I said.

  Her mad eyes caught mine. ‘It'd best be me,' she muttered. She turned on Mallow. 'For two silver coins,' she demanded.

  Mallow, swearing she would get all she wanted, thanked me and led her away. I watched them go. Something pricked my memory, but I was in too much of a hurry to leave to recall what it was. We were to meet Pelleter: I hoped against hope that young Miranda would be there waiting for us.

  We packed our belongings and made our way down to the Wool Quay. At Custom House we hired a skiff to take us across to Southwark. The river was busy with barges and ships, so the morning was half-way through before Benjamin and I reached the Tabard to find Pelleter and the beautiful Miranda waiting for us.

  ‘I got your message,' the under-sheriff growled. 'My bailiffs are out looking for this Dr Quicksilver.'

  Benjamin thanked him.

  'And I have hired horses,' the under-sheriff continued.

  Again, Benjamin absentmindedly murmured his appreciation, though, like me, he only had eyes for Miranda, who sat on a gentle brown cob looking more beautiful than ever. There was the usual hurly-burly as our horses were saddled, panniers thrown across and directions taken before we left. The old jealousy sparked in my heart. I found myself riding next to the under-sheriff whilst, in front of us, Benjamin escorted Miranda. I won't bore you with the details of the journey. A beautiful, sun-filled golden day. The trees and flowers were in full bloom, but there was a touch of autumn, a glimpse of gold amongst the green as we trotted down the old pilgrim way towards Canterbury. Our pace was brisk. We were not travellers set for the Becket shrine. We did not stop and tell each other tales. Nor were we hindered by pack animals. Pelleter was eager to help, and Miranda, God bless her, was fascinated by Benjamin's discourse. And old Shallot? Well, just to be with her was pleasure enough. If I'd had my way, we would have ridden all the way to Canterbury and worshipped before Becket's tomb and seen that brilliant diamond, the Regal of France, dazzling in the darkness. (It's all gone now. The Great Beast put paid to that. He destroyed the tomb, seized the gold and the Regal of France. Well, to be honest, I have that, but I won't tell you how, that's another story!)

  By late afternoon we'd reached St Thomas's Watering Hole on the Canterbury road. Pelleter took us to where the Sakkers' tavern once stood: now it was nothing more than a blackened piece of land littered with scraps of timber and burnt plaster. A cold, eerie place, full of ghosts, a blight on that golden day. Pelleter pointed to where the scaffold posts had stood. The under-sheriff then took us off the road and into the forest. We were hardly in the tr
ees when we met a party of royal verderers, all dressed in lincoln green.

  'Where are you going?' the leader asked, planting himself in front of us.

  Pelleter leaned down and explained.

  'Sakker!' the verderer exclaimed. 'Robert Sakker! Are you witless, man?'

  ‘What do you mean?' Pelleter snapped.

  'Why, sir,' the fellow replied, 'Robert Sakker was killed eight months ago outside Maidstone.'

  Chapter 12

  Despite Pelleter's insistent questioning, the verderer was adamant.

  'It's well known,' he explained. 'Sakker became a poacher. We often hunted him; fleet of foot, he was. Then one day a chapman, making his way from Dover, stopped at one of the hostelries on the road and told us the news: Sakker was slain in a tavern brawl.' He shrugged. That's all I know.'

  Pelleter thanked him. We rode on, following the track deeper into the forest, its dark greenery filled with birdsong and the occasional bright spots of sunlight. We rode silently, listening to the chattering birds: all the time I kept my eyes on the fair Miranda's slender neck. So close! So soft! I felt like stretching out my hand and touching her. But, of course, Shallot could not. Instead I was drawn into conversation with the under-sheriff about what the verderer had told us, whilst the light of my life talked to Benjamin. Now and again I caught her gaze, I glimpsed the admiration in her eyes as Benjamin explained to her the mysteries of alchemy, or made her laugh with the stories from the schoolroom at our manor.

  At last we entered a clearing larger than the rest. In the centre stood the ruins of an old hunting lodge which, Pelleter explained, dated from the days of Henry VI. The stockade fence had long disappeared, as had the bothies, byres and stables. The lodge itself still stood, but the roof was holed and the windows were mere gaps in the wall. We hobbled our horses and went inside. The stairs were usable but there were gaps in the roof and puddles of mildewed water on the floor.