King Arthur's Bones

by The Medieval Murderers

  ‘Come downstairs to my parlour, sir. I fancy I might have a bottle of spirits somewhere, left over after the death of my husband.’

  She looked back at the constable and winked, divining he might prefer to be left alone to do his work. When his master had gone, Mayes paced the room silently, taking in anything that might prove of interest. The room was furnished sparsely, and the chairs and single table looked shabby. Clearly they were the property of a man who did not earn a regular wage but relied on his status as a gentleman to get by. Mayes had no time for such wastrels. Nevertheless, the man was tidy and, judging by the pile of books on the one table in the room, an educated man. He lifted the top book from the pile, and opened it to the title page. What he saw made him frown. For a start it was in French, that much he knew, though he could not read the language. But one word stood out among all the other jumble of foreign letters. The name – Bonaparte. Mayes had fought in the recent war against the little corporal and was not inclined even after his defeat to admire Boney as some now did. He had seen too many of his mates die around him. For the man in whose rooms the body had been found to also have a book all about Bonaparte was good cause to be very suspicious.

  It was then he spotted through the bow window at the front of the house a man approaching with some half-dressed bawd on his arm. The man stopped and held his hand up to suggest the girl go no further. She for her part seemed not to mind, and stood next to one of those newfangled gaslamps on the street. The man, who was wearing a Garrick overcoat and a rakish hat, hurried up the steps of the very house the constable was in. To Mayes this looked ominously like the murderer bringing his next victim home. He pushed the door to the room closed, leaving a small gap he could peer through. He prayed that the magistrate was still preoccupied by the widow who owned the house. Much as he despised Pauncefoot, he didn’t want the bad business of him having his throat cut while his constable skulked upstairs like a coward.

  He need not have worried. The man – presumably this Malinferno character who rented the rooms – was making his way quietly up the stairs. Yet another reason for the constable to suspect him. Why creep up the stairs like a criminal in your own house? He tensed up, ready to leap at the presumed killer, watching as the man reached the head of the staircase. But instead of walking towards the door behind which the constable stood, the man turned the other way and opened the door to the room across the landing. Before Mayes could react, he disappeared inside the room, leaving the door open. Mayes crossed the landing quietly and pushed the door wide open. Malinferno, if it was he, was bending down under the bed that filled the small, dark room. A little embarrassed by what the man might be doing, Mayes coughed to announce his presence. Malinferno jumped up, knocking his hat against the side of the bed. It rolled across the floor and stopped at the feet of the constable.

  ‘What the . . . Oh, constable. Is there a problem?’

  Malinferno had been shocked by the sudden appearance of the Bow Street Runner. Did he know about Bromhead’s death already? If so, how had he managed to track him down? And had he linked him to the murder? Malinferno thought back to that uneasy feeling he had had since leaving Bermondsey. A feeling that he was being followed. Put together with the incident of the peeping Tom at Madam De Trou’s bawdy house, it added up to a worrying business. But a Runner in his uniform following him would have stuck out like a sore thumb, wouldn’t he? And, furthermore, what did he know, if anything, about King Arthur’s bones languishing under Malinferno’s bed? He decided to brazen it out about Augustus, but keep quiet about the bones until he knew for sure what the Runner knew.

  ‘The death is a very unfortunate matter, I am sure. Have you found the body yet?’

  Mayes’s eyes narrowed, assessing the brass neck of this man, who was practically admitting he did away with the girl.

  ‘Oh, yes, we’ve found the body, sir. Did you think it was going to be difficult?’

  ‘Well, where was it, then?’

  Malinferno was deeply puzzled. The Runner seemed to think he knew where Bromhead’s body was going to be. Did he suspect him of the murder? He hoped not. Mayes hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Where was it? Where you might have expected it to be, sir. In your drawing room.’

  Malinferno gasped, the stuffing knocked out of him. ‘In my . . . ? Show me.’

  The constable stood aside and ushered Malinferno across the landing, a superior smirk on his face. He couldn’t see how the gent was going to talk his way out of this one. He followed Malinferno through the door and into the room opposite. Malinferno stood as if transfixed, his mouth moving though no words came out.

  ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘But this isn’t Augustus. It’s . . . it’s . . .’

  He almost didn’t recognize her at first because now her face was pale and slack. But in life she had not been all that animated, and despite the grisly wound and the splashes of blood, he could make out the pinched features of the rat-faced girl. But he couldn’t for the life of him reason how she came to be a bloodied corpse in his own drawing room.

  ‘Augustus, sir? Who’s he?’

  The constable’s ominous tones woke Malinferno from his stupor. It seemed as though the man was mentally totting up the possible murders that Malinferno was guilty of perpetrating.

  ‘Augustus? No, you misunderstand. He’s a friend . . . who is sort of missing. When you mentioned a death, I thought . . .’

  ‘I think it was you who brought up the matter of a death first, sir. You had better explain where you have been all night.’

  ‘He was with me, constable. And a merry time he gave me too. Though I would prefer it if my husband didn’t get to learn about it.’

  The voice was that of a lady, and the tone peremptory. Mayes turned to face the speaker, a blush already growing on his cheeks. It was the woman he had seen in the street returning with Malinferno. He had put her down as a common bawd, and close up her dress wasn’t the most modest, with a hint of exposed bosoms beneath the muslin gown. But that was what he had come to expect of the upper classes now. When the Prince Regent himself chased mistresses all over the place, and the Princess, his wife, carried on with Italians abroad, you had to expect the rest of the nobs to be just as ill behaved. He turned his prudish gaze away from the lady’s heaving bosom, and looked down at his own boots in embarrassment. Doll Pocket cast a glance at the astonished Malinferno and winked raffishly.

  ‘Now, if you will allow this gentleman to accompany me home, we will be on our way. The streets of London are not a safe place for a lady, you know, even in daylight. Full of rogues, bawds, swindlers and grubbers, if you ask me.’

  Mayes was thoroughly cowed, and for once wished Pauncefoot was in evidence. The constable felt awkward when having to deal with someone from a higher station in life than he was. And a female at that too.

  ‘Yes, madam. I could not agree more. Rogues and itinerants. Though we Runners do our best, you know.’

  Doll waved a ladylike hand, dismissing the constable from her consideration.

  ‘I am sure you do. Now, Mr Malinferno has had a shock and will need to rest. Please arrange to remove the body and have his room cleaned up. Come, Joseph.’

  Like a little poodle, Malinferno followed after Doll’s imperious and very petite heels. When they had gone, Mayes hurried downstairs to find Pauncefoot and to arrange for the disposal of the gory mess in Malinferno’s drawing room. Neither Malinferno or Doll Pocket, nor the constable and the magistrate noticed the shadowy figure lurking at the end of Creechurch Lane, waiting for matters to quieten down before he made his move.

  ‘And where did that accent come from, Miss Pocket? I almost didn’t recognize you.’

  Doll giggled and hugged Malinferno’s arm. On escaping the clutches of the Runners they had walked along the Embankment and into the heart of London. They had found themselves in Piccadilly, and Doll had dragged Malinferno to the Egyptian Hall at number 22. They were now standing outside, gazing at t
he ornate frontage, which was designed in the form of temple pylons with statues representing Isis and Osiris. Doll was not to be distracted by Malinferno’s question though.

  ‘Get yer ’and into yer pocket, Joe. It’s only a shilling a head.’

  Malinferno sighed and paid up. Soon they were lost in the obscurity of the crowds who thronged the aisles of William Bullock’s exhibition. In the natural history section they marvelled at the central panorama of stuffed animals, including an elephant, a rhinoceros, a zebra and two ostriches. A realistic copy of a palm tree with a serpent climbing up it hung its fronds over the creatures. But Doll was interested in other curiosities.

  ‘They say they have Napoleon’s carriage taken at Waterloo on show, Joe. Can we see it?’

  Malinferno allowed himself to be dragged to the room where the carriage stood. Doll was like a child absorbing all the wonderful sights and drinking them in. The Napoleonic relics only served to remind Malinferno of Bromhead’s disappearance, and the bones he had promised to locate for Thomas Dale. If anyone was to call King Arthur to arms to save England from old Boney, then the bones under his bed were needed. He had come within an ace of collecting them before the Runner had interrupted.

  ‘I learn accents quick. When I was young I wanted to be an actress.’

  Malinferno realized Doll was answering his earlier question about her impersonation of a lady.

  ‘You seem to learn lots of things quickly, Miss Pocket.’

  Doll snorted. ‘I don’t know about that. But I was a lady’s maid for six months and got to know how my lady spoke. Then I was sacked when she learned that her husband was paying me too much attention. A girl without work has to learn how to fend for herself quick enough, and that’s the truth.’

  It was the first time Malinferno had seen Doll looking anything less than ebullient. He suddenly saw in her hunted expression what a hard life she must have led. He took her arm gently as if she truly was a lady of quality.

  ‘Come. I think we are both in need of some refreshment. We will find a coffee house.’

  Doll grinned mischievously. ‘I know one. It’s called the Russian Coffee House.’

  The man lurking in the shadows watched as a canvas sack was carried out of the lodging house in Creechurch Lane. At first he was confused as to what it might be, but then he saw the shape and obvious weight. It had to be a body. Especially as it made a soft thud as the two men carrying the sack tossed it casually into the back of the shabby black carriage that waited in the street. The horse in the shafts tossed its head but stood still, unperturbed by the load it was now going to pull. He eagerly opened his notebook and scribbled in it. One man went back inside and came back with a rolled-up rug that also went into the back of the conveyance. Then the two men mounted the driving seat, the horse was whipped up and the carriage slowly rumbled away with the mortal remains of Kitten in the back.

  A large woman, with a mob cap on her head and dressed in an unfashionably heavy white gown, stood for a while at the door of the house. She watched the carriage with a sharp gaze until it had disappeared around the corner into Leadenhall Street. Satisfied that the messy problem had been cleared up, she turned and went back inside. A few minutes later a Bow Street Runner and a fancily dressed gentleman who had to be the magistrate also emerged. The magistrate, a little worse for drink apparently, almost fell down the steps. He was supported by the constable, and they both went off in the same direction as the hearse. The fat old woman closed the street door on the unedifying scene. The man decided he had done well to linger a while at Malinferno’s residence. Besides, his fall off the railings outside the bawdy house had damaged his ankle and severely bruised his head. He had been in no mood to be dashing around London. He now had useful news to relate to his masters, and their goal may be in sight. But now the time had come to hunt Malinferno down. He decided to pick up his trail at the Frenchman’s residence.

  Having laid low for a few hours in the Brown Bear public house, Bow Street, better known to the low life of London as the Russian Coffee House, Joe Malinferno and Doll Pocket decided it was safe to return to his house. Joe was a little worse for wear, so Doll, who had imbibed as much but could hold her liquor better, insisted on going up to his bedroom on her own.

  ‘You’ll only wake the old harridan up, Joe. Whereas I can sneak up without disturbing a floorboard.’

  Joe considered her voluptuousness, and would have disagreed about who would make the stairs creak the more. In fact he considered her voluptuousness deeply for so long that by the time he came to object, Doll had left him in the street and had gone. He shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the gaslamp. It was indeed only minutes before he saw Doll scuttling down the front steps of Mrs Stanhope’s house. As she hurried over to him, he was surprised to see that she didn’t have the canvas bag with her.

  ‘Where are the bones, Doll?’

  ‘They wasn’t there, was they?’

  Doll Pocket’s Essex accent was always more pronounced when she was excited or otherwise disturbed. And now she was very disturbed.

  ‘Nonsense. Did you look under the bed where I told you to look?’

  Doll hissed in annoyance. She was not used to being characterized as being deficient in common sense or guile.

  ‘Of course I looked under the bed. And I looked inside and behind the chest of drawers, and under the only chair in the room. Gawd, your furnishings are so sparse, Joe, I was ’ardly likely to miss a big bag of bones, was I?’

  Malinferno groaned and slid down the gaslamp post until he was sitting on the pavement.

  ‘It’s all up, then. Thomas Dale and the rest of the Avalon Club will want their money back. Which I have spent mostly on you, may I say. And what are we to do about Bonaparte and his invasion? There’ll be no calling on King Arthur now.’

  Doll gave a derisive snort. ‘You don’t believe all that rubbish, do you?’

  ‘Well, you cannot be sure if he . . .’

  Doll cut into Malinferno’s admonishing with a peculiar, sing-song tone:

  ‘For when he fell, an elfin queen,

  All in secret, and unseen,

  O’er the fainting hero threw

  Her mantle of ambrosial blue;

  And bade her spirits bear him far,

  In Merlin’s agate-axled car,

  To her green isle’s enamel’d steep,

  In the navel of the deep.’

  Malinferno was astonished. ‘How do you know that? That’s a poem by Warton, the old Poet Laureate.’

  Doll sniffed. ‘Don’t you think a prostitute has any brains, then? I told you I wanted to be an actress. I learned the poem off by heart. Listen, the bit you would like is near the end.’

  She began to rattle off the lines again as though they were some child’s rhyme:

  ‘Thence to Britain shall return,

  (If right prophetic rolls I learn)

  Borne on Victory’s spreading plume,

  His ancient scepter to resume.’

  She snorted. ‘What a load of old boll—’

  ‘Yes, Doll. I think that’s enough, don’t you?’

  He was glad she had not pursued her ambitions as an actress. Though she could con an accent and fool a simple policeman, her understanding of the beauty of Warton’s lines was sadly lacking in Malinferno’s opinion. And she somehow made the solemn and prophetic nature of Arthur’s return sound quite foolish. So much so that suddenly he could not hold back, and a great gust of laughter rose up from his belly. This set Doll off, and soon they were both collapsed on the ground hooting at the madness of Thomas Dale’s quest. But despite the hilarity, Malinferno knew he would have to have something to report to Dale. Then it occurred to him. Casteix, the French savant, still had the thigh-bone. He turned to Doll, who was still red-faced from all the hilarity. Solemnly he asked her the question uppermost in his mind.

  ‘Do you think we can resurrect King Arthur from just his thigh-bone?’

  Doll’s face turned purple and crumpled as she
tried to hold back another gust of laughter. She failed miserably. When she did manage to control herself, she tried to answer Joe’s question as though it had been asked seriously. ‘Maybe. I suppose he would at least be able to hop it when things get bad.’

  It was Joe’s turn to break into fits of laughter. Even so, he still reckoned it was worth retrieving the bone.

  It was early evening but quite dark when they reached the home of Monsieur Casteix, and all the high, fashionable windows looking out on to the street showed no lights in them – save for one high on the second floor, where the bedrooms were likely to be located. Undeterred, Malinferno hastily mounted the steps leading to the front door, on which he hammered with his fist. Hearing the echo of his assault in the long hallway behind the door, he was not optimistic of gaining entry. But he felt tomorrow would be too late. A second attack with his fist brought a result. He heard the sound of bolts being drawn back, and eventually the door creaked open and a sour face peered out.

  ‘The master is abed and may not be disturbed.’

  As the door swung closed again, Malinferno inserted his sturdy Hessian boot in the gap.

  ‘This is a matter of urgency. And a scientific one that Monsieur Casteix will want to know about.’

  The sour face screwed up even further. ‘Damn you scientists! And I would wager that it all has something to do with old Boney being on the loose again.’ The servant stared at Malinferno suspiciously. ‘You’re not a Frenchy, are you?’

  Malinferno wondered how a servant who despised both scientists and Frenchmen should have come to be working for the embodiment of both in one carcass. He reassured the man of his own antecedents, drawing on his maternal side and choosing not to mention his Paduan father.

  ‘God bless you, my man. I am an Englishman through and through. But what we seek does have a bearing on the escape of Bonaparte from St Helena. The safety of the realm is in question.’

  Malinferno felt a nudge from behind and heard the noise of a stifled giggle from Doll Pocket. He even heard her whispered comment on his stout rendering of a blue-blooded Englishman.