Blood On the Stone

by Jake Lynch

  As a craftsman, Luke appreciated the deftness and confidence of Jackman’s movements, honing his jawline just as he himself had chiselled and refined the patterns of the wooden frame hours earlier. We are all made of malleable material, he mused; the face we present to the world, shaped and whittled by experience. What about the soul we present to God? There, he was on more treacherous ground. Old Samuel Sandys had gone to his grave as he had pushed bull-headedly through life, in the unshakeable conviction that he was predestined to sit at the hand of the Almighty. The dark side of his outlook was that fellow beings – with whom he mingled daily – would inevitably include many who were doomed to eternal damnation, no matter what pains they took to live virtuously.

  Luke had disavowed his father’s nonconformist religious beliefs chiefly for reasons of convenience; but on this question, the difference of opinion was genuine. Evidence accumulated from close acquaintance with felons and felonies had convinced him that most of us, confronted with sharp enough exigencies of anger, fear, frustration or temptation, are capable of either good or evil. Take Pawling, for example: they had unthinkingly trusted him when leaving him with just Harbord’s dead body and Jacob Hopkins for company, just as Luke had willingly put his jugular within easy reach of Jackman’s razor. For the ex-mayor to have succumbed to an urge and opportunity to exact revenge would not make him irredeemably bad. And what of his own temptations? Unbidden, the image of Cate Napper came to mind, and Luke felt his stomach positively churn as the blood supply in his midriff started to pump downwards. He licked his suddenly dry lips and, with a conscious effort, turned his mind to reviewing the investigation so far – such as it was.

  *

  Turning this way and that along narrow alleys on the way back to the Guildhall, Luke was halfway through replaying the moment of first hearing about Gregory’s alibi when he passed Jethro Cox’s yard. The two men who were deep in conversation with the wheelwright, by the open door of his workshop, looked familiar, he thought – before placing them, a heartbeat later, as members of the Green Ribbon club. One, clad all in black, was a thin, dyspeptic-looking character, the man whom Norton had introduced as the pamphleteer. What was his name? Settle – Elkanah Settle. The other was his companion, or perhaps bodyguard: the blackamoor, in a three-quarter-length plum-coloured coat, standing with hands propped casually in the pockets of his breeches and a sleek capotaine hat slightly askew atop his large head. They still had to go back and talk to them again at The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well – along with a private interrogation of Unsworth, the landlord. Better do it soon: if they were in need of a cartwheel, perhaps they were planning on going somewhere.

  Chapter 34

  The Abbey Ruins

  The deputy grabbed the saddle by its pommel and cantle and heaved it up on to the back of his thickset Welsh cob, while Luke tightened the girth around his own mount, a fine chestnut mare, as she flared her nostrils. She would need the martingale today too, being apparently in one of her flighty moods. Dowling, the foreman in charge of Kempster’s two labourers, had been vague in response to questions about their previous visit to the shell of Osney Abbey. Luke inferred that they had not actually run the gauntlet of the ‘vagabonds’ they’d reported to their master at Burford as an obstacle to their work. Instead, on finding that the ruins were not deserted as they had expected, ‘they turned yeller’, as Robshaw put it contemptuously after the men had quit the office to prepare their cart for the onward journey.

  Whoever was taking shelter in the remains, would they really pose such a threat? The constables mounted their horses with a determined, if somewhat sceptical attitude: ready for trouble if it came, but not expecting it. The route out of the city took them west along Sleyng Lane, named for the slaughterhouses which, in former times, accounted for the main business done there. Now, the old City Wall on their right-hand side formed one edge of Pembroke College, established during the reign of Charles I when the University was expanding at a gallop.

  For Robshaw, in particular, the journey was a familiar one, taking them past his place of work: a large brewhouse, whose malty aromas were a pleasant companion on the mild midday air. Oxford had grown and changed rapidly in their lifetimes, with students, attracted from far and wide by its burgeoning scholarly reputation, bringing prosperity to the city, along with new ideas, tastes and perspectives. And scholarship did seem to work up a terrific thirst, as the deputy was wont to point out.

  Luke looked at the crack in the keep as they skirted the south side of the Castle. The stark fissure seemed to symbolise a break from the insularity of the past. Where once the building was dedicated to keeping folk out, now its residual function was to keep them in, when they had shown they could not behave themselves. He shortened the mare’s rein as she slipped on a cobble and tossed her head. How fitting, he reflected, for Wren’s soaring neo-Gothic vision to be realised at Christ Church College by using materials from a medieval monastery. For centuries, the old stones had enclosed a nest of mummery and superstition. Now they would turn outwards to the modern world.

  The cartwheels creaked placidly as the drayhorse ambled across the twin bridges over the prongs of Castle Mill Stream and past a higgledy-piggledy row of cottages. With a left then a sharp right turn, they came out on to the path across the meadow, and the pale gap-toothed remnants of Osney Abbey jutted into view. The earliest of the snake’s heads were just in bloom, turning their gorgeously purpled gaze demurely downwards as the horses plodded by – too close for comfort, it seemed, for a flock of magpies, who issued a sudden scolding ‘chack-chack-chack’ and took off towards the ruins in apparent disapproval.

  ‘Damn magpies again,’ Robshaw remarked tersely. Grunting rueful agreement, Luke did a double-take and looked sharply at the pugnacious set of his deputy’s profile. The man seemed to be slightly, but distinctly sweating: odd, given the pleasant freshness of the spring sunshine. Anyway, they were now arriving at the building.

  A wisp of cooking-smoke from somewhere behind the ravaged façade confirmed that human habitation was indeed under way. As they dismounted, a face poked out from round the side of a wall – then just as quickly vanished. Moments later, a tall, upright figure in a black ankle-length cassock pulled back the evergreen ivy and emerged to squint at them through a pair of eyeglasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. Below the brim of his hat – also black – a shock of silver-grey hair was clearly visible.

  ‘Silver! Silver Birch! I’d know you anywhere, you old dog!’ Luke was delighted to find one of his student contemporaries. ‘What in God’s name brings you here?!’

  ‘Luke Sandys, as I live and breathe! Well met, sir, well met,’ the other replied warmly, removing his spectacles and slipping them beneath his cassock as Luke dismounted and the pair shook hands.

  Peter Birch – nicknamed ‘Silver’ by fellow undergraduates in honour of his luxuriant but prematurely grey locks – had stayed on at Christ Church to study for a Master of Arts degree and, eventually, graduate as a Doctor of Divinity.

  ‘’Tis God’s work that brings me here, Luke, in faith.’

  ‘What, among rogues and vagabonds?’

  ‘Aye, men call them vagabonds, my friend – but that doesn’t mean we should think of them as rogues. How did they become vagabonds, Luke, eh? Answer me that!’

  Luke shrugged, a doubting half-smile on his face, and Birch abruptly took his arm.

  ‘Come, let me show you what we’re doing for them,’ the cleric said, as Sandys signalled to Robshaw and Kempster’s crew to wait. He led the way around the undergrowth to the back of the facing wall, to where one end of the roof was intact. This canopy, along with a nearby cloister that was still standing, was obviously keeping the worst of the elements from making life too uncomfortable for perhaps as many as twenty people. A row of wary expressions greeted Luke, with eyes fixed on him as an intruder who – if he was not clearly in favour with their patron – would doubtless be treated as hostile. He began to realise what had deterred the Burford men from pr
oceeding to take away the stone as planned.

  At one end of the cloister, a screen fabricated from oddments of threadbare muslin and calico, crudely sewn together to ward off flies, hung from a rail that was secured in place with wooden props. Birch pulled the curtain back to show food supplies inside including a basket of loaves.

  ‘You bring them bread?’ Luke asked.

  ‘Indeed, the Osney parish is blessed with a bread charity. A bequest of twenty guineas from Thomas Faulkner, a merchant who passed over in the reign of King James – God rest his soul. The income pays for bread to be distributed among the parish poor.’

  ‘But that’s only for settled parishioners, surely?’

  Birch’s face contorted in disapproval.

  ‘’Tis iniquitous, that system! There are so many parishes round here that fail in their duty,’ he said. Poor relief was supposed to be administered according to the so-called Settlement Act, adopted by the Cavalier Parliament shortly after the Restoration. Under it, every man should have a settlement certificate: a badge of belonging which ensured that, if certain conditions were fulfilled, his needs of food and shelter – and those of his family, if any – were to be met by the authorities of his home parish. But many such authorities were apt to find or contrive a pretext to withhold the requisite documents, to limit their liabilities: and, if a man could not prove residency or employment, he was effectively cast out from this social safety net.

  ‘You know the most common denominator among these poor wretches?’

  Luke raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Orphans, Luke: or abandoned by their parents in childhood. Their lives never get back on course. So, I bring the surplus bread down here, once we’ve seen to the settled families. Else they’d be forced to resort to begging – or worse.’

  ‘I thought most vicars spent any spare income on repairs to the roof?’

  ‘Why, ’tis true,’ the other replied with a sigh, ‘one can always find work to be done on the fabric of our churches. But that would be to go against the benefactor’s wishes.’

  ‘Well, you’re a clergyman of rare principle, Silver, I’ll give you that,’ Luke admitted. ‘But you know, they can’t stay here for much longer. Bishop Fell sent us to watch over these men while they take away the stone.’

  ‘I know, he wants it for his great tower. We’ve thought of that. Step this way.’ They picked a path through weeds and brambles towards the more overgrown and tumbledown end of the old abbey, and Birch outlined his scheme for Kempster’s labourers to begin by removing the material from there. He had a point: structurally, this part of the building was useless, but among the vegetation Luke could see that many of the stone blocks were still intact. Prise them loose with sufficient care and they could go straight into Wren’s ambitious new edifice: it would just take a bit more patience than starting with the stuff that was more easily accessible.

  Chapter 35

  A Mysterious Apparition

  Sandys returned to where Dowling and his men were waiting with Robshaw, and briefly gave instructions. He was momentarily struck again by his deputy’s slightly odd, flushed appearance – but, having no wish to be distracted from the interesting discourse of his old friend, he dismissed the thought.

  ‘So, these nets were being discarded by a local fisherman,’ Birch was saying. ‘A kind parishioner found some sewing materials and these vagabonds, as you call them, mended them. They take a few roach and chub from the river. Then, on Fridays, we put on a fish supper, with guests – a few friends and even relatives turn up, sometimes.’

  ‘And they sleep here? Must get cold in winter.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose they… huddle together for warmth.’

  Looking at the neat piles of blankets and straw stacked against the cloister’s back wall, Luke wondered at a clergyman speaking as if approvingly of such a practice. The homeless were mostly men, it was true, but there were some women – and it was hard to imagine any parish actually refusing to help a married couple. Birch read his thoughts.

  ‘They’re welcome to the message of the Gospels at any time, Luke – they need only turn up at St Thomas’s with an open heart. Sin is sin, whether committed by rich or poor. We’re all fallen creatures.’

  Dowling had taken down a large bag from the cart, from which he and his men removed leather aprons and gloves, heavy chisels, hammers and a pickaxe – and at last set to work. Seeing Robshaw position himself with half an eye on the vagabonds, Luke seized the chance offered by a rare conjunction of time and circumstance, and set off with Birch to reminisce and talk politics on a leisurely stroll around the meadow.

  ‘So, ’twas a tense time at Christ Church at the end of the Protectorate?’ he enquired. Luke had left after taking his BA, just months before the death of Oliver Cromwell plunged the young English Commonwealth into a crisis from which it never recovered.

  ‘That would be a great understatement, my friend. Many were the Fellows wondering every day whether it was time yet to come out openly for King and country.’

  ‘What about Fell?’

  ‘Ah, well that was when he really rose to greatness, in that time of upheaval. Never hid his allegiances, as you’ll remember. Didn’t make a great show of ramming them down men’s throats, as some did – just never hid them.’

  ‘Always had that look of supreme inner confidence, didn’t he, that things would pan out?’

  Birch nodded, swiping aside some undergrowth with his staff. ‘Of course, it helped that he was such a brilliant scholar, they couldn’t very well get rid of him. Wouldn’t do to hound out the leading Latinist in England just because he believed the King would come back one day.’

  ‘And now he’s in his pomp.’

  Luke remembered the gleam in the Bishop’s eyes as he talked about the culmination of his rebuilding programme.

  ‘Practically runs the University, they say.’

  ‘He probably does. And he always saw past people’s politics, anyway. Take you, Luke: he liked you because you were interested in Virgil and Cicero.’

  ‘Despite my “Calvinist background” you mean?’

  ‘Indeed. But you’re Anglican now, I presume?’

  ‘Aren’t we all? I take Communion at St Martin’s, the City church.’

  ‘Ah! With old Dick-Duck.’

  ‘Dick-Duck?’

  ‘Yes – Richard Duckworth. The Vicar of Bell End.’ Luke laughed out loud.

  ‘For a Reverend gentleman, Silver, I must say you’re not very reverent, are you?’ Birch chuckled.

  ‘Call it old age. Or perhaps… perhaps getting to know people here has given me a certain amount of perspective. One loses patience with ecclesiastical niceties,’ he went on, suddenly serious again as they approached the ruins. ‘They all have a tragic tale to tell.’

  ‘What about this chap?’ Luke asked. A still well-built gentleman, now frosted with old age, was standing some way off, watching some of the men as they carried out repairs to a beehive.

  ‘Ah – yes, interesting. Come, I’ll introduce you. Good day, Martin! Martin Fletcher, this is Luke Sandys. Friend of mine from university – now Chief Officer of the Oxford Bailiffs.’ The man swiftly appraised Luke, a frown knitting his brow over piercing blue eyes, before offering his hand.

  ‘Well met sir. You’ll be busy then, looking into the murder of that Harbord?’ His features twisted into a momentary expression of contempt at the name. Must not have shared the late MP’s politics, Luke thought.

  ‘Why, yes, so we are.’

  ‘Not looking for clues here, though?’ Birch cut in. The others laughed.

  ‘No, indeed! So, are you one of the… “residents”?’

  ‘Nay! ’Tis my grandson.’ Fletcher made a vague gesture in the general direction of the knot of men at the beehive.

  ‘And he enjoys it here?’

  ‘Prefers it to living with me.’ They exchanged pleasantries and moved on.

  ‘How does he come to be here, then?’ Luke asked Birch. He had not wanted to inte
rrogate Fletcher directly on first acquaintance.

  ‘Well, many years ago, his daughter got into trouble. Scoundrel made himself scarce, before the child was born.’ Luke made a suitable noise, combining sympathy with disapproval. ‘Then later, she died. Drowned, I think, now I come to remember.’

  ‘Terrible way to go.’

  ‘Indeed. Anyway, so the lad was left an orphan, to all intents and purposes. Now he’s here.’ They had looped round to their starting point at the other side of the ruins, where they had left Kempster’s crew.

  The labourers were hard at work, painstakingly levering out the cuboid chunks of limestone intact and loading them on to the cart, while the Abbey’s itinerant population seemingly pursued their own diverse purposes. The horses cropped patiently in the afternoon sunshine. But where was Robshaw? With Birch still by his side, Luke came across his fellow constable sitting on a low wall in a patch of shade and gibbering – yes, there was no other word for it – positively gibbering.

  ‘Oh M-master S-sandys, sir,’ he began, shaking violently. ‘I s-seen a ghost!’

  ‘A ghost? What’re you babbling on about, man?’

  ‘Oh, s-sir, I hope as how ’tis just the m-marsh fever! Making me s-see things, as well as all this here sh-shaking and sweating!’ Robshaw had contracted malaria – ‘marsh fever’, as he put it – some years earlier, and Luke now realised the symptoms he’d noticed earlier prefigured one of his occasional attacks; however, he’d never known the condition to produce delusions, at least not in the stolid figure of his deputy.

  ‘Snap out of it, Robshaw! Look at me!’ he barked, as he noticed the afflicted constable’s eyes rolling. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts. You’re having a bad bout, that’s all. We need to get you home.’