The Merchant of Death

by Paul Doherty

  Kathryn cleared up the jars and bandages, washed her hands and took her place opposite Colum. Thomasina and Agnes served the meal. Kathryn said grace which she gabbled rather quickly because Rawnose’s eyes were growing bigger and bigger at the sight of white loaves, pots of fragrant-smelling chicken and the large platter of vegetables cooked in a succulent sauce.

  Thomasina and Agnes filled each person’s bowl; Rawnose and Colum, with Wuf coming a good third, ate as if there was no tomorrow. Kathryn tapped her horn spoon on the table.

  ‘The Greeks said that good digestion is a natural physic. Wuf, eat slowly.’ Kathrynn winked at Colum. ‘Do try and follow the example of others.’

  Colum put his knife down. ‘We must visit Blunt’s house.’

  ‘Poor man,’ Rawnose intervened, his mouth full of chicken.

  ‘Close your mouth when you are eating!’ Thomasina snapped.

  Rawnose quickly obliged.

  ‘What do the gossips say?’ Kathryn asked.

  Rawnose cleared his throat and shrugged. ‘May should never marry December: old Blunt was infatuated with Alisoun. He ignored the advice of friends and his old housekeeper, Emma Darryl.’

  ‘But to kill two men with a bow,’ Agnes piped up.

  ‘He was a master archer,’ Thomasina interrupted. ‘I knew Richard Blunt when he was a young man. He came from the shires with that feckless son of his and Emma his housekeeper.’ She glanced at Kathryn. ‘Your father liked him. In his day Richard Blunt was a merry soul and a fine dancer. He used to join the mummers on the green on May Day, sprightly-legged and bright-eyed.’ She looked down at the platter. All gone, Thomasina thought, all those people of her youth: her husbands, their little children, her friends. Gone into the yawning grave and now Blunt, with his happy laugh and skilful arm, would hang for a harlot of a wife. Thomasina kept her head down. She felt the tears pricking her eyes but then glanced up and caught Wuf studying her sadly. She shifted on the bench.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Sometimes the past makes its presence felt. God have mercy on Richard Blunt! Tell me, Kathryn,’ Thomasina added, swiftly changing the conversation. ‘The business at the Wicker Man?’

  ‘I have heard about that as well,’ Rawnose chortled. ‘Dead as a nail old Erpingham is.’

  ‘What do you think of the Smithlers?’ Colum asked him.

  Rawnose mumbled something but went back to his food.

  ‘Wormhair,’ Agnes said, her thin face full of importance.

  ‘Wormhair your lover?’ Wuf teased. ‘I have seen him on the altar at St. Mildred’s. Why won’t his hair lie down?’

  ‘Shush, Wuf,’ Kathryn said. ‘Agnes, you were saying?’

  ‘Wormhair says the tavern is haunted.’

  ‘I’ve heard that,’ Thomasina declared, wiping her lips on her napkin. ‘What truly happened there, Mistress?’

  Kathryn, with an eye on both Rawnose and Wuf’s attentive ears, briefly described Erpingham’s death and the mystery surrounding it.

  ‘It’s the ghosts!’ Rawnose portentously declared.

  Kathryn glanced at Colum and raised her eyes heavenwards. By tomorrow, she thought, the story would be all over Canterbury.

  There was a knock on the door and Agnes rushed to answer it. Kathryn’s heart sank at the prospect of another visitor, but she relaxed as Luberon, a small beaver hat on his head and the bottom half of his face hidden by a great brown cloak, swept down the passageway. He came into the kitchen stamping his feet and shaking the drops of water from his cloak.

  ‘I thought I’d best come,’ he declared, staring fixedly at the chicken.

  He, too, needed no second invitation. In the twinkling of an eye, his cloak had been taken off and Luberon squeezed himself between Thomasina and Agnes. He rubbed his hands gleefully as a bowl filled with succulent chicken was placed in front of him.

  ‘We should open a tavern ourselves,’ Colum remarked drily.

  Luberon just smiled and nodded vigorously in agreement.

  ‘I am not only here for your food,’ he said after a few mouthfuls. ‘I also bring information. The Wicker Man tavern may well be haunted. In 1235,’ Luberon continued sonorously, ‘in the reign of good Henry III, a priest fell in love with a lovely young woman from the city.’ He glanced shrewdly at Kathryn. ‘And, before you ask, the priest’s name was Erpingham, Louis de Erpingham. He was, in fact, a canon of the cathedral who enjoyed a rather sinister reputation. A jury once accused Louis of dabbling in black magic and other Satanic rites but this was never proved. Anyway . . .’ Luberon sighed, pleased he had everyone’s attention. Rawnose in particular was all ears. The beggar man couldn’t believe his good fortune at receiving treatment, obtaining new hose and a hearty supper, and now gleaning gossip which would keep him fed for at least a week.

  ‘Anyway,’ Luberon repeated, ‘Louis fell in love with this young woman. God knows what happened but she was found dead one fine summer’s day in the graveyard of Holy Cross Church. Suspicion immediately fell on Canon Louis de Erpingham. He went into hiding and tried to flee Canterbury in disguise. Now, you must remember, over two hundred years ago the Wicker Man stood well beyond the city walls. Louis de Erpingham apparently stayed there and, whether he fell into a fit of melancholy or was frightened of being captured, hanged himself in the very chamber where our tax collector was murdered.’

  ‘Did Sir Reginald belong to the same family?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ Luberon replied. ‘He may have been attracted to that chamber because of some ghoulish memory about his ancestor. Whatever, there are records which show that, time and again in the past two hundred years since Louis’s death, both the tavern and that chamber in particular have been reported as haunted. Strange manifestations, movements at night, putrid smells, eerie cries; common gossip claims it’s the ghost of the hanged priest. The place has been exorcised but, as the years roll by, the legends continue to flourish.’ Luberon sipped from his wine goblet generously filled by Thomasina who sat fascinated by this juicy morsel of city history.

  ‘So,’ Kathryn leaned back in her chair. ‘An Erpingham hanged himself at the Wicker Man over two hundred years ago. Now Sir Reginald is found poisoned in the same chamber.’

  ‘Do you think our dead tax collector knew all this?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Kathryn said. ‘Erpingham was a sinister man but he was also a trained clerk and lawyer. He could have read the same manuscript as Master Luberon did.’

  ‘And the ghost?’ Colum asked. ‘No, don’t laugh at me, Kathryn. True, I am Irish, born and bred on legends about the undead, the banshees.’ Colum glanced away. ‘But sometimes, the stories . . .’

  ‘What stories?’ Wuf cried.

  ‘Once,’ Colum replied before Kathryn could stop him, ‘I lived in a village where there was an evil old woman. On a night like this, when the snow had fallen thick and fast, she knocked on the door of my house.’

  ‘That’s not frightening,’ Wuf said.

  ‘Oh, yes it was. You see, I went back to tell my father this old witch had called and he became all afeared, pale with fright. He ran to the door and opened it but the old crone was gone.’

  ‘Why was he frightened?’ Kathryn asked curiously.

  ‘Because,’ Colum replied in a sepulchral tone, ‘earlier that day the old woman had died. I didn’t believe him, I’d seen her! But then my father pointed to the unbroken snow and, of course, demons and ghosts leave no footprints.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Thomasina trumpeted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Colum said. ‘Sometimes such things happen. Anyway, Master Luberon, what else did you discover?’

  ‘Well, I found Sir Reginald’s house in St. Alphage’s Lane.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘All locked, barred and bolted: it will be worth a visit in the morning.’ Luberon sipped from his goblet. ‘I discovered nothing else about Erpingham, though the city archives did reveal a great deal about Master Blunt. Apparently he told lies.’

  ‘Such as?’
Kathryn asked.

  ‘Well, the common account says he came from Warwickshire with his housekeeper Emma Darryl and the witless Peter, his son by his first wife.’

  ‘And?’ Kathryn prompted.

  ‘Well, one of the gaolers of the guildhall, when asked by Blunt if there was any news, mentioned the gossip concerning Erpingham’s death at the Wicker Man. On hearing this, Blunt began to laugh, becoming almost frenetic, coughing and spluttering until the gaoler thought he would suffer an apoplexy. The gaoler asked him why he found such news so amusing and Blunt made the startling confession that he and Master Erpingham knew each other well.’ Luberon closed his eyes to marshal his thoughts; he felt tired and sleepy after his walk through the snow and the hearty meal he had just eaten. ‘Yes, that’s it. Blunt explained how years earlier, Erpingham had tried to take his head.’

  ‘Take his head?’ Colum repeated. ‘But that’s the legal term used for killing an outlaw. Yes, Wuf, before you ask, an outlaw is called a wolf-head because, like a wolf, he can be killed on sight.’

  ‘I reflected on this,’ Luberon continued. ‘So I searched the city archives and discovered that, in his younger days, Erpingham had been a royal official, a verderer in the Weald of Kent. He had the specific task of tracking down outlaws, Blunt in particular.’

  Kathryn cupped her chin in her hands and stared down at Colum.

  ‘Do you think all these murders are connected?’ she asked.

  Colum got to his feet, pushing back his chair. ‘As they say in Ireland, all roads, however twisted, will eventually take you to your destination.’

  ‘What?’ Kathryn exclaimed. ‘No quotation from Chaucer?’

  ‘I can think of one,’ Colum joked back. ‘“Satan, who ever waits men to beguile.” Well, he certainly has me beguiled. Come on,’ he urged. ‘Master Luberon, Mistress Kathryn, the day is not yet done. You want to visit Blunt’s house, so let’s not tarry.’

  Kathryn collected her cloak and changed her buskins for wool-lined boots. She gave instructions to Thomasina and warned Wuf to be good. Then she, Colum and Luberon walked out into the black, icy night.

  Colum, now rested and well fed, was in fine fettle, pointing up to the starlit skies.

  ‘I told you,’ he exclaimed. ‘The weather is breaking. See, Kathryn, by morning time it will be warmer and the thaw will be with us.’

  ‘Thank God!’ Luberon breathed. ‘A dreadful sight was reported today: some poor vagrant, drunk or tired, stumbled into a ditch last night just outside Westgate. They discovered his corpse this morning, still standing upright, frozen as a statue.’ Luberon pushed his way between Kathryn and Colum. ‘I suppose things are no better at Kingsmead?’

  Colum blew his breath out then watched it hang in the icy night air. ‘No, some provisions are being brought in and the horses are stabled, but the work on the manor house will have to wait.’

  They turned out of Ottemelle Lane into Steward Street. The night was pitch black except for the lantern horns hanging outside the merchants’ houses and the chinks of light glinting through gaps in the shutters. Somewhere a dog howled mournfully at the winter moon and hungry cats scavenged fruitlessly amongst the frozen mounds of refuse. They passed a tavern door, slightly open. The noise, smell and laughter seeping out seemed strange in that cold, deserted street Kathryn and her companions walked on, more concerned with keeping a secure footing, well away from the sewer that ran along the street; this had frozen hard, though here and there the ice was beginning to break.

  At last they entered Church Lane and the spire of St. Mildred’s came into view, illuminated by the great lantern hanging in its tower.

  ‘Blunt lived in an alleyway on the far side,’ Luberon remarked.

  ‘We’ll only visit there tonight,’ Kathryn declared, her teeth chattering with the cold. ‘Whatever secrets Master Erpingham’s secret house held will just have to wait.’

  Luberon stopped, shuffling his feet in embarrassment. Kathryn beat her gloved hands together.

  ‘Come on, Simon, it’s too cold to dally. What is it?’

  The clerk cleared his throat. ‘It’s not only the scene of the crime we have to visit,’ he muttered, his head and face hidden by the cowl. ‘But Master Murtagh is the King’s coroner and you are his physician. You must also view the corpses.’

  Kathryn closed her eyes and groaned; Colum cursed loudly in Gaelic.

  ‘Lord, man!’ he bellowed. ‘Haven’t we seen enough dead bodies for one day?’

  Kathryn linked one arm through Colum’s, the other through Luberon’s.

  ‘We’ll view them,’ she said. ‘I suppose they are to be buried tomorrow?’

  Luberon nodded.

  ‘And have you had further thoughts on Erpingham’s death?’ he asked quickly. ‘I didn’t want to question you back at the house.’

  Kathryn stared across the walls of St. Mildred’s frozen cemetery.

  ‘No, it’s a mystery. But I tell you this. The Wicker Man tavern holds a great many secrets and I do fear for those who shelter there!’

  Chapter 6

  Blunt’s was a narrow dwelling standing on the corner of an alleyway under the looming mass of St. Mildred’s Church. Kathryn pointed farther along the alleyway.

  ‘That’s where one of the victims fell. I wonder what Widow Gumple was doing there at that time of night?’ She looked up at the front of the house. ‘My father told me a great deal about the city history. This house is probably hundreds of years old, with the solarium on the first floor, its windows along the side.’

  ‘Well, I’m freezing!’ Colum groaned, hammering on the door.

  They heard footsteps and a woman’s voice hoarsely asked who was there. Luberon explained; chains and bolts were loosened and the door swung open. The woman who stood there grasped a cane, her small, plump body covered in a shabby cloak, a mass of grey, wiry hair falling down to her shoulders; strong-faced and keen-eyed, she had an aquiline nose, thin lips and a determined chin.

  ‘You are Emma Darryl?’ Luberon asked.

  ‘Of course I am!’ the woman replied. ‘You must be Master Luberon. We have met before: your companions are the King’s coroner, the Irishman Murtagh and, of course, Mistress Swinbrooke.’ She smiled faintly at Kathryn. ‘You probably don’t remember me but I knew your father well, a good man. I was sorry to hear of his death.’

  Kathryn thanked her.

  ‘Well, come in.’

  Kathryn and the rest followed her in. The small hallway was bleak but smelt sweet. Kathryn glimpsed the precious herbs in the pots around the wall as Emma led them up the narrow, rickety stairs. At the top was a small gallery to the right and a door leading to the solarium. Emma ushered them in. Kathryn was surprised at the solarium’s spaciousness and realised how deceptive the exterior of the house looked. The chamber was pleasantly furnished. Some canvas paintings hung against the walls. A pine log fire crackled merrily in the cavernous hearth of the fireplace, under a canopied mantelpiece shaped in the form of a bishop’s mitre. At the far end, under the shuttered window, was a large embrasure with cushioned seats. Tables, chairs and quilted stools were tastefully arranged around the room with large, steel-bound chests placed against the wall. The floor at the entrance to the solarium was strewn with rushes, clean, dry and sprinkled with herbs. The rest of the floor was of polished wood and covered by thick woollen rugs. Two chairs stood before the fireplace, in one of which a young man lolled, staring vacuously into the flames. Emma Darryl caught his sharp glance.

  ‘Yes, it happened here,’ she declared. ‘But come, Peter, we have guests.’

  The young man in front of the fire rose, rather lopsidedly, and shambled towards them. He was thickset, his vacuous face fringed by a mop of dullish red hair. A slight line of spittle drooled from one corner of his mouth and his childlike eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. He mumbled a greeting, shaking each of their hands and made a clumsy attempt to kiss the back of Kathryn’s. She smiled back as she felt his slack grip. For a few moments there was
confusion as Peter, grunting and mumbling, pulled other chairs up around the fire whilst Emma brought them small cups of hippocras from the kitchen farther down the outside gallery. Colum tried to make conversation with Peter as Emma Darryl scurried backwards and forwards and Kathryn studied the chamber more closely. She half closed her eyes; young Alisoun must have been sitting where she was, teasing and flirting with those two men. Richard Blunt would have come in through the doorway, arrows already notched. Kathryn had seen master bowmen in action and knew how fast and accurate their delivery was. Alisoun and one young man, perhaps fuddled with drink, died immediately; the other tried to reach the window, scrabbling at the shutter. He would open that and the casement beyond. Yes, Kathryn reflected, he’d have had time to do that, but as he climbed through, Blunt followed, firing straight into his back. Death would have been instantaneous for all three victims. The longbow arrow was at least a yard long, steel-tipped, its path guided by the grey goose feathers, and the power of the longbow could put such an arrow through a knight in full armour. Colum turned and glanced at her.

  ‘Inquisitive as ever, Kathryn?’ he smiled. ‘Yes, it could be done. The three victims would have been in their cups, lounging about.’ He pointed to the candles placed around the solarium. ‘And there’s enough light for even the weakest marksman.’

  He paused as Emma returned; she sat down next to Peter, cradling his hands in her lap.

  ‘Have you seen Master Blunt?’ Emma asked.

  ‘No,’ Kathryn replied. ‘I apologise but we were distracted by the death of Sir Reginald Erpingham at the Wicker Man. You have heard the news?’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘Did you know Erpingham?’

  ‘No.’ Emma’s answer was too short, too quick, though the housekeeper stared coolly back at Kathryn. ‘I understand he was a wicked man,’ she continued. ‘And certainly deserved his fate, unlike Master Blunt.’

  ‘How long have you known the painter?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Thirty years.’

  Kathryn stared at the woman. She looked plain and rather submissive but Kathryn sensed an inner strength.