by Paul Doherty
Benjamin and I made our apologies. My master grasped Miranda's hand and kissed it. My heart skipped a beat! She held his fingers much longer than courtesy demanded. She was kind to me, proffering her hand. I lifted my head to murmur how pleasant it had been to meet her, but her gaze had already returned to Benjamin.
We left Pelleter's house. Benjamin was pleased, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.
‘We have flushed a coney from the hay, Roger!' he exclaimed, slapping me on the back. 'Oh, the evidence is meagre, the proof paltry, but I believe Robert Sakker is involved in this villainy.'
He paused on a corner of an alleyway and watched as two officials of the city seized a wandering pig, thrust it squealing to the ground and cut its throat. I turned away as the hot blood rushed out. 'And Mistress Miranda?' I asked.
Benjamin's face grew serious; he grasped me by the shoulder. 'An angel, Roger. Have you ever seen such eyes? The sheer harmony of her features!' ‘You were taken by her?' 'Ravished,' he replied. I glanced away, thrusting my hands between my cloak so my master would not see my fists curled in fury. 'And you, Roger?' I stepped back and his hand fell away.
'She was comely enough,' I muttered. 'Master, should we not return to the Tower?'
Benjamin, the innocent, unaware of the black storm raging in my heart, gazed back in the direction of Pelleter's house.
'Do you realise. Roger,' he whispered, 'if this Sakker is involved, if he's hunting our under-sheriff, perhaps at this very moment, he is not far away'
I didn't care. I had to hide my envy and resentment and said we should leave. It was a fine day so we decided to walk down Lombard Street and into Eastcheap, the most direct path back to the Tower. Benjamin chattered like a magpie, unaware of my seething passion. (I once told Will Shakespeare about this in a tavern on Bank Side. He'd asked me what was the most powerful emotion a man could feel? Lust? Anger? The desire for riches? I told him jealousy! I sat back against the tavern wall, the tears streaming down my face, and told him about Benjamin and Miranda, that golden couple who lived so long ago. Will heard me out in that quiet attentive way of his, his olive-skinned features betraying nothing. Then he nodded and murmured that he would remember what I had said. Go and see his play Othello, about the Moor of Venice, the wicked Iago and the lovely Desdemona. I never asked him who Iago was! Last Yuletide, I hired a troupe of actors and made them recite the lines whilst I sat and quietly cried about the lovely Miranda.)
Anyway, on that day we returned, hot and dusty, to the Tower. We were almost through the Lion Gateway when a woman stepped out of the shadows and caught me by the arm.
‘Mistress Undershaft,' I exclaimed, though in truth I felt no pleasure: after seeing the marvellous Miranda it was like comparing candlelight to the sun.
‘Master Shallot,' she whispered, 'Master Daunbey. I have something to show you.' She gazed fearfully around. 'I have heard about Horehound's death.' She continued hurriedly. ‘I need to speak to you, repay you for your kindness.'
She took us back out, across the drawbridge, and down near the river. I gazed around but, apart from fishermen sitting on the quayside mending their nets, and an old beggar man pushing a barrow laden with half-ripe apples, I could see no one to be wary of.
‘Let's stroll,' Benjamin suggested, 'as if we were taking the air and enjoying the afternoon sunlight.'
Mistress Undershaft agreed, though she first pushed a square of parchment into Benjamin's hand. ‘I went amongst my husband's belongings, looking for something which might help you.'
Benjamin opened the parchment. He studied it, then passed it to me. It was nothing much, a square about nine inches by nine, yellow and greasy, the ink marks poor and faded. A rough drawing of the Tower: underneath, a shape like the letter ‘I, with a cross where the two lines met. Next to this was a large question mark. ·What does it mean?' she asked Benjamin. ‘I don't know, Mistress.'
'Neither do I.' I pushed the parchment into my pouch. ‘What makes you think it's so important?'
‘Oh, at first I didn't,' Mistress Undershaft replied. She kept gazing fearfully around, as if someone might be watching her. ‘I was going to throw it into the fire. After all, Andrew often made drawings of one of his carvings or some piece of furniture. However, I remembered the day after the King's party, Andrew was in the garden. He liked to sit there admiring the flowers. On that particular morning, he was poring over that piece of parchment, as if it held some great secret. When I asked him what it meant, he shook his head and mumbled it was best not to know. For the rest of that day he was withdrawn.' She stopped. 'Masters, that's all I can tell you.'
And, before we could stop her, she slipped away along the quayside. Benjamin and I went and sat on a small, grassy bank overlooking the river. I pulled out the scrap of parchment and stared at it.
There's a rough drawing of the Tower,' I declared, ‘but that holds no secret.' I pushed it closer so my master could see it. 'And there's the letter ‘T’, done in square fashion, the lines scored time and time again.'
'And what do these mean?' Benjamin pointed to the stem of the "T, where small dashes marked the right-hand side.
‘I don't know,' I said. rYet it disturbed Undershaft and set him wondering. Perhaps he was the executioner who saw something untoward that night?'
Benjamin lay back on the grass and stared up at the fleecy clouds.
This is luxury, Roger,' he murmured. 'A warm day: listen to the bees humming. The river is quiet, the sky is blue. I have just met the fairest lady in the world.' He sat up and rubbed his face. 'Every Paradise has its serpent.' He leaned over and tapped the parchment still in my hands. 'And this is the very devil. Now, Roger, I agree something happened during those festivities. But remember they were held not in the Tower proper but in the royal apartments: the mystery lies there. But come!' He got to his feet. ‘We have a hard day tomorrow'
We returned to the Tower and managed to beg some dried bacon, bread and wine from the kitchens. We sat outside and ate. Benjamin was still taken by Miranda, though now and again he would return to ponder the problems confronting us. I grew tired of his company. When he returned to our chamber, I mooned about like a love-lorn swain, though I stayed in full view of the guards: I hadn't forgotten the recent attack on me. I joined some soldiers and drank their coarse ale before staggering back to my chamber. Benjamin was already asleep. I threw myself down on the straw mattress, blissfully unaware of the horrors which were to occur that night.
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 ranting, 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 p
iece 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?'
