House of the Red Slayer

by Paul Doherty

Athelstan shook his head and went across to warm his hands over the small charcoal brazier which glowingly offered some heat against the freezing night air. He looked down the nave of the church, noticing the boughs of evergreens, the holly and ivy which Watkin the dung-collector’s wife had wound round the great broad pillars. Athelstan was pleased. The roof was mended, the windows glazed with horn. ‘More like a church now,’ he muttered, ‘than a long, dark tunnel with holes in the walls.’ Soon Advent would be over. The greenery had been placed there to welcome the newborn Christ. ‘Evergreen,’ the friar murmured. ‘For the evergreen Lord.’ A small shadow, deeper than the rest, slunk from the darkened aisle.

  ‘You always know when to appear, Bonaventura.’

  The great tom cat padded across, stopped and stretched in front of Athelstan, then brushed imploringly against the friar’s black robe. Athelstan glanced down.

  ‘No mice here,’ he whispered. ‘Thank God!’

  He’d never forget how Ranulf the rat-catcher had secreted traps in the rushes and Cecily had caught her toe in one of them as she cleaned the church one morning. Athelstan had lived for thirty years and served with soldiers, but never had he heard such a litany of ripe oaths as those which had poured from Cecily’s pretty mouth.

  The friar crouched and picked up the cat, studying the great black and white face, the tattered ears. ‘Bonaventura the Great Mouser,’ he murmured. ‘So you have come for your reward.’ Athelstan went into one of the darkened transepts and took a bowl of freezing milk and sliced pilchard from the windowsill. ‘Whose life is more rewarding, Bonaventura,’ he murmured as he crouched to feed the animal, ‘a torn cat’s in Southwark or that of a Dominican monk who likes the stars but has to work in the mud?’

  The cat blinked back, squatted down and gobbled the food from a pewter platter, one eye alert on a small flurry where the rushes lay thick against a pillar. Athelstan returned to the bottom of the sanctuary steps, knelt, crossed himself and began the first prayer of Divine Office.

  ‘Veni, veni, Emmanuel!’ Come, O come, Emmanuel!

  When would Christ come again? Athelstan idly wondered. To heal the wounds and enforce justice . . . No. He closed his eyes. He’d sworn an oath he wouldn’t think of Cranston; he wouldn’t dwell on that fat red face and balding head, those mischievous blue eyes, and the great girth which would drain a vineyard dry. He remembered the old story about the devil collecting all the half-hearted prayers of priests, gathering every missing word in a bag for Judgment Day. Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed deeply to calm himself.

  He finished his psalms then went into the small, freezing cold sacristy. Washing his hands at the lavarium, he looked round. ‘Not purple vestments today,’ he murmured, and opened the great missal. ‘Today is the Feast of St Lucy.’ He unlocked the battered cupboard door and plucked out the gold-covered chasuble with a scarlet cross embroidered in the centre. Unlike the musty cupboard, the chasuble was new and fragrant-smelling. He marvelled at the handiwork and thought of its maker, the widow Benedicta. ‘As beautiful as she is,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ He whispered an apology for his own distraction and said the prayers which every priest must recite as he dresses for Mass.

  Athelstan had trained himself. He knew the dark shadows in his soul threatened to rise and interrupt his morning routine. He must not think of them. The small window in the sacristy clattered as its shutter banged against it. Athelstan started. It was still black as night outside in the cemetery, God’s Acre, with its broken wooden crosses guarding the mounds of soil where the ancestors of the good people of the parish slept their eternal dream, waiting for Christ to come again. Yet Athelstan knew there was something else out there. Some dark evil thing which committed terrible blasphemies by dragging corpses from the soil.

  The friar shook himself free from his morbid reverie. He opened the strong box and took out the chalice and paten. He placed the white communion wafers on a plate and half filled the goblet with altar wine. Afterwards he picked up the jar and gazed suspiciously at the contents.

  ‘It looks,’ he announced to the empty darkness, ‘as if our sexton, Watkin the dung-collector, is sampling the wine!’ He filled the water bowl for the Lavabo, that part of the Mass when the priest cleanses himself of his sins, and gazed down at the water where thin slivers of ice bobbed. ‘What sins?’ he whispered. The alabaster-skinned face of Benedicta, veiled by her blue-black hair, sprang to mind. Athelstan felt Bonaventure brush against his leg. ‘No sin,’ he whispered to the cat. ‘Surely it is no sin? She’s a friend and I am lonely.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’re a fool, Athelstan,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You are a priest, what do you expect?’ He continued this line of thought as he finished robing. He had confessed as much to the Father Prior, yet why was he lonely? Despite his moans, Athelstan sought to be loved by the parish and the people he served. But it was his other office, as clerk to Sir John Cranston the coroner, which depressed him. And why? Athelstan absent-mindedly picked up Bonaventura and began to stroke him. He could cope with the violent deaths, the gore and the bloody wounds. It was the others which chilled him – the planned murders, coolly calculated by souls steeped in the black night of mortal sin. Athelstan felt he was on the verge of another such mystery. Something warned him, a sixth sense, as if the evil lurking in the lonely cemetery was waiting to confront him. He stirred himself and kissed Bonaventure on the top of his head.

  ‘There’s Mass to be said.’

  Athelstan went back into the church, glanced up and saw the first light of dawn through the horn-glazed window. He shivered. Despite the braziers, the church was deathly cold. He reached the altar and stared towards the Pyx holding the Blessed Sacrament, Christ under the appearance of bread, swinging under its golden canopy with only a lonely taper on the altar beneath as a sign that God was present. Behind him the door crashed open and Mugwort the bell cleric waddled in, his bald head and quivering red cheeks concealed beneath woollen rags.

  ‘Good morrow, Father!’ he bellowed in a voice Athelstan believed could be heard the length and breadth of the parish.

  The friar closed his eyes and prayed for patience as Mugwort began to pull on the bell – more like a tocsin than a summons to prayer. At last the clatter stopped. Benedicta, shrouded in a brown cloak, slipped into the church. She smiled sheepishly at the friar who stood waiting patiently at the foot of the steps. Cecily the courtesan followed. Athelstan knew it was she by the gale of cheap perfume which always preceded her. He closed his eyes and prayed that the only tasks Cecily performed now were to work as a seamstress for Benedicta and to clean the church. He remembered the parish joke: how Cecily had lain down in the cemetery more often than the parish coffin. Pernel, the old Flemish lady, came next; her hair dyed red, her face painted white, a woman of indeterminate background and even more uncertain morals. Athelstan quietly vowed to watch her. He’d heard a story that Pernel did not swallow the host but took it home and placed it in her beehive to keep the bees healthy. If he caught her, he would not offer the Eucharist or accept her silly answer that the honeycombs from her hives were always in the shape of a church! At last Watkin the dung-collector, sexton, warden of St Erconwald’s and leader of the parish council, arrived. His ever growing brood of children clattered down the aisle in their wooden clogs; one of them, Crim, with at least his hands washed, slipped next to Athelstan to serve as altar boy. The friar felt slightly ridiculous, a duty-faced Crim on one side and Bonaventura the cat on the other. Manyer the hangman came last and slammed the door shut.

  Athelstan took a deep breath and made the sign of the cross, vowing he would concentrate on the mysteries of the Mass and not on the evils in the cemetery outside.

  Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, was standing in Blind Basket Alley off Poor Jewry. The runnel cut like a sliver of ice between the backs of the overhanging houses. The good coroner stamped his feet and blew on his mittened fingers in a futile attempt to warm them.

  ‘Hold that torch higher!’ he s
napped at the alderman’s clerk. Cranston stared at the men around him, dark shapes in the poor light, and then up at the shuttered window of the sombre, desolate house. He saved his most venomous glance for Luke Venables, alderman of the ward, who had roused him from a warm bed. Sir John liked his sleep at the best of times, particularly after a strenuous week’s work. Two days ago he had gone to the church of St Stephen in Walbrook to examine the corpse of William Clarke who had climbed the belfry to look for a pigeon’s nest. As the idiot crawled from beam to beam he’d slipped and fallen, being killed instantly. Cranston had adjudged that the beam was to blame and imposed a fine of fourpence on the angry vicar. Yesterday Cranston had been to West Chepe to examine the corpse of William Pannar, a skinner, found lying near the Conduit. Pannar had been stupid enough to go to a physician with some ailment or other. Of course he had been leeched of blood, so much so that the poor bastard had collapsed on the way home and died on the spot.

  Cranston chewed his lip as he banged on the door again. Yet it was not just his work which bothered him, there was something else: his beloved wife Maude was not being honest with him and Cranston suspected she was hiding a dreadful secret. Sir John was infatuated with his wife and could not resist the pleasures of the bed chamber, yet recently, last night included, he had snuggled up next to her only to have his advances rejected. She had whimpered her protests softly in the darkness, would not tell him the reason and refused to be comforted. Now, in the early hours, this idiot Venables had brought him out into the cold in order to force entry into this mysterious house. Cranston hammered on the door again but there was no reply, only the muttered oaths and shuffling feet of his companions.

  ‘So!’ Cranston turned to the alderman. ‘Tell me again what the problem is.’

  Venables knew Sir John and stared anxiously at the bewhiskered red face, the icy-blue eyes and furrowed brow under the great, woollen beaver hat. Sir John was a good man, Venables reflected, but when he lost his temper he could be the devil incarnate. Venables pointed to the broken ale-stake jutting out just above the door.

  ‘The facts are these, Sir John. The householder here is Simon de Wyxford. This is his ale-house. He had no family, only a servant, Roger Droxford. Eight days ago master and servant had a violent quarrel which continued all day. On December the sixth the servant, Roger, opened the alehouse as usual, set out the benches and sold wine, but nothing was seen of Simon. The next day neighbours asked Roger where his master was. He replied that Simon had gone to Westminster to recover some debts.’ Venables blew out his cheeks and turned to one of the shadowed figures beside him.

  ‘Tell Sir John the rest’

  ‘Four days ago . . .’ began the neighbour, a small man swathed in robes.

  Cranston could see only a pair of timid eyes and a dripping nose above the muffler.

  ‘Speak up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Remove the muffler from your mouth.’

  ‘Four days ago,’ the fellow continued, obeying Sir John with alacrity, ‘Roger was seen leaving here, a bundle of possessions slung across his back. We thought he was fleeing but he went to one of our neighbours, Hammo the cook, telling him he was going to seek out Simon, his master, and gave Hammo the key should de Wyxford suddenly return. Last night,’ he continued, clearing his throat, ‘Francis Boggett, a taverner, came here to recover a debt Master Simon owed him.’

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ Cranston interrupted.

  ‘Boggett entered the house,’ the alderman intervened smoothly, ‘to find no trace of Simon or his servant, so he seized three tuns of wine as recompense for his debt.’

  ‘How did he get in?’ Cranston snapped.

  ‘Hammo the cook gave him the key.’

  Sir John pursed his lips. ‘Boggett is to be fined fivepence for trespass and the cook twopence as his accomplice.’ He glared at the alderman. ‘You have the key on you?’

  Venables nodded. Cranston snapped his fingers and the alderman handed it over. The coroner drew himself up to his full height.

  ‘As coroner of this city,’ he grandly announced, ‘in view of the mysterious events reported to me, I now authorise our entry to this house to search out the truth. Master Alderman, you will accompany me.’

  There was further confusion as Venables asked for a tinder from one of his companions. Sir John unlocked the door and entered the cold darkness of the tavern. The place smelt dirty and musty. They crashed against barrels, stools and tables until Venables struck a tinder and lit two cresset torches, one of which he handed to Cranston. They went from room to room and then upstairs where they found the two chambers ransacked, coffers and chests with their lids broken or thrown aside, but no trace of any body.

  ‘You know what we are looking for?’ Cranston murmured.

  Venables nodded. ‘But so far nothing, Sir John.’

  ‘There is a cellar?’

  The alderman led Cranston downstairs. They searched the darkened taproom until they found a trap door which Venables pulled back. Both men descended gingerly by wooden ladders. The cellar was a long, oblong box with a trap door at the far end for the carts to unload their barrels through. Cranston told Venables to stand still and walked carefully through the cellar, his great bulk made grotesque by the dim light of the flickering torches. At the far end he stopped, lowered the torch and looked behind three great wine tuns. The light made the spiders’ webs which clung to the barrels shimmer like cloth of gold. Cranston leaned over and felt the sticky mess he had spotted. He brought his hand up into the light and looked at the blood which coated his fingers like paste. He forced his arm back further behind the barrels, and scrabbled around.

  ‘Sir John!’ the alderman called out. ‘All is well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, Master Venables. I have found the taverner, or at least part of him!’ Cranston picked up the decapitated head from behind the barrels and held it aloft as if he was the Tower headsman. The alderman took one look at the blue-white face, the half-closed eyes, sagging blood-stained mouth and the jagged remains of the neck, and sat down heavily on a stone plinth, retching violently. Cranston put down the head and walked back, wiping his fingers on the mildewed wall. As he passed, he patted Venables gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Have some claret, my good alderman, it steadies the stomach and fortifies the heart.’ He stopped and took a step back. ‘After that, swear out warrants for the arrest of Roger Droxford. Declare him a wolfshead, and place . . .’ Cranston screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, place ten pounds’ reward on his head, dead or alive. Have this house sealed, and in the event of no will or self-proclaimed heir appearing, the city council might find itself a little richer.’

  He climbed the ladder and the taproom steps and emerged on to the bitterly cold street.

  ‘We’ve found the taverner,’ he announced. ‘Murdered. I think the good alderman will need your help to assemble the corpse.’

  Then, hand on his long Welsh dagger, Sir John trudged back along the ice-packed runnels and alleyways. He turned into the Mercery and gasped as the icy wind tore away his breath. ‘Oh, for summer!’ he wailed to himself. ‘For weeds in clumps, for grass lovely and lush.’

  He slithered on the icy cobbles and leaned against the wooden frame of a house, grinning.

  ‘Athelstan should be here helping,’ he murmured. ‘If not with headless corpses, then at least by keeping me steady on the ice.’

  He walked on up Cheapside. A dark shape slid from the shadows to meet him. Cranston half drew his dagger.

  ‘Sir John, for the love of Christ!’

  Cranston peered closer at the raw-boned face of the one-legged beggar who always sold trinkets from his rickety stall on the corner of Milk Street.

  ‘Not in bed, Leif? Looking for a lady, are we?’

  ‘Sir John, I’ve been robbed!’

  ‘See the sheriff!’

  ‘Sir John, I have no money and no food.’

  ‘Then stay in bed!’

  Leif steadied himself against the wall. ‘I paid no rent so I lost m
y garret,’ he wailed.

  ‘Well, go and beg at St Bartholomew’s!’ Cranston barked back, and trudged on. He heard Leif hopping behind him.

  ‘Sir John, help me.’

  ‘Bugger off, Leif.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir John,’ the beggar answered as coins tinkled to the ground. Leif knew enough about the fat coroner to understand Sir John hated to be seen giving charity.

  Cranston stopped before his own house and looked up at the candlelit windows. Leif nearly crashed into him and Cranston shrugged him off. What is the matter with Maude? he wondered. He had always considered marriage similar to dipping one’s hand into a bag of eels – it depended on luck what you drew out. Yet he had been so fortunate. He adored Maude from the mousey hair of her head to the soles of her tiny feet.

  As he mused a figure suddenly emerged from the alleyway which ran alongside Cranston’s house.

  ‘By the sod!’ he exclaimed. ‘Doesn’t anyone in this benighted city sleep?’

  The fellow approached and Cranston recognised the livery of the Lord Mayor.

  ‘By the sod,’ he repeated, ‘more trouble!’

  The young pursuivant, teeth chattering, hoarsely delivered his message.

  ‘Sir John, the Lord Mayor and his sheriffs wish to see you now at the Guildhall.’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘Thank you, Sir John. The Lord Mayor said your reply would be something like that. Shall I wait for you?’ The young man clapped his hands together. ‘Sir John, I am cold.’

  Still bellowing ‘By the sod!’ Cranston banged on the door of his house. A thin-faced maid opened it. Behind her stood Maude, now fully dressed, her sweet face tear-stained. Sir John grinned at her to hide his own disquiet.

  ‘Lady wife, I am off to the Guildhall – but not before I break fast.’ He dragged the young pursuivant in with him. ‘He’ll eat too. He looks as if he needs it.’

  Cranston spun on his heel, went back outside and re-entered, dragging in Leif by the scruff of his neck. ‘This idle bugger will also be joining us. After which, find him a job. He will be spending Yuletide here.’ He tapped his broad girth. ‘For all of us, hot oatmeal and spiced cakes!’ The coroner sniffed the air. ‘And some of that white manchet, freshly baked.’ He looked slyly at his wife. ‘And claret, hot and spiced. Then tell the groom I need a horse!’ He grinned broadly, but despite his bluster Cranston noticed how pale and ill his wife looked. He glanced away. Oh God! he thought. Am I to lose Maude? He tossed off his cloak and strode past his wife, touching her gently on the shoulder as he passed.