Medi-Evil 1

by Paul Finch

  “You there!”

  A ruffian had emerged from the entry to the tavern. Starkly cast on the firelight inside, he had the build of a bear. His repeatedly scarred face was buried under a dense black beard. His eyes were small but wicked, and he was carrying a heavy, nobbled club.

  “Are you trying to rob my father?” he demanded. “And him suffering all the curses of Hell!”

  Kingsley stepped forward, barring the brute’s path to his master. “You’re mistaken. My lord has just given him money.”

  The ruffian’s face broke into a mocking grin. His teeth were yellowed shovel-blades. “Oh … your lord, is it? Your lord! Am I supposed to be frightened by that?”

  Urmston remained icily calm. “Tell me, man, can your father not speak? I’ve questioned him, but I get no answers.”

  The ruffian hefted the club to his shoulder. “And who are you to question folk?”

  “You oaf!” Kingsley said. “This is Lord Urmston. Squire to Her Majesty’s Royal Body.”

  “He thinks that title will shield him, does he?”

  “I need no shield,” Urmston replied.

  “Ah … a braggart too.” The ruffian swung his club down. “You’d better listen, Mister Lord Protector of the Royal Tits, or whatever you are! We don’t like strangers who go round bragging … or asking questions!”

  “Even strangers charged with capturing the murderer of these unfortunate women?” Urmston wondered.

  The ruffian seemed surprised. Then his scornful grin returned. “You two … catch the Flibbertigibbet?” He chortled.

  “What did you call it?” Urmston said.

  “By the looks of you, you couldn’t catch the pox in a brothel.”

  “You said ‘Flibbertigibbet’.”

  “And if I did?”

  “Your father said the same thing.”

  “Like as not.”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh … a demon. An evil ghost. It comes and goes as it pleases … no-one can stop it.”

  “You claim a demon is responsible for these murders?” Kingsley said.

  “Not just any demon. The Flibbertigibbet.”

  “That’s the name you people know it by?”

  But now the ruffian was weary with the interview. He raised his cudgel again. “Clear out of this district now, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “We have money,” Urmston said.

  The man’s expression changed abruptly. His eyes were suddenly alight with interest.

  “We’ll pay for information,” Urmston added.

  “How much?”

  “That depends on the information.”

  The ruffian considered. “Well … my father reckons he’s seen it.”

  “And can you get him to speak?” Urmston asked.

  The ruffian glanced over his shoulder. “Not here … you don’t go showing your purse round here. Not if you’ve got any sense.”

  “Where then?”

  “Come with me.” The ruffian picked his parent up like a sack of meal, and tramped towards the mouth of the nearest alley. “I know somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

  The investigators hesitated before following.

  “Is it far?” Kingsley asked.

  “Not far.”

  Realising they had no option, they went after him, moving in procession through the drear back-streets, skipping around broken barrels and clutters of rubbish, stepping over pools of slime hardened to gleaming black ice. The chill here had a knife-like edge to it, yet the air was ripe with the stench of putrefaction. Aside from themselves, nothing moved in the frozen, fathomless gloom.

  “I’m not sure I like this, my lord,” Kingsley whispered.

  Urmston was about to agree, when they emerged onto a stretch of open ground bisected by a single ditch, along which foul waters trickled. Instantly, it struck them that they weren’t alone. Several figures lounged against a nearby wall. Another stood on the far side of the ditch, as if waiting for them to cross.

  Their guide took himself ahead with hurried strides, laid down the leprous bundle that was his father, and turned sharply. Once again, the hefty cudgel was in his fist.

  He laughed harshly. “At ’em, lads! They’ve more gold than brains, this lot!”

  He lunging forward, swiping wildly at Urmston’s head. The spy-catcher ducked it, and slammed a punch into his codpiece. With a choking gasp, the brute went down on his haunches. Urmston leaped up and drove a knee into his face, knocking him cold. But the other footpads were gambolling forward. The first leaped ape-like onto Kingsley’s back. The servant was in the process of drawing his blade, but was borne down by the bandit’s weight. Urmston had his own rapier out in a trice, and moved swiftly against the remaining three. As household man to the queen, it was necessary that he be one of England’s finest swordsmen. The first cutpurse had drawn his own blade, a tarnished poniard, but in two quick passes, Urmston had disarmed him and run him through at the shoulder. With howls of pain, blood bursting through his clutching fingers, the robber staggered away.

  The remaining two, warier now, circled their opponent. One was armed with a length of chain, the other with a sledge-hammer. The hammer-man was the smaller of the two, but the eyes in his dirt-smudged face were ablaze with madness. Clearly, he was the more dangerous. He attacked, swinging the hammer over his head and down with a force that would have shattered an ox’s skull. Urmston stepped nimbly aside, slashing him three times across the ribs, laying open not only the fellow’s leather doublet and hessian shirt, but also the flesh beneath, so that white bones glinted in gory wounds. The man reeled back over the ditch, screaming like a child. Urmston turned quickly to the fellow with the chain. This one had less stomach for the fight. He glanced once at the crimson rapier, before scrambling after his wounded compatriots, shouting for them to wait.

  Urmston watched them go, breathing hard. Then he heard the impacts of blows. He whirled around, but was relieved to see that Kingsley had got on top of his opponent, and though both were now caked in mud, the doughty servant was holding the other down, pounding him body and head with his right fist. It lasted only a second or two, before the battered footpad lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Urmston helped his servant to his feet. “You still throw a solid punch, my friend.”

  “Surprised myself, my lord,” Kingsley panted. “I haven’t struck a man since the battle of Solway.”

  “A timely occasion then, a timely occasion now.”

  “Are you alright, sir?”

  “I’ll live …”

  A protracted groan caught their attention. Beside the stunted shape of the beggar, the first robber was slowly recovering. Just as his dull eyes flickered open, Urmston’s sword-tip pricked his throat. He stiffened in alarm. “Wait … please!”

  Ursmston put pressure on the weapon, drawing a drop of blood.

  The villain’s eyes bulged. “Please … no!”

  “You know why I’m here in Southwark?” the spy-catcher wondered.

  “Yes, sir”

  “And still you try to waylay me!” He pressed the blade further.

  “Please, my lord! Please, that hurts …”

  “Hurts? It’s only because I’ve a mind for it, that you’re still alive at all!”

  “Anything … I’ll do anything.”

  “Start by talking. The murders … what do you know?”

  The robber held up helpless hands. “What does any man know?”

  “Perhaps you know more than any man?”

  “Me?”

  Urmston nodded. “You discover I’m here to stop the crimes, and the next thing you attack me!”

  “For God’s sake, my lord, it was thievery. I attacked you to steal … you said you had money.”

  Kingsley appeared by his master’s side, dabbing with a cloth at his bloodied mouth. “That’s a risky thing to admit to an officer of the crown,” he remarked.

  “My life clearly depends on it,” the man blabbered.

  “Ye
s it does,” Urmston said.

  “It’s easy for the likes of you to judge,” the robber replied. “You’ve seen my father … his wits are scattered, his limbs wasted. How can I provide for him and my family? I look for work, but where can I find anything that pays well enough?”

  Urmston curled his lip. “You weren’t looking for work when you found us.”

  “I was. The Black Prince is my work. I turn out louts and rioters. It’s the only thing I know.”

  “Who are you?” Kingsley asked.

  “Cutter, sir … Jack Cutter.”

  “Tell us about the Flibbertigibbet, Cutter,” Urmston said. “Tell us everything you know.”

  “It’s only a story … a legend.”

  “Its handiwork is real enough.”

  “That’s true. But those who’ve seen it have never seen its face. People say there are screams in the night, then a shape running … next, a body is found.”

  “This shape!” Urmston persisted. “Tell me about it!”

  “Some say it’s tall, others short,” Cutter replied. “One thing we all know … it’s killed more than these Southwark whores.”

  Urmston and Kingsley glanced at each other.

  “What do you mean?” Kingsley asked.

  “It’s been among us for years … because Man has been sinning for years.”

  “But there haven’t been any other murders of this sort,” Urmston said.

  Cutter almost laughed. “How do you know that? You been to other parishes … you been north of the river?”

  Again, the master and servant glanced at each other, now uneasily. “Have you been north of the river?” Urmston asked Cutter.

  “Not lately, but word spreads. They say its savagery grows as Man’s infamy grows.”

  Urmston withdrew his sword. “And what of you, Cutter? Do you believe this thing is a monster, or just a man who behaves like one?”

  Cutter sat up and mopped the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know. But I do know it’s a curse on us.” His once-threatening eyes betrayed haunting fear. “It’s a curse on us all.”

  *

  That evening, bathed and scrubbed and seated by candle-light in the solar, Umston pondered the events of the day. The responsibility of his office had never daunted him; to the spy-catcher’s mind, the unmasking of felons was an analytical business, which mainly required common sense and clear, practical thought. If assessed properly, the facts would speak for themselves – the who, the when, the where, the how. The ‘why’, of course, didn’t come into it. It couldn’t be allowed to, it mustn’t – even in this case when the villainy was so harrowing, when the object of it was so elusive.

  Urmston yanked the bell-cord, and Kingsley – also cleansed and refreshed – appeared. “My lord?”

  “You’re a travelled man,” Urmston said. “Tell me, have you ever heard of anything like this before?”

  The servant paused to think. “I know of criminals who’ve killed repeatedly for a purpose … to silence witnesses, or through torture to find out where valuables were hoarded. But never where the killing itself was the purpose. A rather frightening concept, is it not?”

  “Yes,” his master agreed. “It is.”

  “Can I bring you your supper now, my lord?”

  Urmston shook his head. “No thank you, John. Bring me paper and some quills. I’ve several-dozen letters to write.”

  *

  Urmston spent the remainder of that week writing to the various bailiffs of London’s parishes, and to the JPs and sheriffs of the shires and counties surrounding the city. In all cases, he stated his office, authenticating it with his seal, and explained his business. He was seeking, he said, any information regarding the mysterious deaths of women and girls, in the cases of which no persons had thus far been brought to justice.

  He knew that even so simple a request would be beyond the limited abilities of certain of those worthy gentlemen, but his hopes were high that at least some records would be made available to him.

  He wasn’t to be disappointed, for over the next few days he received a good number of replies. One or two were entirely in the negative, though several bore news of a ghastly but sadly familiar nature. In recent years, in the general London area, a variety of females, it seemed – from aged crones to infant girls – had passed into the next life through the attentions of brutal men. In many cases, as Urmston expected, they were unfortunate wives or faithless mistresses, bludgeoned to death in a fit of rage or drunken madness; quite a few were the victims of robbery, throttled in their beds as intruders searched for goods, or attacked and cut down on lonely highways. Numerous reports came from the infamous ‘Thicket’ in Burnham, which was far to the west of London, though in all the cases there, there was evidence either of rape or theft, which was nothing new according to the sheriff of that region.

  It was not a wasted exercise, however. A number of incidents, particularly and most interestingly, several from the capital’s more easterly demesnes, did match the profile that Urmston had put to the authorities, and these he made meticulous notes on.

  During the previous year, it transpired, two whores had been murdered in Southwark’s neighbouring district of Bermondsey – several months apart, but both savaged with a knife, one of them almost beheaded. North of the river, in the districts of Cheapside and Holborn, there had been similar slayings. The Holborn victim had been garrotted with a piece of rope, but had then been attacked so fiercely with a heavy blade that her body was virtually dismembered. Similar crimes had occurred in rural districts to the south. The year before, a harlot had been butchered close to Lambeth Palace; the year before that a farm-girl was taken and killed with her own pitchfork, but only after her abductor had beaten her and violated her with a stick. Most telling of all were two murders which had occurred on the same day, June 29th this very year. Two tavern-wenches had died only minutes apart, both in the shadow of St. Paul’s. One was found in a street to the rear of the church, her corpse bearing fifty frenzied stab-wounds; the second was discovered in the cellar of a lodging-house. Apparently, she had willingly gone down there with her assailant – probably for an assignation – only to be thrown to the ground, kicked unconscious, and slashed repeatedly across the throat.

  Urmston assessed this data, and took the trouble of pasting a large map to the left-hand wall in his solar. It was a detailed diagram, based on the famously accurate engraving of the city made by Braun and Hogenberg. He analysed the map for a while, then consulted his notes and with several pins, each tied with a piece of scarlet thread, plotted out specific locations. Once he had finished, he stood back – and was stunned.

  John Kingsley was summoned to the solar. Without ado, his master presented the map to him and asked what he saw there.

  Kingsley mused. “A pattern of pins, my lord.”

  “Each one,” Urmston explained, “represents the scene of a Flibbertigibbet murder.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “The tally has grown, has it not? However, that figure only refers to slayings in the general geographic vicinity of Southwark … and within the last four years. I haven’t even begun to go further afield than that.”

  “He’s been busy,” Kingsley observed.

  “We assume he’s been busy. There’s no guarantee these crimes are all the work of the same man, but the evidence would suggest they are. Keep that figure to yourself for the time being. There’s no need to spread panic.”

  “It’s almost too horrible to be true.”

  “No, John … things are often too good to be true. But nothing is ever too horrible. Tell me, does this pattern remind you of anything?”

  Kingsley looked closer. The map was basically two separate masses of complex, ink-drawn lines, heavily interwoven and straggling haphazardly along either side of the River Thames, with only the most minuscule and scrawled calligraphy to put name to detail. As far as he could see, the pins were arranged in a simple blotch, concentrated near the map’s eastern edge.

&nbs
p; “If there’s any shape at all,” he said, “a spiral, maybe?” He didn’t sound certain.

  Urmston shook his head. “Only by a stretch of the imagination. Look again.”

  Kingsley did, but the answer eluded him. “Well …”

  “Don’t you see concentric rings there? Radiating out from a central point.”

  The servant narrowed his eyes. “Well, yes … I suppose. Good Lord, of course!” All at once he saw it exactly for what it was. “It’s web-like! A spider’s web!”

  “My thoughts too. It’s entirely accidental, of course … or is it?”

  Kingsley looked bewildered again. “You don’t mean to say he’s drawing a gigantic web?”

  “Not drawing, no. In my opinion, this actually is a web … of a sort. Of a very sinister sort. Tell me, John, where in the web do you generally find the spider?”

  Kingsley indicated the very centre.

  “Exactly,” Urmston said. “This web is our murderer’s region of conquest. And I don’t doubt for one minute that he is able to dominate it the way he does because he either lives or is employed somewhere here.” Urmston also pointed to the centre.

  According to the map, one particular building occupied that spot. Kingsley leaned closer to inspect it.

  “I know that place,” he said. “It was formerly the Church of All Hallows.”

  Urmston was interested. “And now?”

  “Well … it’s a wreck, my lord. It was defaced during the early years of the reform.”

  “I see.”

  Kingsley seemed uncomfortable with the knowledge. “The truth is … it’s a rather unsettling place. No-one goes there anymore.”

  Urmston gazed hard at the map. “We must go there, John. As soon as we can.”

  *

  The Church of All Hallows, on the Southwark-Bermondsey border, was a lonely, derelict shell. Though teeming tenements hemmed it in from all sides, it was shunned by the locals, who had heard stories that ever since the place was sacked by the loutish ‘church-breakers’ of Thomas Cromwell, only ghosts walked within its unhallowed walls.

  Urmston and Kingsley entered through the south transept, leading their horses by the reins, the clip-clopping hooves echoing eerily. Once in the main body of the building, the two men paused, awe-stricken. The high, once multi-coloured windows had been smashed, and chill December light cross-shafted the cavernous nave. The venerable old building had been gutted. All its tapestries had been torn down, its altar and reliquaries pillaged. The only sign of movement was vermin: clusters of bats visible among the arched rafters; rats scurrying between the broken pews.