‘You should not have let us sleep so long,’ Sebastian responded. I could see his angry expression even in the faint light from the flame at my bedside.
‘You needed the rest,’ she retorted. ‘And you have plenty of time to prepare for Mass.’
‘You have arranged a gathering?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry … not here.’
‘Where?’
‘We have several regular meeting places in houses around this neighbourhood. We never meet in the same place consecutively. Tonight, the Mass will be held in Swan Lane. It is not far. Now, if you would like to ready yourselves, I will show you the way.’
‘Wait.’ I held her arm. ‘Are you sure it is safe?’
‘I do not know, Father. We live in dangerous times. It is not my decision to hold this Mass tonight, but your superior’s.’
‘Father Richard will be there?’
‘He will be taking the service.’
Ann had replaced the bowl of water and I splashed my face and ran a warm, wet cloth over the back of my neck. It was freezing in the room and I quickly pulled on my tunic and hose. In my bag, I found my coat and mittens. It was so cold our frosty breath billowed in front of our faces. I peered out of the window as Sebastian dressed. He was huffing and puffing in the chill. It was surprisingly light outside; the dirty lemon orb of a full moon lit up the frost on rooftops. I could see a few faint lights, and in the distance a ribbon of water, the Thames, silver in the moon’s glow. A snowflake glided by, pirouetted and dissolved on the windowsill.
We were downstairs within a few minutes. Anthony was waiting, swathed in a tattered brown wool cloak, felt hat and gloves. He giggled inanely when he saw us. ‘We look like bears,’ he exclaimed, and gave a loud roar.
We saw no one as we left the house and turned straight into a dark, cobbled lane. Ann led the way, holding Anthony’s hand. It was snowing in earnest now, settling on the cobbles and on the frozen soil. The lane opened on to a square. A couple of stallholders were still trading in the gloom. There was a bonfire in one corner. A group of people sat around the dancing flames, passing a bottle of amber liquid between them. One of them, a toothless old hag, laughed so loudly the sound carried right across the square. In the centre danced a jester in typical garb: yellow-and-red-striped hose, a tunic with bells attached to the hem, and a huge, multicoloured hat. He was juggling firebrands, the flames cutting red arcs through the snowfall.
We ducked into another lane beset with shadows. This was barely wider than a man’s shoulders and we had to walk single file. Directly overhead, the first floor of a shabby house hung over the lane, ending up so close to the house opposite, a bird would have found it difficult to fly between the two.
After a few minutes of quick walking I began to lose all sense of where I was, just as I had earlier that morning. This place was a veritable warren, I decided. The people who made Southwark their home knew many shortcuts and singular passageways. They knew how to avoid the beggars and the thieves, but to me it was an unnavigable maze. If I were to become separated from Ann, I would never find my way back to her house.
I was just beginning to despair and losing all feeling in my chilled fingers and toes when Ann and Anthony ducked into a doorway. As Sebastian and I came up behind them I heard Ann rap on the door, a subtle little dance of the knuckles, obviously a secret signal to those inside.
A young maid opened the door and led us into a room similar to the front parlour of Ann’s house. Leading the way to the back of the room, the maid pulled a metal ring hidden at one end of a shelf full of books. There was a faint click and she slid a panel aside. In the darkness beyond, I could just make out a narrow staircase that fell away downwards. The maid plucked a lit reed from an alcove inside the concealed passage and began the descent.
I was the last down and was amazed to find myself stepping into a large, rectangular basement. The walls were wood panelled, the floor left as dirt. Shallow alcoves ran the length of each of the two longer walls and in these candles burned. At the far end, I could see an altar. It was draped in a rich purple cloth and a large golden cross had been placed at the centre of the altar. Beside it I could see a gold chalice, and next to that a plate. At each end of the purple cloth, squat candles in simple gold holders offered up a creamy glow. I dropped to my knees and crossed myself, reciting the Lord’s Prayer before getting to my feet again.
A small group of people stood close to the altar. As I approached, they turned as one. At the back of the gathering stood a Catholic priest. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was wearing a bronze-coloured robe, beautifully embroidered in gold thread. On the front of the robe, a large cross of silver had been stitched into the fabric and in the centre of this was an image of Christ, eyes directed to the heavens, one finger pointing to his heart. I recognised the priest immediately. It was Father Richard Garnet, the most senior Jesuit in England, a man who had done such wonderful work for Our Lord that in Rome his name was revered above all other Englishmen’s. He stepped forward, embracing Sebastian and then me.
‘It is good to see you again, my brother,’ he whispered in my ear. Then he led us to the group by the altar.
There were some twenty worshippers. Father Garnet introduced us to them. The last was a narrow-faced man with a luxuriant head of silver-white hair. He had almond-shaped brown eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard.
‘My friends,’ Father Garnet said, addressing Sebastian and me. ‘This is our guest of honour this evening, William Byrd.’
I stared at the man, astonished. The figure before me, smiling and modest, was perhaps the most respected musician in the land. But, most incredible of all, he was a favourite of the Queen’s, her Court Composer no less. I knew he came from a Catholic family, but had always assumed he had surrendered his faith in order to serve the monarch.
I bowed. ‘I am deeply honoured, sir.’
Byrd smiled and took my arm. ‘I can understand your surprise, young man. You need have no fear of me.’
I realised this was a remarkably perceptive man, for a small part of my mind had indeed been filled with doubt the moment I heard his name. I had heard such horrible stories concerning the religious clash that had become the great dividing point of our age. Tales of brother killing brother, lovers betraying each other, and parents condemning their own children to torture in the name of their faith. In these dreadful times, it was hard to know who to trust and who to doubt.
Father Garnet led William Byrd around the altar, and six of the congregation followed them. They lined up in two rows. Byrd stood in front of them, raised his hands, and the group began to sing. With the others, I fell to my knees.
It was a beautiful sound. Immediately it transported me back to the college, my home for the past five years. I suddenly felt very homesick. But at the same time, these sounds of worship, so ingrained into my soul, lifted my spirits. The fears I harboured floated away from me as I immersed myself in the magisterial sound of the ‘Kyrie’. Then suddenly … silence. A stillness almost unnatural in its intensity. Father Richard walked to the altar and began the Penitential Rite in Latin, in direct disobedience of the ecclesiastical laws of England: ‘Fratres, agnoscamus peccata nostra, ut apti simus.’
A prayer followed, again recited in Latin, in which Father Richard beseeched the Lord to show us, His humble servants, mercy, and to give especial grace to Sebastian and myself on our perilous mission. William Byrd and the choir regained their feet and the composer led the chant of the ‘Gloria’: ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis …’
I could hear Sebastian beside me, singing as though he were back in the chapel at the Jesuit College. To my right knelt Ann, her head bowed and covered with a square of black lace. She had a sweet, almost angelic voice. Looking up, I was startled to see Anthony dressed in white server’s vestments over his rough and filthy tunic, handing Father Richard a small bowl. He seemed utterly calm, as though he suffered no abnormality of the mind. Indeed, his expression was one of utt
er serenity, his eyes bright and focused on the task.
I felt Ann press against me and realised she was getting to her feet. It was only then that I heard a discordant voice breaking through the music. The singing stopped abruptly. I turned and saw the maid who had brought us down here earlier. She was at the entrance to the underground chapel, her face ashen. ‘Pursuivants!’ she screamed. ‘The Queen’s …’
Before she could finish her sentence, the maid was propelled down into the room. She sprawled in the dirt as two men in leather tunics and metal breastplates barged down the stairs. One of them picked up the girl and shoved her aside while two more men descended into the chapel, each with their sword drawn.
I felt a shudder of terror pass through my guts. I felt, rather than saw, Sebastian jump to his feet beside me, and then came the rush of air as he ran past, straight towards the intruders. I yelled, but have no recollection what exactly I shouted. It was something automatic, from deep within my soul, a yell of pure terror. They were the last words I ever spoke to my dear friend. As he dashed forward, the man at the front of the group simply extended his sword arm and Sebastian ran on to it, the metal scything through his flesh and emerging, dripping, from his back.
I heard a woman scream and felt someone slam into my back. I almost lost my balance. Stumbling forward, I found myself at the altar. The choir had scattered. I caught a brief glimpse of William Byrd, his face white with terror. And then I felt a strong hand on my arm. I tried to turn to see who had grabbed me, but I was falling forward again.
In my memory, the next few seconds remain a blur, a tangled mesh of noise and colour, a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach as realisation dawned that I could die very soon. I felt the acrid taste of bile in my mouth, and almost gagged. I felt myself stumble again. I put my hands out and touched wood, the panelling of the basement wall. Then I was out of the room, crouching in a damp, confined space and the light from the chapel was extinguished. Only a narrow line of it reached us through the gap where the panels joined and the wood had split slightly.
‘We’re safe here,’ a voice said. It was Anthony. He was panting heavily. I turned and could just make out his sharp features in the fractured darkness. He looked petrified for a second, then grinned from ear to ear before bursting into tears.
Stepney, Wednesday 8 June, 8.25 p.m.
Pendragon paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. He smoothed back his hair, coughed unnecessarily and pushed the doorbell. Sue Latimer opened the door. She was wearing a light blue summer dress, her hair tied back, accentuating her fine cheekbones.
‘Hello. I imagine punctuality is all part of the training.’
‘Sorry. Should I have been fashionably late?’
She laughed.
He held out a bottle of red wine in one hand, a bunch of tulips in the other. She looked genuinely delighted. ‘Gorgeous. Thank you, Jack.’
Sue’s flat was so different from Pendragon’s, it was hard to believe it was in the same building. The walls were painted in warm shades, chocolate and cream and duck egg blue. The lighting was subdued. A wall of shelves held hundreds of books and CDs. The kitchen was modern and glistened with highly polished pans hanging from hooks above an expensive-looking hob. A medley of smells came from a pan. A radio in the corner of the counter was playing some piano music he half-recognised.
‘I hope you like Indian,’ she said, and handed Pendragon a glass of red wine.
He felt unusually relaxed straight away. He had never been a great mixer, and often needed time to get to know people, but Sue was so open and warm, it felt natural to let the barriers down.
‘I must say, you struck me as a bit of a mystery when I first met you,’ she said, as she stirred the curry.
‘Oh, it’s a carefully cultivated act.’
She lifted a wooden ladle and handed it to Pendragon, inviting him to taste. He took a little into his mouth and nodded his approval.
‘Well, the act was successful,’ she replied. ‘I’m intrigued.’
The music on the radio faded to silence and the host of the programme handed over to the newsdesk. Sue was reaching over to turn it off when the newsreader began: ‘The homicide investigation into the deaths of two men linked with Bridgeport Construction took a new twist this afternoon …’
‘Wait a second,’ Pendragon said, and Sue took her finger from the ‘off’ switch.
‘Sources close to the investigating team at Brick Lane Police Station have disclosed that a human skeleton, said to be several hundred years old, was unearthed at the construction site in Stepney shortly before the murder of Amal Karim early on Saturday last. The police have not released details of the find, but the skeleton disappeared the night of Karim’s murder and reappeared only this morning. It was found in a skip less than a hundred metres from the building site where it was unearthed. In an official statement from Brick Lane Police Station, Superintendent Jill Hughes told reporters that police forensic scientists were studying the bones and that details would only be made public when that investigation was complete. Turning to other …’
‘Bad news?’ Sue asked, seeing Pendragon’s frown.
He forced a smile. ‘Oh, not really. It had to come out, I suppose.’
‘Are you working on this case?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you only got here at the weekend.’
‘A cop’s life is rarely boring.’
‘Obviously! So, this skeleton,’ Sue said. ‘It’s connected to the murders?’
‘We’re not sure yet.’
‘But the report said it was discovered just before the workman was killed.’
‘That’s true, but it doesn’t necessarily mean the two things are connected. Could just be a coincidence.’
‘So do you have a suspect … a motive? Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You can’t …’
‘It’s okay … but, no, you’re right, I can’t really go into details.’
Sue topped up his glass, then her own, and led him into the living-room. They sat on the couch, Sue perched on the edge, the glass held on her knee. From the kitchen came a new piece of piano music, a lilting Chopin mazurka.
‘The thing is, though, if the discovery of the skeleton is a coincidence, that’s one thing. If it’s not, it puts a completely different complexion on the whole affair, doesn’t it?’ Her eyes sparkled as she studied Pendragon’s face.
Protocol dictated that he should not say anything more, especially about any aspects of the case that had been deliberately held back from the public, but something indefinable told him to ditch protocol this once. ‘I think you’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘I stopped thinking it was a coincidence, even before the second murder.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘When the skeleton was first found it was wearing a ring. This was missing when the bones were rediscovered in the skip this morning.’
‘You shouldn’t be telling me this.’
‘No, I shouldn’t.’
‘Well, you have your motive then, don’t you?’
‘Possibly.’ He drank some wine.
‘Was there a ritualistic aspect to the murders?’
‘No, there wasn’t. Why? What are you thinking?’
Sue stared into space for a moment. ‘The newspapers said that the first victim, the labourer … Kaalim?’
‘Karim.’
‘Yes, Karim … was beaten to death. The second murdered man was poisoned. Must be transference.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Sorry.’ She focused on Pendragon’s face again. ‘The ring must be the key. The killer places great importance upon it. There’s no obvious ritualistic aspect to it, so it’s not a cult or a religious thing. It’s personal transference, or personal ritual if you like. The murderer needs the ring to carry out the killings. Well, they needed it for the second murder anyway.’
Pendragon looked puzzled. ‘I’ve heard something about this theory before. It’s pretty rare though, right?’
Sue pursed her lips and tilted her head. ‘It wasn’t properly understood until twenty years ago, so many older crimes were explained by different motives. I did some work on criminal psychology for my PhD. I remember one particular case study that fits the transference scenario perfectly.’
Pendragon raised an eyebrow.
‘A chap called Hopper, James Hopper, a killer in the early-eighties in Devon. His wife Gina was having an affair and she deliberately let her husband know about it. She saw him as a weak, indecisive man, and had grown to despise him. She would dress up before going on a date with her lover, taunting James by showing him her stockings and fancy knickers, telling him that only her lover would get to appreciate them.’
‘I’m beginning to remember this now,’ Pendragon said. ‘He strangled her with one of the stockings, didn’t he?’
‘That was the start of it. He then went on to kill three of Gina’s closest friends who had been involved in the affair somehow – the woman who had introduced his wife to the lover, and two friends who had helped cover for Gina until she decided her husband should know about it and the whole taunting thing started.’
‘And the stockings were used each time?’
‘Yes, James Hopper had given those stockings a special significance. For him, they were all-important, the focus of his rage.’
‘Yes, I can see …’ Pendragon began, when his mobile rang. He recognised the number. ‘Turner? … Yes, yes. All right. I’ll be there in five minutes.’ He closed the phone.
‘Duty calls?’
Pendragon sighed heavily. ‘Yes. I’m really sorry.’
The first things he noticed were the crucifixes. But then, it would have been hard to miss them, they were everywhere. A line of them ran along the narrow hallway of the Ketteridges’ flat, and a small side table contained three more grouped together in a Holy Trinity. He passed a small, cluttered lounge where a middle-aged woman in a pink winceyette dressing gown was being consoled by Sergeant Mackleby. A line of crosses stood on the mantelpiece, with one large crucifix, blood and all, hanging on the wall above.
Jack Pendragon - 02 - Borgia Ring Page 15
