The White Rose murders srs-1

by Paul Doherty

  'Master Constable,' Queen Margaret snapped when her household had recounted their movements, 'My retainers can give a good account of themselves.'

  'As can mine!' Farringdon snarled back.

  Carey spoke up, his voice squeaking in protest: 'But how can a man be murdered while locked and guarded in a cell? The assassin must have got in to administer the poison as well as leave the white rose!'

  'And if,' Moodie commented, 'the murderer did get in, why didn't Selkirk object or cry out?'

  'Perhaps he knew him,' Agrippa replied in dry, clipped tones.

  'Master Constable,' Catesby asked, 'you are sure of the guards?'

  'As I am that I am sitting here,' Farringdon replied. 'They are mercenaries, seeing Selkirk as merely another prisoner. One guard could be bought but not all four. They watch each other. Moreover, both I and my lieutenant did our rounds last night and found them all at their posts. If there was anything amiss,' he concluded, 'all four would swing from a gibbet and they know it.'

  Queen Margaret nodded and smiled sourly. She stared coolly at Benjamin as did the rest. Oh, I knew what they were thinking! He was the last person to talk to Selkirk and the old principle in law still stands: the man who saw the victim last must, prima facie, be chief suspect. But Benjamin also knew the law.

  'Who discovered the corpse?' he loudly asked.

  Catesby pointed at Farringdon.

  'One of the guards opened the door and saw Selkirk lying there. He sent for me, and I sent for Catesby.'

  'I and the Queen,' Sir Robert murmured, 'had come back to the Tower in the early hours. I was in my chamber talking to Melford. Both of us went across.' He shrugged. 'You know the rest.'

  'My Lord Cardinal must be informed,' Queen Margaret interrupted. 'Melford, take a message now.' She rose. 'The rest of you are dismissed, though none – I repeat, none – must leave the Tower!'

  Benjamin and I walked back across the eerie, mist-laden Tower Green. My master was white-faced and withdrawn, conscious of the unspoken accusations levelled against him. I must admit, God forgive me, there was a doubt niggling in my own mind.

  'What are you thinking, Roger?'

  Benjamin had stopped and turned to me, pulling the hood of his cloak closer about him.

  'Nothing,' I lied. 'Well…'

  'Speak!'

  'Why was Selkirk murdered now? I mean, he has been in the Tower for weeks. Why did the bearer of the white rose only strike within days of our arrival here?'

  'Go on, Roger.'

  'Well,' I stammered, 'it makes you look like the assassin.'

  'You mean, I was brought here for that purpose?'

  'Either that,' I replied slowly, 'or else you discovered something from Selkirk which meant he had to be killed.'

  'True!' Benjamin peered through the mist around us. We stood and listened to the muffled sounds of sentries on the ramparts above us, the neighing of horses from the stables and the rattling of cart wheels across the cobbles.

  'What I know, Queen Margaret and her household know also. Yet what is it except a few mumbled phrases?' He stared at me, his mind elsewhere. 'Selkirk said the walls had ears. He also giggled and claimed they had secrets. They have removed his body. Come, Roger!'

  We went back to Selkirk's deserted chamber in Broad Arrow Tower which had now been stripped of everything except for a few sticks of furniture. The corpse had already been sheeted and moved to the death house near the Tower Chapel.

  [Looking back, I wonder if Selkirk's ghost now joins those regularly seen making their spectral way round the fortress. My chaplain shakes his head. 'There's no such thing as ghosts,' he murmurs. Now isn't that little know-all going to be in for a shock?]

  Anyway, back in Selkirk's chamber, Benjamin began to study the walls carefully. Now and again he would find a place where the mortar had been chipped away. We poked and probed each of the crevices but found nothing except a trickle of sand or a few pebbles. I remembered how tall the dead man had been and, at my insistence, we both climbed on the desk and began to examine the holes and gaps high in the wall. After an hour we were successful. We found a gap between the bricks and Benjamin drew out a small, yellowing, twisted piece of parchment. We jumped down and, like two schoolboys who had found some treasure, hurried back to our own chamber. Decades later I still recall the lines of that doggerel verse which contained so many secrets and was responsible for such bloody murder.

  Three less than twelve should it be,

  Or the King, no prince engendered he.

  The lamb did rest In the falcon's nest,

  The Lion cried, Even though it died.

  The truth Now Stands, In the Sacred Hands,

  Of the place which owns Dionysius' bones.

  'Hell's teeth, Master!' I whispered. 'What does it mean?'

  'The first two lines,' Benjamin replied, 'are what Selkirk was always chanting. Perhaps it's a cipher? Each word standing for something else?'

  'At least,' I replied bitterly, 'we have something to show the Cardinal when he sends for us!'

  Chapter 3

  My words were prophetic. The next morning was clear and bright. A strong sun was burning off the river mist as Melford swaggered into our chamber and announced, 'The Lord Cardinal wishes to see you both. He has also ordered that on the way I should show you something.'

  Do you know, I sensed what was coming as we grabbed ' our cloaks and followed Melford out of the Tower. My worst fears were confirmed when, instead of taking a barge, Melford, striding ahead of us, took us up Aldgate and into the stinking city streets. Benjamin sidled closer.

  'What do you think is going to happen, Roger? Where is Melford taking us? Is my uncle the Lord Cardinal angry? I am no assassin.'

  'Oh, I am sure there is nothing to worry about,' I lied. 'Melford is going to show us the marvels of the city, perhaps buy us a pastry and a pie from the cookshops. Maybe a visit to a bear garden or a drink in some snug tavern.'

  My master smiled, the cloud lifting from his open face. I glanced away in desperation. (He was, in some ways, such an innocent!) We walked on past St Mildred's Church, Scalding Alley and the Poultry Compter. I pointed out the mansion near the Walbrook which Sir Thomas More had recently bought, and the houses of other court dignitaries. I had to chatter to still my nerves. We went through Cheapside where the rickety stalls of the poor traders housed loud-mouthed apprentices who offered us garish threads, fustian hats, trinkets, gee-gaws and other baubles.

  My master, essentially a country boy, stopped at one stall but Melford spun on his heel and came back, his hand on his dagger. Benjamin, recognising the anger in his eyes, hastily dropped the object he was inspecting and followed on.

  At last we came to Newgate Prison, the huge, ugly gaol built on the old city wall – a ghastly sight, made no pleasanter by the smells and smoke from the neighbouring butchers' shambles, whilst the gully in the centre of the street was choked with rubbish. The odour was so foul, Melford took a pomander from his wallet and held it to his nose. A great crowd had assembled, all eyes fixed on the ironbound gates of the prison. A trumpet sounded, its shrill blasts quieting the crowd before the gates opened to a great roar from the throng. Even the costermongers, wheeling their carts laden with baskets of bread, cooked meats and fruit, stopped plying their trade and looked up.

  I saw a horse, three black plumes dancing between its ears. A tambour sounded, every beat silencing the clamour around us. The crowd shifted as Melford pushed forward. We saw the drummer walking before the horse which pulled a cart surrounded by guards, halberds half-lowered. The driver was clad in black leather from head to foot, his face covered by a lace-trimmed, orange mask with slits for the eyes and mouth. The cart itself was huge and decorated with the symbols of death. In it stood a man, his red hair shimmering in the sun. Beside him a priest muttered the prayers for the dying. Oh, I remembered my trial in Ipswich and knew the terror that was coming.

  I peered between the slats of the cart and glimpsed the cheap pine-wood coffin. My
master's face grew dullish pale. I thought he was going to faint or even run away but Melford was now standing between us, forcing us to follow the death cart. We did so, like mourners, as the procession slowly snaked down to the Elms at Smithfield, stopping only at the Angel for the usual bowl of ale for the condemned prisoner.

  He looked as if he needed it; his face was one purple mask of bruises. He could hardly stand: there were angry welts across his bare shoulder and one arm hung awkwardly in its socket. At last, the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold raised high on a platform next to a butcher's block in which a huge meat cleaver had been embedded. Another executioner, dressed in a dirty apron, hobbled on one lame leg across the platform and placed the noose round the prisoner's neck. The orange-masked driver whipped up the horse and pulled away, leaving the poor man to dance in the air. Suddenly white roses were thrown from the crowd and an urchin sprang on to the traitor's kicking legs. The boy pulled him down so quickly that, even from where I stood, I heard the click of his neck breaking. The urchin jumped down and scampered off.

  Benjamin turned away and vomited, raising a catcall of abuse from some old crones who had gathered there to watch the fun: they were disappointed that the additional punishments of decapitation, castration and disembowelling were now no longer necessary. Melford, his own disappointment also apparent, turned and, with a snap of his fingers and a sharp curt order, indicated we should follow on.

  'This was a warning, was it not?' Benjamin whispered, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  I praised him for his perspicacity. However, let me assure you, my master was no fool, just an innocent in the wicked ways of the world. I freely admit to my own terror. I felt faint with the heat, the crowd and the sight of that ghastly, twitching body.

  We arrived at Westminster. Melford kept showing Wolsey's warrant to various officials until a steward, wearing the Cardinal's livery – three tasselled hats against a scarlet background – led us upstairs to the royal apartments. We encountered more guards and more questions until a great iron-studded door was thrown open and we entered an antechamber which reeked of wealth: great carved chairs and desks, finely wrought tables with spindly legs and tops cleverly covered with silver and topaz. My fingers itched to caress these valuables but Benjamin and I were ushered on into the Cardinal's presence. He was sitting in his throne-like chair, swathed in his scarlet robes. The light danced on the huge pectoral cross hanging from a chain round his neck and shimmered in the sparkling diamonds which covered his fingers.

  Clerks scurried to and fro, bearing piles of documents. There was a smell of fresh wax and resin for the Lord Cardinal was sealing warrants which decreed life, wealth, freedom, prison, exile, as well as bloody death at Tower Hill, or Smithfield Common. Wolsey glanced up and stared at us, his small eyes hard as flint, and I knew what the psalmist meant when he described fear turning his bowels to water. On that occasion, mine nearly did and I quietly thanked God I was wearing thick, brown pantaloons for I did not wish to disgrace myself. The Cardinal picked up a silver bell from the desk beside him and rang it gently. A tocsin itself could not have wrought such an effect: all the clerks stopped their business and the room fell silent. Wolsey muttered a few words and his servants vanished as swiftly as peasants before the tax collectors.

  After they had gone, the chamber remained silent except for the buzzing of angry flies and my Lord Cardinal's favourite greyhound busy crapping in a corner under a red and gold arras. Benjamin doffed his cap and swept his uncle a most courtly bow. I followed suit. The Cardinal studied us morosely as his greyhound went to gobble the remains of a meal from a silver dish.

  'Benjamin, Benjamin, my dear nephew.'

  Melford sidled up, whispered in the Cardinal's ear, grinned sourly at us and quietly left. As he did so, Doctor Agrippa and Sir Robert Catesby slipped into the room and sat on either side of the Cardinal. Once again the bell was tinkled: a servant entered bearing a jewel-encrusted tray. It bore five Venetian glasses, tall and thin-stemmed with bands of precious silver round the rims.

  He placed these on a table next to Wolsey and left. The Cardinal himself solicitously served us the chilled wine from Alsace, giving us each a tray of sweetmeats. He returned to his chair, his perfumed, scarlet robes billowing around him as he ordered us to eat. I was only too pleased to do so, gulping noisily from the glass and gorging myself on the thin doucettes. Once I had finished, not caring whether Wolsey was staring at me, I also ate my master's for Benjamin had lost his appetite. (I might be a little timid but I do not like being threatened and I was determined to hide my terrors from the likes of Wolsey.) The Lord Cardinal sipped from his own glass, quietly humming the tune of some hymn.

  'You saw Compton die?' he suddenly asked.

  Benjamin nodded. 'It was not necessary, Uncle.'

  'I will deem what is necessary and what is not,' the Cardinal snapped. 'Compton was a traitor.' Wolsey leaned back in his chair, wetting his lips. 'There is a link between his death and that of Selkirk.'

  'What was his crime?' Benjamin asked.

  'Compton, a member of Les Blancs Sangliers, bought a poisonous ointment from a sorcerer. He smeared the walls of a royal chamber with it, hoping to kill the King. He was trapped, questioned, but revealed nothing. Very much,' Wolsey angrily concluded, 'like your meetings with Selkirk. You discovered nothing and now we are faced with a conundrum: how can a man locked in a chamber be murdered, and we find not a trace of the potion or how the poisoner entered or left?' The Cardinal twisted in his chair. 'As Doctor Agrippa relates, the poisoner must have been there to leave the white rose. I believe, at Compton's execution, you saw some bastard throw such roses towards the scaffold?'

  'Perhaps it was the same person,' I blurted out.

  'Shut up, you idiot!' rasped Wolsey.

  'Was Compton questioned by the King's torturers?' Benjamin asked.

  'Of course.'

  'And, dear Uncle, did you learn anything?' 'No, we did not.'

  'Then, dearest Uncle, I think it is wrong to tax me with my lack of success with Selkirk. After all, I had no more than ten days.' Benjamin let his words sink in.

  I stared at Doctor Agrippa, who was smiling to himself whilst Catesby looked moodily away. Benjamin deftly plucked the piece of parchment from beneath his doublet.

  'Before you criticise us further, I did find something. Selkirk hid this in the wall of his prison cell.'

  Wolsey almost snatched the document from Benjamin's hand. He did not even let Catesby or Agrippa look at it as he murmured the words aloud, and then peered closely at Benjamin.

  Three less than twelve should it be,

  Or the King, no prince engendered he.

  The lamb did rest

  In the falcon's nest,

  The Lion cried,

  Even though it died.

  The truth Now Stands,

  In the Sacred Hands,

  Of the place which owns

  Dionysius' bones.

  'What does it mean?' he asked, handing the parchment to Doctor Agrippa, who read it and passed it to Catesby.

  'God knows, Uncle,' Benjamin replied. 'But I believe the secrets Selkirk held are hidden in those lines.'

  Wolsey picked up the silver bell and tinkled it. His master clerk came scurrying back into the room. The Cardinal took the parchment from Catesby and tossed it to his servant.

  'Copy that, four or five times. Make sure there are no mistakes and have a cipher clerk study it carefully to see if it contains a coded message.'

  The man bowed and scurried out. Wolsey glanced sideways at Doctor Agrippa and Catesby.

  ‘Gentlemen, do the words mean anything to you?'

  Agrippa shook his head, his eyes on Benjamin, and I caught a gleam of appreciation as if the doctor had realised that my master and myself were not the fools he had thought. Catesby seemed dumbstruck and just shook his head. The Cardinal leaned forward, beaming in satisfaction at his beloved nephew.

  'Master Benjamin, you have do
ne well – but now there's more.'

  Oh, Lord, I thought. I did not like being near the Great Ones of the land. I also wondered what would have happened if Benjamin had not discovered Selkirk's secret manuscript. The Cardinal edged forward on the seat of his chair like a conspirator.

  'In a few days' time, on the Feast of St Luke, Queen Margaret will leave the Tower and journey north to Royston, a royal manor outside Leicester. She will stay there until she treats with envoys from Scotland who are coming south to discuss her return to Edinburgh. You will meet these emissaries on Queen Margaret's behalf and listen to what they offer.' Wolsey stared at his nephew. 'And there is more. Selkirk was killed by someone in the Tower. One or more of Queen Margaret's household may be members of Les Blancs Sangliers. You are to discover who these are. How and why they murdered Selkirk. And, above all, what are the mysteries concealed in Selkirk's doggerel poem?'

  'Any member of the Queen's household could be a secret Yorkist,' Doctor Agrippa spoke up. 'Remember, even old Surrey who defeated James at Flodden once fought for Richard III. Indeed, they could have joined the Queen's household and gone to Scotland in order to plot fresh mischief.'

  'Then let's entice them out!' Wolsey remarked. 'Announce that you have found Selkirk's poem, seize your opportunity to read it to the whole company, and see what happens.'

  I remembered the strange look on Ruthven's face and agreed with Wolsey's advice, although I was more concerned for my own skin. Old Shallot's motto is, has, and always will be, 'Look after yourself and all will be well.'

  'There's more,' Catesby intervened. 'One of the Lord Cardinal's most trusted agents in Scotland, a Master John Irvine, is coming south. He brings important information, so precious he will not even commit it to letter. Now, near Royston Manor is Coldstream Priory. I have instructed Irvine to meet you there on the Monday following the Feast of St Leo the Great. Irvine will reveal his secrets. You will tell no one what he says but report directly to His Eminence the Cardinal.'