by Paul Doherty
A PILGRIMAGE
TO MURDER
Paul Doherty
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty
Dedication
Historical Note
PART ONE: Azrael: the Four-faced, Four-winged Angel of the Abyss
PART TWO: The Master of the Secret
PART THREE: The Sooty Stink of Satan
PART FOUR: Venenum: a Hideous Poison
PART FIVE: The Matins of Midnight
PART SIX: If Only We Could Trap Him: Death is Dead
PART SEVEN: For the Love of Gold is the Root of all Evil
PART EIGHT: A Hymn to the Night and the Gathering Dark
Author’s Note
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2016
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2016 by Paul Doherty.
The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-7802-9096-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-575-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-840-7 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
A Selection of Titles from Paul Doherty
The Brother Athelstan Mysteries
THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY
THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER
MURDER MOST HOLY
THE ANGER OF GOD
BY MURDER’S BRIGHT LIGHT
THE HOUSE OF CROWS
THE ASSASSIN’S RIDDLE
THE DEVIL’S DOMAIN
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS
BLOODSTONE *
THE STRAW MEN *
CANDLE FLAME *
THE BOOK OF FIRES *
THE HERALD OF HELL *
THE GREAT REVOLT *
A PILGRIMAGE TO MURDER *
The Canterbury Tales Mysteries
AN ANCIENT EVIL
A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS
A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS
GHOSTLY MURDERS
THE HANGMAN’S HYMN
A HAUNT OF MURDER
THE MIDNIGHT MAN *
* available from Severn House
To Emma and Kelly, beloved daughters of our very good friends Marc and Christine Freeman
Kindest regards and best wishes,
Paul Doherty
Historical Note
By the late summer of 1381 the Great Revolt was over. The peasant armies which had occupied London had fled back into the surrounding shires. The Day of the Great Slaughter had dawned and the lords were determined to impose retribution on their rebellious tenants. London had quickly recovered, the powerful merchants eager to make up for what they had lost during the days of blood. Old rivalries, both in the city and the court, begun to surface once again. Murder, in all its forms, made its presence felt, even on holy pilgrimage to Canterbury …
PART ONE
Azrael: the Four-faced, Four-winged Angel of the Abyss
‘Strangulation!’
Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, moved his ave beads from one hand to the other.
‘Strangulation,’ he repeated, ‘is mentioned in the Book of Tobit, where it describes how the Archangel Raphael chased a demon to Alexandria and strangled it there.’ He crouched down beside the corpse of John Finchley, a minor clerk who used to work in the great, grey bulk of Newgate prison. A handsome young man in life, even pretty featured, Finchley had been transformed into a hideously gruesome spectacle by the wire-like garrotte string wrapped tightly around his throat. The clerk’s face was almost blue-black, eyes popping, his stained, swollen tongue thrust between yellowing teeth and thickening lips. The shock of death had loosened both bowel and bladder and the stench was noisome. Athelstan tried to ignore this as he whispered the ‘I confess’ on behalf of the dead man before delivering swift absolution. The church taught that in many deaths the soul could linger for some considerable time close to the corpse, its lifetime place. Not all souls moved directly into the light, so the souls of the dead could still be absolved of sin.
‘And the young woman?’ Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, tapped Athelstan gently on the shoulder and pointed to Felicia Kempton who, caught swiftly and savagely by death, lay in the corner of the room as if gently placed there after the assassin had finished with the garrotte string around her once smooth, unwrinkled throat. Athelstan moved across, swiftly administered the last rites then stood up.
Cranston had remained just within the doorway, his beaver hat off, and his plump, cheery white face, even the thick white hair, moustache and beard, seemed to bristle with good humour. Cranston’s ever-dancing light-blue eyes were full of merriment. Swathed in his usual bottle-green cloak under which he concealed the ever-full, miraculous wineskin, the coroner exuded Pax et Bonum to the world and its wife. Athelstan knew the reason why. The Great Revolt had been crushed, the King’s peace ruthlessly enforced, and Sir John Cranston, or ‘Merry Jack’ as he referred to himself, was about to be reunited with his buxom wife the Lady Maude, his twin sons the Poppets, Francis and Stephen, not to mention his wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, and all the other members of the Cranston household. Some months earlier Cranston had removed his nearest and dearest from the city and placed them in the green fastness of the countryside behind the high curtain wall of a fortified manor where they were instructed to remain until the great tumult in the city was resolved.
‘Time passes, time changes,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but murder never rests.’ The friar gestured around the small solar of Simon Mephan’s narrow house in Milk Street, not far from the bustling markets of Cheapside. ‘Murder does not reckon time,’ he continued, ‘or wait for this or that. The Great Revolt may be crushed but the nightmare phantoms and the mocking ghosts will not leave us in peace …’
Athelstan paused as Cranston’s burly bailiff Flaxwith, along with his constant companion Samson, whom Cranston secretly called ‘the ugliest mastiff in the kingdom’, a judgement which in all truth Athelstan could no
t contradict, came clattering down the stairs. Flaxwith hurriedly whispered in Cranston’s ear.
‘Yes, yes,’ the coroner agreed. ‘Brother, shall we bring Mephan’s corpse down?’
‘No, I need to view it as it is.’ Athelstan and Cranston followed Flaxwith back up the narrow stairs and into the bedchamber which stood to the right of the stairwell. Simon Mephan, an elderly man, sat slumped over his chancery desk.
‘He is dead as a nail,’ announced the dark-featured physician. Cranston closed the bedchamber door behind him, and the physician, Limut, wiped his hands on a napkin and threw it on the desk. ‘I have examined Simon most carefully.’ Athelstan caught the slight accent of another tongue and wondered if Limut was French or Spanish. ‘Indeed,’ the man continued, ‘I know Master Simon very well. I am his family’s physician, as I am for other notable households in Farringdon ward. I have, like the good Lord, scrutinised his bowels and his heart.’ The physician smiled slightly at his own joke. ‘The very humours of the man.’
‘In which case, Master Physician, what is the cause of death?’ Athelstan enquired. ‘How was he murdered?’
The physician, lips all pursed, wrinkled his nose and studied the little Dominican from head to toe, as if memorising every detail of this friar: dark-eyed, his olive-skinned face cleanly shaved; the black and white robe he wore rather shabby, and bound by a piece of frayed cord; scuffed but stout, thick-soled sandals on his bare feet. The Dominican held Limut’s gaze, his full lips slightly parted as if on the verge of a smile, large eyes unblinking in their stare. Athelstan was vigorously threading a set of ave beads through his surprisingly long fingers, but he paused at the sudden booming of a bell.
‘The hanging bell,’ Cranston declared. ‘They are taking the condemned from Newgate to the gallows over Tyburn stream.’
‘And someone else,’ Athelstan murmured, still holding the physician’s gaze, ‘will be making that same journey for the nightmare here. Now, my friend,’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile as he pointed at the dead man slumped in his chair, ‘is that murder?’
‘Yes and no,’ the physician replied. ‘The young man and woman downstairs were garrotted, and expertly so.’ He paused as Cranston made sure the door behind him was shut and went over to sit on the bed.
‘Look.’ The physician walked around the desk and tilted Mephan’s head back so Athelstan and Cranston could more clearly see the half-open mouth, the glassy-eyed dead stare and the highly discoloured facial skin, especially around the mouth and jaw. ‘To put it succinctly,’ Limut explained, ‘Simon Mephan died of heart failure. His heart just gave way which,’ he let his hand drop, ‘is perfectly understandable. Master Mephan’s heart was not strong; he was becoming more frail and weak by the month. The shock of what happened downstairs …’ The physician shrugged and pulled a face.
‘Yes, just what did happen downstairs? Sir John, Master Limut, bear with me.’ Athelstan crossed to the door and turned. ‘Master Physician, might I know your first name?’
‘Giole.’ The physician smiled. ‘It’s Spanish. I am from Castile.’ Athelstan stared at the physician, a neat, precise man, clean-shaven, his black hair combed back and clasped in a tail behind his head. Giole sported a silver ring in one earlobe, and jewels glistened on his wrist and fingers. He was dressed soberly, though Athelstan suspected the dark robes were of pure wool and the supple boots of the finest Cordovan leather. Limut smiled at Athelstan’s close scrutiny. ‘Brother?’
Athelstan raised a hand. ‘I am sorry, Giole, but looking at you, I see a reflection of myself.’ He walked over, hand outstretched, and the physician clasped it warmly.
‘Yes, Brother, there is a likeness, I agree. You must meet my wife Beatrice, my son Felipe and daughter Maria. I am sure they will agree there is a likeness between us.’
‘There certainly is!’ Cranston chortled from where he sat on the bed cradling the miraculous wineskin. He unstoppered it, took a generous mouthful and encouraged the physician to do likewise.
Athelstan refused, beckoning both men to follow him. They went downstairs and into the solar guarded by Flaxwith, Samson and one of the other bailiffs. Athelstan walked into the chamber and stared around. Everything seemed to be in place, no disturbance or disarray. Cups, flagons and goblets, all polished and clean, stood on a small, gleaming table. The white rope matting on the floor was in place and Athelstan could detect no recent stains. The lock on the money box or tally casket, however, had been smashed, its concave lid thrown back. This was the only other sign that hideous violence had taken place – that and the two corpses sprawled gruesome and grisly in their agonising death throes. Athelstan pinched his nose at the foul smell.
‘Have the corpses moved as soon as possible. Well, Sir John, Master Giole, how did this occur? What do we know?’
‘From what I understand,’ Cranston replied, ‘a neighbour leaving for the Jesus mass at St Mary Le Bow noticed the lanternhorn outside had not been lit and the front door was off the latch. An honest, God-fearing woman, I know her well. She came in and saw this horror, then she raised the alarm. The hue and cry were proclaimed and the sheriff’s men summoned, then they sent messages to me and for Master Giole.’
‘I arrived with my son Felipe,’ the physician explained, ‘and we met Sir John, who said he had sent for you, Athelstan.’
‘Every man’s death is significant, Sir John, but why were you summoned?’
‘Mephan is – was – a senior clerk in the Secret Chancery of my Lord of Gaunt. He worked for Thibault, Gaunt’s Master of Secrets, whom we know so well. Now the revolt maybe crushed,’ Cranston shook his head, ‘but, following any fierce fire, embers still glow. In a word, the sheriff’s men wondered, as I do, if this was the work of the Reapers.’
‘Who?’ Limut demanded.
‘The Reapers,’ Cranston repeated. ‘Really, the Upright Men wearing a different hood and carrying a different banner. The Great Revolt is over. The Community of the Realm has been shattered and the Upright Men, its principal adherents, are dead, fleeing for their lives or imprisoned. The same goes for their street warriors the Earthworms. They are like ears of corn, shattered, crushed and dispersed to the four winds. The Reapers are the remnant, a so-called secret society composed of Upright Men and a few captains of the Earthworms.’
‘Ah yes, I have heard of them,’ said Athelstan. ‘They write out proclamations and nail them to the doors of churches, full of threats and menaces.’
‘True,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Their proclamations have even been pinned to the doors of the Guildhall. The Upright Men are no longer interested in bringing about God’s commonwealth or transforming London into the Holy City of the Apocalypse. They simply want revenge on all those who have crushed their dreams, defeated their levies and hanged and disembowelled their comrades. Mephan could be their victim. After all, he is in the retinue of Thibault, the regent’s henchman and dark-souled companion. Consequently, if the Reapers do exist, perhaps they marked Mephan down for death whilst the other two were simply killed to silence them. And yet …’
‘And yet what, Sir John?’
‘Nothing for the moment, little monk.’
‘Little friar, Sir John!’
‘God be with you all,’ Cranston retorted. ‘But Athelstan, tell us why you have brought us down here.’
‘Well,’ said Athelstan. ‘The front door was off its latch, not broken or damaged, true?’ Cranston agreed. ‘And no disturbance was heard?’
‘None, little friar,’ Cranston replied. ‘Flaxwith has already made enquiries. Nobody heard or saw anything out of the ordinary.’
‘What was the situation here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean the household?’
‘According to the local gossip, Felicia was the maid and John Finchley was Mephan’s lodger, but he also acted as his private clerk or scribe. Others claim both were homosexual, that Simon loved young men. Isn’t that true, physician?’
Limut pulled a face and spread his hands. ‘Sir John, I know very littl
e about my patient’s private life, and what I do know is of little interest to others.’
Cranston continued blithely, ‘Finchley was dedicated to his master, I understand. Both he and Felicia lived here. Now, before I despatched Tiptoft to fetch you, I had a good look around, but I could find nothing in this narrow, rather plain house to explain these murders, how they occurred or why.’
‘Quite so.’ Athelstan crouched down beside the dead clerk. ‘Here lies a young man, and there sprawls the corpse of a young woman. Both of them vigorous and strong, both garrotted. Their assassin used a piece of fine twine which he left around their necks. He probably carries such deadly strings in a purse on his belt. Now I believe that the assassin was known to his victims. He rapped on the door and was welcomed in.’ Athelstan stood up. ‘And that’s when mystery descends like a mist. Look, Sir John, Master Giole. Two young people garrotted. Did they struggle or kick out? Upset furniture? Try and escape? Scream, shout?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘There is not a shred of evidence that they did so.’
‘Could they have been drugged?’ Cranston queried. ‘We have seen that happen before.’
‘I smelt no wine on their breath,’ the physician declared. ‘Nor have I seen any used goblet, cup or jug of wine. Perhaps there might be something in the kitchen or, more probably, the garden – we should go there.’
‘The assassin must have arrived before nightfall, before darkness descended. Look.’ Athelstan picked up a candelabra; each of the spigots held a primed candle. ‘These haven’t even been lit.’ He returned to the two victims and examined their fingers and wrists and scrutinised their clothing. ‘It’s true,’ he sighed, ‘no sign of resistance or struggle on either of them or around them. The breaking of that tally coffer is the only noticeable damage, or theft, to their property. Well, as far as we can establish.’
