A Pilgrimage to Murder

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Indeed, very clever,’ Cranston commented. ‘I suspect the assassin took coins but nothing which could be traced back.’

  Athelstan, who’d glimpsed rings and bracelets on the dead Felicia, murmured his agreement. He rose, left the solar and went down a stone-paved passageway smelling of rosemary and thyme, which led into the kitchen with its adjoining buttery. The kitchen was clean: the fleshing table had been well scrubbed, and the small ovens either side of the mantled hearth had been swept as was the hearth itself. Herb pots had been filled with crushed plants and a vase on a ledge sported a few roses, whilst the horn-filled windows had been scrubbed clean of flies and other insects. Fire irons on the hearth were dust-free, polished and neatly arranged.

  ‘A clean, tidy house.’ Athelstan spoke over his shoulder to Cranston and the physician who had followed him in. Athelstan walked into the buttery: on its table was a leg of cured mustard-glazed ham, a pipe of Spanish wine, a platter of manchet bread rolls, a dish of spiced sauce and a bowl of chopped vegetables next to a tray with three goblets and a jug of white wine, all covered by a fine linen cloth. ‘They were preparing for their evening meal,’ Athelstan murmured to himself.

  ‘And given the weather, eating it outside,’ the physician declared.

  ‘We should go out there,’ Athelstan suggested.

  He walked across the scrubbed kitchen floor and out through the door leading to a fairly large garden: a perfect square bounded by the house, the other three sides being lined with bushes and trees, probably preserved from when that part of London was still farmland. The garden, like the rest of the house, was neat and orderly. The grassy plots and hedgerows were clipped, the customary three partitions into kitchen garden, flower bed and herb plot all clearly set out. The garden also boasted a small carp pond fringed with lilies and luxurious reeds as well as two garden bowers with flowers growing over the outside and comfortable turf seats within. Leaving Cranston and the physician chatting in the doorway, Athelstan walked across and stared down at the golden carp darting in ripples through the water.

  ‘Athelstan! Athelstan!’

  His name was called in a hoarse whisper. The friar started as the corpse of a magpie, a garrotte string wrapped around its throat, was tossed onto the paving before him.

  ‘Be ye warned, Athelstan, be ye warned. Now and in the future.’

  The friar shaded his eyes against the dazzle of the strengthening sun which cut through the foliage and bushes in sharp shafts of light, then he glimpsed it, a shadow darker than those thrown by the trees though using them to stay concealed. The sinister figure moved a little closer, becoming distinct enough for Athelstan to make out a black cloak, a cowl and a face mask as well as a small arbalest, primed and ready, its barbed bolt winched back.

  ‘Sir John!’ Athelstan yelled. He heard the click of the crossbow and the bolt whirled through the air to shatter against the wall of the house. Cranston shouted and lunged forward, the physician with him. Athelstan glanced back. He heard a crackling in the fringe of trees and realised his sinister visitor must have scaled the curtain wall and fled. Athelstan crouched down and picked up the feathery, soiled corpse of the magpie and showed it to Cranston. After he had briefly explained what he had seen and heard, he placed the magpie down on the grass, walked to the fringe of trees and then came back.

  ‘Brother, if what you describe appeared last night to Mephan and his two companions, it would have caused consternation and panic.’

  ‘I agree, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The hue and cry would have been raised to shouts of “Harrow! Harrow!” I don’t think Mephan’s assassin appeared like that. So why return to bait us dressed so threateningly, acting so menacingly? Unless, of course, we are wrong and he did the same yesterday evening just before dark. Did he invade this garden then swiftly and silently strike at Finchley and Felicia? Was he interrupted by Simon Mephan who fled upstairs? The attack and Mephan’s flight were all too much for the old clerk and, in sudden terror, his heart gave way. All this is logical and possible, except for the reappearance of the assassin this morning in such circumstances.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the assassin?’ Physician Limut demanded.

  ‘It must be,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The magpie, the garrotte string, the threat.’ He picked up the magpie’s corpse and studied it carefully. ‘It was well tended, a young bird, perhaps easy to catch or trap in a lure or a snare, but why?’ He recalled the warning, the crossbow bolt smashing against the wall, then he began to laugh.

  ‘What is it, Brother?’

  ‘The magpie.’ Athelstan placed the corpse back on the grass. ‘Notice its colouring, black and white, the same hue as a Dominican. Moreover, our order has been likened to a flock of magpies by the preachers who accuse us, in some cases most deservedly, of being magpies in human flesh with an eye for gold and all that glitters, whilst our work as members of the Holy Inquisition has also been compared to the depredations of marauding magpies.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘But why warn me in such a way, eh? I have no wealth, and I certainly don’t work for the Inquisition.’

  ‘If it was the assassin,’ the physician repeated.

  ‘It must have been.’ Cranston picked up the magpie’s corpse and threw it into the bushes.

  ‘I think it’s time we revisited Mephan’s bedchamber,’ Athelstan declared and led the way up the steep stairs. Observing that the door to Mephan’s chamber had neither bolt nor lock, Athelstan believed that one of his conclusions was correct: Mephan had been truly terrified. Had he come down and seen the corpses or been there when one of them died, a swift but hideous death, the last thing Mephan expected to witness in his neat and orderly house? Athelstan paused and joined his hands together.

  ‘I do wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘about that apparition in the garden just now. He must have been waiting for me. He must have expected me to go into the garden.’

  ‘Well, that’s fairly logical, Brother,’ the coroner declared. ‘Three hideous murders have occurred here. We are bound to make a sweep of the house and its garden. Perhaps it’s just a matter of waiting. But why have you brought us up here again?’

  ‘Well,’ Athelstan replied, ‘imagine that the assassin has entered the house. Yes? Mephan is busy in his bedchamber. Perhaps he hears a sound or a shout. He comes down those stairs and sees something which terrifies the life out of him. He turns and hastens back up the stairs in deep fear of his life. He does not feel well, the beginnings of a seizure. An old man and sickly, the flight up the stairs proves to be too much,’ Athelstan waved his hand, ‘and, God rest him, the poor man collapses and dies. What I can’t understand is why he fled up steep steps into a bedchamber with no lock or bolt on the door. Why didn’t he try and flee through the main door leading onto the street?’

  ‘Perhaps it was locked and bolted,’ Physician Giole declared. ‘Perhaps the key had been removed by the assassin.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the friar replied. ‘But I still think it is puzzling.’ He walked around the bedchamber, then knelt beside the muniment chest near the chancery desk and lifted the lid.

  ‘All gone,’ Cranston sang out. ‘We had a visitor very early on. Master Thibault, residing at the Guildhall, heard of Mephan’s mysterious death and despatched Albinus his henchman to survey the property. Believe me, Brother, anything and everything of interest will be gone.’

  Athelstan stared into the empty muniment chest and quietly agreed. Master Thibault, John of Gaunt’s confidant in all matters politic, would have been quick to remove anything which could hurt either him or his cunning master, especially in these last days. The revolt was now well and truly crushed and the Commons and the Lords were beginning to demand answers to all sorts of questions about why the revolt had occurred, how it was managed, who did what, where and when.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘anything injurious would have been taken. But let me study Mephan.’ He crossed behind the desk. The dead clerk slouched in the high-back chair, wedged against the edge of the
desk. The surface in front of him was cleared of all scraps of parchment which, Athelstan concluded, would have been the work of Albinus, Thibault’s eerie-looking messenger. Pushed away from the corpse was a book of the Gospel of St Luke, its heavily brocaded cover of red, gold and green ornamented and decorated with Celtic and Greek symbols such as the Tree of Jesse and the Tau. Athelstan picked the book up, its pages yellow with age, opened up the first folio and read the inscription: ‘Hic Simonis Liber – This is Simon’s book.’ One page of the Gospels had been marked by a sharp-edged quill pen with a white bony point and a black feathered stem. The tip of the pen was tinged bright red. Athelstan checked the ink horn on its tray and found the same, a pot of blood-red ink. He believed both the quill pen and the ink horn had been recently used. He leafed through the pages of the Gospel and saw a phrase, two of its words being punctuated with red dots, ‘Nomen nostrum est legio enim multi nos.’ The words ‘legio’ and ‘multi’ had been heavily underscored with red ink. ‘Our name is legion for we are many,’ Athelstan translated. He studied the context of the line and realised the extract was from the account of how Jesus crossed the Sea of Galilee and landed amongst the Gesarenes. No sooner had he gone ashore than he had been confronted by a possessed man, so violent that he had broken free of his chains. Christ then exorcised the demon and, in accordance with the ritual, demanded that the devil possessing the man give his name. The reply ‘Nomen nostrum est legio enim multi nos – our name is legion for we are many’ had apparently attracted Mephan’s attention, but why? Was it connected to the murders? The friar closed the book and slipped it into his chancery satchel. The account of the exorcism reminded him of something similar demanding his attention at St Erconwald’s.

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘My apologies, friends, I am daydreaming,’ Athelstan confessed. ‘But perhaps you could both assist me.’ Both coroner and physician hastened to pull the corpse away from the desk. Athelstan crouched down and scrutinised the dead man’s thick woollen robes and stubby, cold fingers. He detected spots and stains of red ink. Athelstan smiled to himself. He was now certain that those notes on the Book of the Gospel were the last thing that Mephan had done before he died, even when he was in the middle of that final deadly spasm, a message from the dead to the living.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan got to his feet, ‘I believe we are finished here. You have searched the house?’

  ‘I have, and found nothing untoward. Even if there was something, I am sure it’s been removed. Now, Brother, I need refreshment. Flaxwith can be trusted. The corpses will be moved to the death house at St Mary le Bow, and the chambers here and all their contents will be itemised and sealed.’

  The physician came out of the shadows. He had been studying a decorated tapestry on the wall depicting a celestial battle between angels dressed like clerks, their golden hair curled and crimped, the jewel-encrusted silver chancery belts around their slim waists crammed with pouches for quills, ink horns, wax, pumice stones and other clerical necessities, and monkey soldiers wearing the garb of forest archers, Lincoln-green tunics and black leggings stretching down to horned feet, their bat-like heads cowled in fur-trimmed hats.

  ‘Master Giole?’

  ‘A number of matters.’ The physician took a deep breath. ‘First, if you wish to break your fast, why not join me and Beatrice at our tavern, Amongst the Tombs? It stands near St Martin’s in Ludgate close to the Bishop of London’s palace.’

  ‘You own a tavern, Master Giole?’

  ‘My wife Beatrice runs it, assisted by my son Felipe and my daughter Maria. They hope to become members of the Vintner’s Guild. We bought the tavern a few months before the outbreak of the revolt and had it refurbished. Being foreigners we kept our presence very discreet. Now the storm is over, I am told merry times have returned to London. We have opened and do good trade.’ The physician’s dark, handsome face eased into a smile. ‘I am a master of physic. I ply my trade from the tavern, having sealed indentures with the aldermen and council of Farringdon ward to act as their physician – hence my presence here.’

  Cranston smacked his lips. ‘I have heard good things about your kitchens. But why the title, Amongst the Tombs?’

  ‘Ah,’ Limut laughed, ‘because it is allegedly built over an ancient graveyard. The ancient ones of the ward claim the cellars are haunted by a host of hostile ghosts, vengeful spirits and other denizens of the dark.’

  ‘And what do you think, learned physician?’ Athelstan teased. ‘Do the vindictive dead sit amongst the barrels of your cellar?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ The physician laughed. ‘More a question of slithering rats, dripping casks and squeaking mice. But Domina Beatrice leads and instructs a veritable chorus of chefs and cooks. Moreover, I wish to discuss another matter with you.’

  Athelstan plucked at the physician’s sleeve. ‘Master Giole, Sir John and I,’ he glanced at the coroner, who nodded, ‘would be honoured to sup with you. Indeed,’ Athelstan continued in a rush, ‘I have some other business I would like your help with. Rest assured, I shall pay.’ He paused as Limut shook his head and raised a hand. ‘I would usually ask for the help of Brother Philippe, Custos and principal physician at St Bartholomew’s,’ Athelstan added.

  ‘I know Philippe,’ Limut replied. ‘I respect his reputation.’

  ‘Too famous for his own good,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘His order has sent him to Glastonbury to recuperate and recover after the troubles here.’

  Athelstan dared not meet Cranston’s gaze. The friar certainly recalled the end of the troubles at Smithfield just outside St Bartholomew’s. Sir John had struck at the rebel leader Wat Tyler and, in doing so, broken the spirit and will of the rebel army. Tyler had been grievously wounded and took refuge in St Bartholomew’s, but the Lord High Coroner, full of fury, had dragged him out to the common scaffold, hacked off the rebel leader’s head and placed it on a pole. ‘Poor Philippe,’ Athelstan murmured almost to himself. ‘He worked at the very heart of the fury. Many of the wounded and dead were taken there.’

  ‘And many of those dead were adjudged to be rebels and traitors,’ Limut declared. ‘They still discuss this in the taverns, how the King’s men dragged the corpses from the death houses, with hooks through their noses and mouths, to be hacked and cut, decapitated and quartered before being displayed on London Bridge or above the city gates. I …’ He broke off at a clamour from below: raised voices, people moving about, footsteps pounding on the stairs. Flaxwith, accompanied by a gasping Samson, tongue hanging out, jaws all slavering, came into the room. The mastiff immediately headed for Sir John, tail wagging, eyes all expectant. Cranston shooed it away as Flaxwith announced that three clerks, Matthew, Luke and John Gaddesden, had arrived from Westminster desirous of seeing Sir John and paying their respects to their master, Simon Mephan.

  ‘The evangelists,’ Cranston breathed, ‘brothers, sons of Adrian Gaddesden, cordwainer and rope-maker to our noble regent John of Gaunt. Those clerks are the pillars of the Secret Chancery and are steeped in all the villainy that haunt of demons can create.’

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you are too harsh!’ The friar paused. ‘You say three, Sir John, but there are four evangelists.’

  ‘There used to be four brothers, but during the Great Revolt one of them, Mark, returned to the city on some secret errand from Gaunt and Master Thibault. He was caught out in the open, recognised, seized and decapitated on the steps of the Conduit in Cheapside. Straw was stuffed into the dead man’s maw before his head was poled on a stake near St Paul’s Cross. The brothers mourn him …’

  ‘And they are party to Thibault’s conniving ways?’

  ‘I am being truthful, Brother. The Commons would love to know what those three gentlemen do, though I suspect that will never happen. They and Mephan are Gaunt’s liege men, his retainers, his coven, his servants in peace and war against all enemies both within and without. You have Gaunt, you have the evangelists and, of course, the bridge between them is Master Thibaul
t.’ Cranston drew a deep breath. ‘Flaxwith,’ the coroner jabbed a finger at the bailiff, ‘you are scrupulously itemising this house and its contents?’ Flaxwith murmured his agreement.

  ‘And you have sheeted the two corpses below?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John, we have laid them out in the shrouds we brought. We will seize a wheelbarrow and take them to St Mary le Bow.’

  ‘Good. In which case,’ Cranston turned back to Athelstan, ‘we are finished here.’ The friar nodded. ‘Master Giole,’ Cranston tapped the physician on the arm, ‘have a further scrutiny of Mephan’s corpse, help Flaxwith sheet it and we shall be with you very soon.’

  With the physician’s agreement ringing in their ears, both coroner and friar went down the stairs into the solar. Cranston snapped his fingers at the bailiff on guard, who bowed and left as the coroner turned to greet the men sitting on the stools and chairs. All three got to their feet, introductions were made, hands clasped and the kiss of peace exchanged. Cranston asked the clerks what they wanted; their reply was simple enough. They were grieving, curious and eager to pay their respects. Cranston explained that the corpses had yet to be released under his seal which, he declared, would likely be done by nightfall. After all, it was summer and burials had to be swift because of the heat.

  As the clerks discussed the funeral arrangements and asked Cranston what had actually happened, Athelstan studied the three men closely. They were of a mature age, vigorous in manner. Athelstan reckoned Matthew, the eldest, must have reached his fortieth summer whilst his younger sibling, John, was probably no more than twenty-three years of age. Nevertheless, despite the age differences, all three clerks looked the same: auburn-haired, fresh-faced, clean-shaven. They came across as bland in appearance, voice, expression and gesture. Quietly spoken, yet, despite all this, sharp of wit and keen-eyed. Athelstan sensed that these clerks were very subtle and hid behind different masks which they donned to suit the occasion. They were not meant to stand out in a crowd. They were all dressed in padded, sleeveless tunics boasting the dark blue and gold heraldic devices of the Royal Chancery, their white shirts beneath were high-collared and spotlessly clean, and their black hose was and pushed into soft, low-heeled boots. All three wore the chancery ring on their left hand with a silver Lancastrian SS collar around their necks.