The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “There might be a point,” I said.

  “What kind?”

  I asked, “If this were just some foreigner stabbed to death on Baker Street, what would you do next?”

  “Not very much, to be honest.”

  “Exactly. Just one of those things. But now what are you going to do next?”

  “I’m going to find out who’s yanking my chain. First step, I’m going back on scene to make sure we didn’t miss any other clues.”

  “Quod erat demonstrandum,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Latin.”

  “For what?”

  “They’re decoying you out. They’ve succeeded in what they set out to do.”

  “Decoying me out from what? I don’t do anything important in the office.”

  He insisted on going. We headed back to Baker Street. The tents were still there. The tape was still fluttering. We found no more clues. So we studied the context instead, physically, looking for the kind of serious crimes that could occur if law enforcement was distracted. We didn’t find anything. That part of Baker Street had the official Sherlock Holmes Museum, and the waxworks, and a bunch of stores of no real consequence, and a few banks, but the banks were all bust anyway. Blowing one up would be doing it a considerable favour.

  Then Rose wanted a book that explained the various Sherlock Holmes references in greater detail, so I took him to the British Library in Bloomsbury. He spent an hour with an annotated compendium. He got sidetracked by the geographic errors Conan Doyle had made. He started to think the story he had read could be approached obliquely, as if it were written in code.

  Altogether we spent the rest of the week on it. The Wednesday, the Thursday, and the Friday. Easily thirty hours. We got nowhere. We made no progress. But nothing happened. None of Rose’s other cases unravelled, and London’s crime did not spike. There were no consequences. None at all.

  So as the weeks passed both Rose and I forgot all about the matter. And Rose never thought about it again, as far as I know. I did, of course. Because three months later it became clear that it was I who had been decoyed. My interest had been piqued, and I had spent thirty hours doing fun Anglophile things. They knew that would happen, naturally. They had planned well. They knew I would be called out to the dead American, and they knew how to stage the kinds of things that would set me off like the Energizer Bunny. Three days. Thirty hours. Out of the building, unable to offer help with the rubber-stamping, not there to notice them paying for their kids’ college educations by rubber-stamping visas that should have been rejected instantly. Which is how four particular individuals made it to the States, and which is why three hundred people died in Denver, and which is why the others were executed, and which is why I sit alone in Leavenworth in Kansas, where by chance one of the few books the prison allows is The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

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  ~ * ~

  THIS THING OF DARKNESS

  A MASTER HARDY DREW MYSTERY

  Peter Tremayne

  “This thing of darkness.

  I acknowledge mine.”

  William Shakespeare, The Tempest, V, i

  M

  aster Hardy Drew, Constable of the Bankside Watch, stood regarding the blackened and still smoking ruins of the once imposing edifice of the house on the corner of Stony Street near the parish church of St Saviour’s. There was little left of it as it had been a wood-built house, and wood and dry plaster were a combustible mix.

  “It was a fine old house,” Master Drew’s companion said reflectively. “It once belonged to the old Papist Bishop Gardiner.”

  “The one who took pleasure in burning those he deemed heretics in Queen Mary’s time?” asked Master Drew with a slight shudder. He had not been born when Mary had been on the throne but he knew it to be a strange, unsettled period when, during those five short years, she had earned the epithet of “Bloody Mary”.

  Master Pettigrew, the fire warden, nodded.

  “Aye, Master Drew. The same who condemned some good men to the flames because they would not accept Roman ways.”

  “Well, it is not infrequent that buildings catch alight and burn. You and your sturdy lads have put out the flames and no other properties seem threatened. Why, therefore, do you bring me here?”

  Master Pettigrew inclined his head towards the smouldering ruins.

  “There is a body here. I think you should see it.”

  The constable frowned.

  “A poor soul caught in the fire? Surely that is a task for the coroner?”

  “That’s as may be, good master. Come and examine it for yourself. It is not badly burned,” he added, seeing the distaste on Master Drew’s features. “I believe it was not fire that killed him.”

  He led the way through the charred wood and the odd standing wall towards what must have been the back of the house and into an area that had been partially built of bricks and thus not much harmed in the conflagration.

  Master Drew saw the problem straightway. The body of a man was hanging from a thick beam by means of iron manacles that secured his wrists and linked them via a chain over the beam. He breathed out sharply.

  “This is a thing of darkness. A deed of evil,” he muttered.

  The constable tried not to look at the legs of the corpse for they had received the force of the fire. The upper body was blackened but not burned for, by that curious vagary to which fire is often prey, the flames had not engulfed the entire body. The flames seemed to have died down after they had reached the corpse.

  The body was that of a man of thirty or perhaps a little more. Through the soot and grime it was impossible to detect much about the features.

  Master Drew saw that the mouth was tied as in the manner of a gag. The eyes were bulging still and blood-rimmed, marking the struggle to obtain air that must have been filled with smoke and fumes from the fire.

  “You will observe, Master Drew, that the upper garments of this man speak of some wealth and status, and the manner of his death was clearly planned.”

  The constable sniffed in irritation.

  “I am experienced in the matter of observation,” he rebuked sharply.

  Indeed, he had already observed that, in spite of the blackened and scorched garments, they were clearly those affected by a person of wealth. His sharp eyes had detected something under the shirt and he drew the long dagger he wore at his belt and used it to push aside the doublet and undershirt. Beneath was a gold chain on which was hung a medallion of sorts.

  Master Pettigrew let out a breath. He was probably thinking of the wealth that he had missed, for being warden of the fire watch around Bankside did not provide him with means to live as he would want...or not without a little help from items collected in the debris of fires such as this.

  Using the tip of his dagger, Master Drew was able to lift the chain over the head of the corpse and then examine it. Master Pettigrew peered over his shoulder.

  “A dead sheep moulded in gold,” he breathed.

  Master Drew shook his head.

  “Not a dead sheep but the fleece of a sheep. I have seen the like once before. It was just after the defeat of the Spanish invasion force. They brought some prisoners to the Tower and I was one of the appointed guards. One of the prisoners was wearing such a symbol. When a sergeant wanted to divest him of it, our captain rebuked him, saying it was the symbol of a noble order and that the prisoner should be treated, therefore, with all courtesy and respect.”

  The warden looked worried.

  “A nobleman murdered here on the Bankside? We will not hear the last of it, good constable. A noble would have influence.”

  Master Drew nodded thoughtfully.

  “A nobleman, aye. But of what country and what allegiance? This order was set up to defend the Papist faith.”

  Master Pettigrew looked at him in horror.

  “The Papist Faith, you say?”

  �
�This is a Spanish order for I see the insignia of Philip of Spain on the reverse.”

  “Spanish?’ gasped Master Pettigrew. “There are several noble Spaniards in London at this time.”

  Master Drew’s features hardened.

  “And many who would as lief cut a Spaniard’s throat in revenge for the cruelties of previous years. Were there no witnesses to this incendiary act?”

  To his surprise, Master Pettigrew nodded an affirmative.

  “Tom Shadwell, a passing fruit merchant, saw the flames and called the alarm,” returned Master Pettigrew. “That was at dawn this morning. My men managed to isolate the building and extinguish the flames within the hour. Then we entered and that was when I found the body and sent for you.”

  “Well, one thing is for certain, this poor soul did not hang himself nor set fire to this place. To whom does this building now belong?”

  “I think it must still belong to the Bishop of Winchester for he has many estates around here. Such was the office of Bishop Gardiner but he has been dead these fifty years, during which it has remained empty.”

  “That’s true,” Master Drew reflected. “I have never seen it occupied since I came here as Assistant Constable. No one has ever claimed it nor sought to occupy it.”

  “Aye, and for the reason that local folk claim it to be haunted by the spirits of the unfortunates that Bishop Gardiner tortured and condemned to the flames as heretics.”

  Master Drew pocketed the chain thoughtfully and glanced once more at the body.

  “Release the corpse to the charge of the coroner, Master Pettigrew, and say that I will speak with him anon, but to do nothing precipitate until I have done so.”

  He was about to turn when he caught sight of something in the corner of the room that puzzled him. In spite of the fire having damaged this area, he saw that the floorboards were smashed and that, where they had been torn away, a rectangular hole had been dug into the earth. He moved towards it.

  “Is this the work of your men, Master Pettigrew?” he asked.

  The warden of the fire watch shook his head.

  “Not of my men.”

  Master Drew sniffed sharply.

  “Then someone has excavated this hole. But for what purpose?”

  He bent down, peered into the hole and poked at it with the tip of his long dagger.

  “The hole was already here and something buried, which was but recently dug up and removed and...” He frowned, moved his dagger again and then bent down into the hole, carefully, trying to avoid the soot. With a grunt of satisfaction he came up holding something between thumb and forefinger.

  “A coin?” hazarded Master Pettigrew, leaning over his shoulder.

  “Aye, a coin,” the constable confirmed, scraping away some of the soot with the point of the dagger.

  “A groat?”

  “No, this is a shilling, and an Irish shilling of Philip and Mary at that. See the harp under the crown on the face...and either side, under smaller crowns, the initials P and M? Now what would that be doing here?”

  “Well, Bishop Gardiner was a Papist during the time of Mary and approved her marriage to the Spanish King Philip. It is logical that he might have lost the coin then.”

  Master Drew looked down at the hole again. He knew better than to comment further. Instead, he slipped the coin into his pocket and moved towards the exit of the blackened building. Outside, groups of people were already gathering. He suspected that some of them had come to forage and pillage if there was anything worth salvaging.

  “Where are you away to?” called Master Pettigrew.

  “To proceed with my investigation,” he replied. “I’ll speak to the fruit merchant who first saw the conflagration.”

  “He has the barrow at the corner of Clink Street, selling fruit and nosegays to those visiting the folk within the prison.”

  The constable made no reply but he knew Tom Shadwell, the fruit seller, well enough and often passed the time of day with him as he made his way by the grim walls of the old prison.

  “A body found, you say, good constable?” Tom Shadwell’s face paled when Master Drew told him of the gruesome find. “I saw only the flames and had no idea that anyone dwelt within the building. Had I known, I would have made an effort to save the poor soul. So far as I knew, it had been empty these many years.”

  “You would have been too late anyway,” replied Master Drew. “It is murder that we are dealing with. Therefore, be cautious in your thoughts before you recite to me as much as you may remember.”

  Tom Shadwell rubbed the bridge of his nose with a crooked forefinger.

  “The first light was spreading when I came by the corner of Stony Street to make my way to my pitch. I was pushing my barrow as usual. It is not long after dawn that the prison door is opened and visitors are allowed to go in. I usually start my trade early. I was passing the old house when I saw the flames...”

  He suddenly paused and frowned.

  “You have thought of something, Master Shadwell?” prompted the constable.

  “It is unrelated to the fire.”

  “Let me decide that.”

  “There was a coach standing in Stony Street, not far from the house. Two men were lifting a small wooden chest inside. It seemed heavy. Even as I passed the end of the street they had placed it in the coach, then one climbed in and the other scrambled to the box and took the reins. Away it went in a trice. I then crossed the end of the street towards the old house and that was when I heard the crackle of the fire and saw its flames through the window. I pushed my barrow to the end of the street, for I knew Master Pettigrew, warden of the fire watch, dwelt there. I was reluctant to leave my barrow - prey to thieves and wastrels - but there was no one about, so I ran along to his house and raised the alarm. That is all I know.”

  “This coach, could you identify it?”

  Shadwell shook his head.

  “It was dark and the two men were clad in dark cloaks.”

  “Well-dressed fellows, would you say?”

  “Hard to say, Master Constable.”

  “And which way did this coach proceed? Towards the bridge?”

  Shadwell shook his head.

  “In this direction, towards Clink Street or maybe along to Bankside, not towards the bridge.”

  Having ascertained there was nothing more to be gathered from the fruit seller, Master Drew turned past the Clink Prison to the adjacent imposing ancient structure of Winchester Palace that dominated the area just west of the Bridgehead. Southwark was the largest town of the diocese of Winchester. In the days when Winchester was capital of the Saxon kingdom, before London reclaimed its Roman prominence, the Bishops of Winchester were all-powerful. Even after Winchester fell into decline as a capital, the bishops remained within court circles and therefore had to be frequently in London for royal and administrative purposes. So the grand Winchester Palace was built on the south bank of the Thames.

  Master Drew explained his business to the gatekeeper of the palace and was shown directly to the office of Sir Gilbert Scrivener, secretary to His Grace, Thomas Bilson, Bishop of Winchester.

  “The house on the corner of Stony Street? We have large estates in Southwark, Master Drew, as you know. But I do vaguely recall it. Unused since Bishop Gardiner’s decease.”

  “You have no personal acquaintance with the house, then?”

  “My dear constable,” replied Sir Gilbert, “I have more things to do with my time than personally to acquaint myself with all the properties controlled by the diocese. As for the burning of this building, and the murder of foreigners, it is not to be wondered that they and empty houses are treated in such manner - since it is so, it may be a blessing for it has long been His Grace’s wish to rebuild that crumbling edifice and set up on the site something more useful to the church and the community.”

  “So you are acquainted with the house?” replied Master Drew sharply.

  Sir Gilbert
spread his hands with a thin smile.

  “I said, not personally. But I am His Grace’s secretary. I fear you do but waste your time for do we not live in Southwark, and is it not said that these mean streets are better termed a foul den than a fair garden? Its reputation is best described as notorious. Bankside itself is a nest of prostitutes and thieves, of cut-throats and vagabonds.”

  “And playhouses,” smiled Master Drew grimly. “Do not forget the playhouses, Sir Gilbert.”

  The secretary sighed impatiently.