by Mike Ashley
“Great Glory!” he exclaimed. “And you think one of those Catholic devils has returned?”
“He might never have left, my lord Constable,” Urmston replied.
“Great Glory!” Ratcliffe said again. He nodded, almost to himself. “It would explain everything, of course . . . degenerate Catholic scum. And they have the nerve to call us heretics.”
“Can you help us?” Urmston wondered.
Ratcliffe nodded. “Certainly . . . it would be an honour to do so. If you would wait here, I’ll have some refreshments brought, and then I’ll send for the Book.”
Urmston nodded, and stood back to wait.
Ratcliffe hurried to the door, where he stopped and shook his head. His rosy cheeks had paled to an ashen hue. “Murder is a dreadful business,” he said.
“It is indeed,” Urmston replied, glancing through the casement and across the courtyard to the grim stone edifice known as the Bloody Tower.
The moment Ratcliffe left, Kingsley turned to his master. “The Book?”
“They call it that but in actual fact it’s several books. The Tower records . . . they tabulate all those unfortunates who have been held here, and, to a lesser extent, those public-spirited officials who’ve done the holding.”
“I suppose it’s the best we can hope for.”
“It is,” Urmston replied.
“At least Lord Ratcliffe seems helpful.”
Urmston curled his lip. “Another sycophant, John. No different, I’m sure, from the many Catholic jailers whose names we’re now casting suspicion on.”
Kingsley made no further conversation. He knew his master’s moods well, and detected that this was a dark one, which didn’t surprise the servant. For all his service to Lord Walsingham, and despite his outward appearance of iciness, Robert Urmston was inclined towards humanism, though this tended to surface in surly rebelliousness rather than outright sympathy. If anything, the harsh regime under his father, and the intense military training of his youth – imposed on him almost as revenge for his poor schoolwork and subsequent failures in his studies for the bar – had brought this mutinous spirit to the fore, so that patriotic though he was, he regarded the great religious debates with cynicism, and felt that he owed his duty to his country rather than his country’s rulers; of course, these environs, the Tower and its impregnable ramparts, were the hard granite shoulders of those rulers . . . little wonder he was ill-at-ease here. In fact, he wandered back and forth in the state room like a caged panther, even ignoring the jug of wine and plate of sweetmeats brought in for them, until at last Ratcliffe returned, weighed down with scrolls and documents.
Hurriedly, Urmston attended the Constable, who laid his various sheets and manuscripts on the table. Kingsley, who despite his master’s best efforts, didn’t read well, stood back and allowed his superiors to peruse the fading text. Several moments passed – moments of mutters and deep thought. Parchment rustled, dry pages were turned. Then, Ratcliffe pointed something out. “This is a name which might interest you, my lord.”
Urmston read it aloud: “Raphael Vesquez, employed here at the Tower from 1553 until 1558. Vesquez . . . a Spaniard?”
Ratcliffe gave a grim smile. “A Spaniard whose activities were infamous.”
“They were?”
Ratcliffe nodded. “My lord . . . I think there is someone you should meet.”
Five minutes later, he had led them down two winding stairways, then along a narrow passage and into a colder and darker region of the castle. They passed through a barred portal, guarded by a stout yeoman, then down a further flight of steps, this one slippery with moss. The air in these basements was rank; noisome water dripped steadily from the crumbling brick ceilings. Kingsley felt a growing discomfort. From somewhere further below, he imagined he could hear muffled cries for help. He glanced at his master’s face, but as usual, not a hint of fear or trepidation was visible.
At length, Ratcliffe bade them wait in a guard-room that was little more than an airless cell. It only had wooden barrels to sit upon, two of which had been arranged with a plank across them, to form a gaming table. The men waited in silence, and listened. There was a loud rattling of chains and a clanking of locks, but only after several minutes did Ratcliffe reappear, now in the company of a much larger man. The Constable wasted no time in presenting him.
“My lord, this is Morgeth, one of the longest-serving jailers here.”
Urmston rose to his feet, eyeing the newcomer with interest. Morgeth was taller than any of them by at least a foot, and as broad as a buffalo. His great square head was shaved to the skull, though in contrast, thick stubble covered his huge bottom jaw. The eyes in his face were small and reddish, buried beneath heavy ape-like brows. His barrel body was sheathed in a creaking leather tunic, studded all over with steel points.
Morgeth bowed once, deeply. This was clearly his domain, yet he knew his place.
“Morgeth,” Ratcliffe instructed him. “Tell Lord Urmston what you told me.”
The jailer nodded. “The one called Vesquez, my lords,” he began, in a deep, grating voice. “I remember him.”
“You remember him?” Urmston asked. “You could only have been a boy in those days?”
Morgeth shrugged. “An apprentice. Else I’d have been chased out with all the rest, my lord . . . when Queen Mary died.”
“Tell us about Vesquez,” Urmston said.
“A priest, he was, my lord. A Spanish priest . . . but he spoke our tongue. He had to, the amount of interrogation he did.”
“He carried out interrogations?”
“He was one of the worst . . . especially where the ladies were concerned.”
“Just the ladies?” Urmston wondered.
“Far as I remember, my lord. He had ’em up by their thumbs, he had ’em on the rack . . . terrible beast of a man, he was.”
“I seem to recall hearing that he would accompany the female prisoners to Smithfield,” Ratcliffe put in, “exhorting them to repent every inch of the way. Then he would stand as close as the fire permitted, while they died . . . praying for their souls, it was said, though others reported that he was more interested in gloating over their suffering.”
Kingsley was chilled as he listened. In this brooding dungeon, the dark ghosts of former days seemed closer than ever.
“I heard tell,” the jailer added, “Father Vesquez used to check the wood before he would permit it to be lit . . . to make sure it was dry. Wouldn’t do to have the smoke choke the poor wretches before the flames got to ’em. Once or twice, when families and friends produced their gunpowder bags and what-not . . . he had them arrested. Pain was that man’s middle name. And him a priest, an all.”
“And what happened to him?” Urmston wondered.
Morgeth shook his head, apparently unsure.
“After Mary died, there’re no further references to him in the Book,” Ratcliffe replied. “Either as jailer or prisoner.”
Urmston mused. “So he went abroad?”
Ratcliffe considered this. “Like John Store, many of the worst offenders who went abroad, were brought back and punished.”
“Even those who fled to Spain?”
Now the Constable smiled. “Our relationship with Spain is rocky, to say the least, my lord. But it wasn’t always so. At Queen Elizabeth’s coronation, Count Feria led the Spanish envoys. A wedding-match with Philip was not out of the question. Several of Mary’s criminals were extradited as good-will gestures.”
“But not Raphael Vesquez?”
Ratcliffe shook his head.
There was a moment of silence. Kingsley turned to his master. “Sounds like our man, my lord.”
But Urmston was pensive. “Vesquez was clearly evil . . . probably deranged. But nothing we’ve heard here suggests he enjoyed tearing women open.”
Ratcliffe gave a chuckle. “Who’s to say what he enjoyed in those locked torture chambers? Hideous screams were common-place. And then of course . . . well, all the evidence got
burned.”
Urmston turned back to Morgeth. “Tell me . . . what did this fellow look like?”
“Cat-like, he was, my lord. Very lean. Had a black beard, long black hair . . . dark eyes, like pools of oil. I hear, at first glance, the ladies thought him very handsome.”
“A regular angel of death,” Ratcliffe put in, with a thin, cynical smile.
Glad tidings of great joy I bring
To you and all mankind.
While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night
“A Spanish inquisitor!” Lord Walsingham sat back behind his desk. “How utterly marvellous!”
Urmston stood facing him, one hand on his sword-hilt. “Of course, we can’t be certain.”
“No, I understand that . . . but well done all the same. I can hardly wait to tell the Queen.”
Urmston felt a flutter of panic. “Even with this knowledge, we’re no closer to catching him.”
The Secretary of State dipped his quill in his ink-pot and began to scratch out various authorizations. “We will be when we increase the reward to £500. I doubt anyone who might be sheltering him could resist such temptation.”
It struck Urmston at once that increasing the reward at this stage might lead to all sorts of false accusations. Anyone with tanned skin could find himself dragged into the street.
“I shall also alert George Eliot and his priest-hunters,” Walsingham added.
Urmston couldn’t resist a snort of disgust. “Much good he’ll do us.”
Walsingham smiled to himself as he wrote. “Are you an expert in economics as well as criminal investigation, Robert? We may offer a reward, but paying it is another matter. I’d sooner one of my agents made the arrest than some drunken ne’er-do-well in the Stews. That way, it won’t cost us a penny.”
“It would cost us even less if you cut the entirety of George Eliot’s salary.”
Walsingham stamped a document with his seal, and quickly began to write out another. “No jealousy, Robert, please. It doesn’t matter to me which one of you apprehends the villain, so long as one of you does. Of course, we must try to ensure that he is taken alive. A grand show-trial would be the coup de grace.”
Urmston made no reply. Here at Richmond Palace, Walsingham’s study was only a corridor away from the great hall, where at this very moment the Queen was entertaining the London city bankers to a lavish Christmas feast. Bellows of laughter could be heard; there was a frantic tooting of pipes, a strumming of mandolins.
“This should be a lesson to Catholics everywhere,” Walsingham remarked. “Let us hope Vesquez is a Jesuit . . . the knowledge that one of their elite warriors has stooped to such dastardly crimes would be a sickening blow.”
“It would certainly make a change from their rising to the heroism of martyrdom,” Urmston replied.
The Secretary of State sealed another letter. “You’ve done well, Robert. Yet again I’m reminded why I tolerate your impudence.” He glanced up, his grey eyes suddenly very cool. “But don’t push your good fortune too far. In the event of accusations, there’s only so much that even I could do to protect someone whose mother was a Catholic.”
“Will that be all, my lord?”
“Even someone whose mother then converted . . . at the wise instigation of her husband, of course.”
“Will that be all?”
Walsingham went back to his papers. “That’ll be all.”
For several days, the forces of rumour ran riot in London. With town-criers passing on the news, and posters appearing on every gable wall from Westminster to Lime Hurst, advertising an increased reward for “capture of the detestable prieste of Spayne”, the sensation grew swiftly in volume until eventually even Christmas-tide was relegated to secondary chatter. Idle tongues wagged relentlessly, ominous opinions were aired about neighbours and lodgers, all sorts of calumny was cast, while the printing presses ran off hundreds of pamphlets to accompany each new item of morbid gossip. Not satisfied with this, the well-to-do were taken by litter and armed escort, to see for themselves the sordid tangle of streets where the evil deeds were being done. In knee-jerk response, the beggars flocked there too.
But only during daylight hours.
As darkness fell on Southwark, London Bridge creaked beneath wheels, hooves and feet, as a frantic mob made haste to reach safer parishes.
Only Robert Urmston, it seemed, had withdrawn from the scramble. Even a note from the Queen, congratulating him on his identification of the felon, failed to inspire him. He remained in his candle-lit solar, endlessly theorizing, making copious notes, writing and receiving letters. One day, a particular communiqué set him pacing the room like a man in a trance. At length, he summoned Kingsley and bade him sit and listen.
“A cousin of mine,” the master began, “who serves with the royal embassy in Paris, has recently returned to England on leave. He has heard about our Flibbertigibbet, and in an attempt to be helpful, has sent me this rather disturbing piece of information.” Urmston produced a scroll and unrolled it. “Before I read it, however, tell me honestly . . . is it possible that in naming Raphael Vesquez as our chief suspect, I have been colossally presumptuous?”
“I don’t follow, my lord.”
“All the evidence pointing to this man is circumstantial. In fact, much of it isn’t even that.”
Kingsley seemed puzzled. “You can only do your best with the information you have.”
Urmston nodded. “I agree absolutely. Now . . . let me tell you what my cousin writes. Eight years ago, it seems, in the Chastenoy region of France, the populace were living in terror. Some ferocious individual was committing senseless attacks. The victims were women and children . . . at least five of them died, their necks broken, their throats torn.” Urmston paused for a moment. “Those who survived, only did so through luck . . . to a one, they’d been horribly beaten and mauled and, in the case of the females, indecently assaulted.”
Kingsley said nothing, but listened intently.
Urmston continued: “At first, in the level-headed fashion of all Frenchmen, the authorities thought they were searching for a werewolf. But when a suspect was finally apprehended, the most remarkable thing about him was that he was unremarkable. His name was Gilles Garnier. He admitted his crimes, but denied, even under torture, that he killed as a wolf. In reality, it seems, he was a simple vagrant who lived on the outskirts of St Bonnot. He was indistinguishable from the many other vagrants there, in that he was ragged, dirty and ill. He had no great powers of strength, and in fact, his appearance was not even remotely frightening.”
“And was he the murderer?” the servant asked.
“Oh yes. He was tried, convicted and subsequently burned to death.”
Kingsley considered for a moment. “That’s a grim tale, my lord, but if he was burned, how could he be responsible for our . . .”
Urmston shook his head. “I’m not saying he is, John! I’m saying that somebody is, who may be like him.” He tapped the scroll. “There are alarming similarities here. Murders committed apparently for their own sake, a city in terror, everyone convinced that some kind of monster or demon is abroad . . . and yet, at the end of it all, the killer is nobody; an ordinary man who gentlefolk wouldn’t even cock a snook at if they passed him in the street.”
“But could such an extraordinary thing happen twice?”
Urmston almost laughed. “Of course. If it can happen once, it can happen again and again.” He paused for a moment, his brow darkening. “I wonder if this is some new madness of the downtrodden, John. The worm who finally, viciously, turns. The despised nonentity who suddenly realizes there is fame and power in the fear he can inspire.”
“It would discount our Spanish inquisitor,” Kingsley observed.
Urmston snorted. “I fear our Spanish inquisitor is a figment of our bigoted imagination. Think about it . . . is he not exactly the sort of criminal the English would love to believe is abusing them? A Catholic, a Spaniard!” He shook his head. “The real
ity is that our killer is of no such consequence . . . he’s a carter, a street-sweeper, a vagabond.” A worried look came over Urmston. “Is there any chance so anonymous a person can ever be caught?”
At that point, there was a loud knocking at the front door. Kingsley got up and went to answer it, leaving his master alone. A moment later, however, there were excited shouts in the vestibule, and the stammer of urgent voices. Kingsley reappeared, looking flustered in the cheek.
“They’ve captured him, my lord! Raphael Vesquez! He’s been captured!”
“I’m glad,” Urmston grunted, sitting at his table. “This is only the third or fourth one captured in the last two days.”
“But, my lord . . . I think this may be different. Apparently, he surrendered himself at the Tower.” Kingsley was in a visible state of growing excitement. “Under no pressure from anyone, he has confessed to being Vesquez.”
Urmston looked slowly up. A thrill of excited uncertainty passed through him.
“Don’t you realize what this means, my lord?” Kingsley said. “Your first theory was right, after all. You’ve done it . . . you’ve smoked him out!”
All mankind will be redeemed
Through thy sweet child-bearing,
And out of torment brought.
Angelus ad Virginem
Urmston went immediately to the Tower, but on his arrival there, his exultation at the capture of Vesquez was tempered by news that the Spaniard had already been put on the rack.
“How dare you!” he said, as Constable Ratcliffe led him down the dank stairwells of the White Tower. “I gave no such orders!”
“We received a missive from Sir Francis Walsingham,” Ratcliffe replied. “It stated that we were to commence examination promptly, and to use all methods at our convenience.”
“Sir Francis Walsingham may no more permit the use of torture than your man Morgeth!” Urmston retorted. “It requires a signed warrant from the Privy Council or the Queen, as a man in your position should be well aware.”
“But isn’t this villain the Flibbertigibbet? The murderer of a hundred women!”
