House of the Red Slayer (3 page)

‘So!’ Cranston turned to the alderman. ‘Tell me again what the problem is.’

Venables knew Sir John and stared anxiously at the bewhiskered red face, the icy-blue eyes and furrowed brow under the great, woollen beaver hat. Sir John was a good man, Venables reflected, but when he lost his temper he could be the devil incarnate. Venables pointed to the broken ale-stake jutting out just above the door.

‘The facts are these, Sir John. The householder here is Simon de Wyxford. This is his ale-house. He had no family, only a servant, Roger Droxford. Eight days ago master and servant had a violent quarrel which continued all day. On December the sixth the servant, Roger, opened the alehouse as usual, set out the benches and sold wine, but nothing was seen of Simon. The next day neighbours asked Roger where his master was. He replied that Simon had gone to Westminster to recover some debts.’ Venables blew out his cheeks and turned to one of the shadowed figures beside him.

‘Tell Sir John the rest’

‘Four days ago . . .’ began the neighbour, a small man swathed in robes.

Cranston could see only a pair of timid eyes and a dripping nose above the muffler.

‘Speak up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Remove the muffler from your mouth.’

‘Four days ago,’ the fellow continued, obeying Sir John with alacrity, ‘Roger was seen leaving here, a bundle of possessions slung across his back. We thought he was fleeing but he went to one of our neighbours, Hammo the cook, telling him he was going to seek out Simon, his master, and gave Hammo the key should de Wyxford suddenly return. Last night,’ he continued, clearing his throat, ‘Francis Boggett, a taverner, came here to recover a debt Master Simon owed him.’

‘Come on! Come on!’ Cranston interrupted.

‘Boggett entered the house,’ the alderman intervened smoothly, ‘to find no trace of Simon or his servant, so he seized three tuns of wine as recompense for his debt.’

‘How did he get in?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Hammo the cook gave him the key.’

Sir John pursed his lips. ‘Boggett is to be fined fivepence for trespass and the cook twopence as his accomplice.’ He glared at the alderman. ‘You have the key on you?’

Venables nodded. Cranston snapped his fingers and the alderman handed it over. The coroner drew himself up to his full height.

‘As coroner of this city,’ he grandly announced, ‘in view of the mysterious events reported to me, I now authorise our entry to this house to search out the truth. Master Alderman, you will accompany me.’

There was further confusion as Venables asked for a tinder from one of his companions. Sir John unlocked the door and entered the cold darkness of the tavern. The place smelt dirty and musty. They crashed against barrels, stools and tables until Venables struck a tinder and lit two cresset torches, one of which he handed to Cranston. They went from room to room and then upstairs where they found the two chambers ransacked, coffers and chests with their lids broken or thrown aside, but no trace of any body.

‘You know what we are looking for?’ Cranston murmured.

Venables nodded. ‘But so far nothing, Sir John.’

‘There is a cellar?’

The alderman led Cranston downstairs. They searched the darkened taproom until they found a trap door which Venables pulled back. Both men descended gingerly by wooden ladders. The cellar was a long, oblong box with a trap door at the far end for the carts to unload their barrels through. Cranston told Venables to stand still and walked carefully through the cellar, his great bulk made grotesque by the dim light of the flickering torches. At the far end he stopped, lowered the torch and looked behind three great wine tuns. The light made the spiders’ webs which clung to the barrels shimmer like cloth of gold. Cranston leaned over and felt the sticky mess he had spotted. He brought his hand up into the light and looked at the blood which coated his fingers like paste. He forced his arm back further behind the barrels, and scrabbled around.

‘Sir John!’ the alderman called out. ‘All is well?’

‘As well as can be expected, Master Venables. I have found the taverner, or at least part of him!’ Cranston picked up the decapitated head from behind the barrels and held it aloft as if he was the Tower headsman. The alderman took one look at the blue-white face, the half-closed eyes, sagging blood-stained mouth and the jagged remains of the neck, and sat down heavily on a stone plinth, retching violently. Cranston put down the head and walked back, wiping his fingers on the mildewed wall. As he passed, he patted Venables gently on the shoulder.

‘Have some claret, my good alderman, it steadies the stomach and fortifies the heart.’ He stopped and took a step back. ‘After that, swear out warrants for the arrest of Roger Droxford. Declare him a wolfshead, and place . . .’ Cranston screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, place ten pounds’ reward on his head, dead or alive. Have this house sealed, and in the event of no will or self-proclaimed heir appearing, the city council might find itself a little richer.’

He climbed the ladder and the taproom steps and emerged on to the bitterly cold street.

‘We’ve found the taverner,’ he announced. ‘Murdered. I think the good alderman will need your help to assemble the corpse.’

Then, hand on his long Welsh dagger, Sir John trudged back along the ice-packed runnels and alleyways. He turned into the Mercery and gasped as the icy wind tore away his breath. ‘Oh, for summer!’ he wailed to himself. ‘For weeds in clumps, for grass lovely and lush.’

He slithered on the icy cobbles and leaned against the wooden frame of a house, grinning.

‘Athelstan should be here helping,’ he murmured. ‘If not with headless corpses, then at least by keeping me steady on the ice.’

He walked on up Cheapside. A dark shape slid from the shadows to meet him. Cranston half drew his dagger.

‘Sir John, for the love of Christ!’

Cranston peered closer at the raw-boned face of the one-legged beggar who always sold trinkets from his rickety stall on the corner of Milk Street.

‘Not in bed, Leif? Looking for a lady, are we?’

‘Sir John, I’ve been robbed!’

‘See the sheriff!’

‘Sir John, I have no money and no food.’

‘Then stay in bed!’

Leif steadied himself against the wall. ‘I paid no rent so I lost my garret,’ he wailed.

‘Well, go and beg at St Bartholomew’s!’ Cranston barked back, and trudged on. He heard Leif hopping behind him.

‘Sir John, help me.’

‘Bugger off, Leif.’

‘Thank you, Sir John,’ the beggar answered as coins tinkled to the ground. Leif knew enough about the fat coroner to understand Sir John hated to be seen giving charity.

Cranston stopped before his own house and looked up at the candlelit windows. Leif nearly crashed into him and Cranston shrugged him off. What is the matter with Maude? he wondered. He had always considered marriage similar to dipping one’s hand into a bag of eels – it depended on luck what you drew out. Yet he had been so fortunate. He adored Maude from the mousey hair of her head to the soles of her tiny feet.

As he mused a figure suddenly emerged from the alleyway which ran alongside Cranston’s house.

‘By the sod!’ he exclaimed. ‘Doesn’t anyone in this benighted city sleep?’

The fellow approached and Cranston recognised the livery of the Lord Mayor.

‘By the sod,’ he repeated, ‘more trouble!’

The young pursuivant, teeth chattering, hoarsely delivered his message.

‘Sir John, the Lord Mayor and his sheriffs wish to see you now at the Guildhall.’

‘Go to hell!’

‘Thank you, Sir John. The Lord Mayor said your reply would be something like that. Shall I wait for you?’ The young man clapped his hands together. ‘Sir John, I am cold.’

Still bellowing ‘By the sod!’ Cranston banged on the door of his house. A thin-faced maid opened it. Behind her stood Maude, now fully dressed, her sweet face tear-stained. Sir John grinned at her to hide his own disquiet.

‘Lady wife, I am off to the Guildhall – but not before I break fast.’ He dragged the young pursuivant in with him. ‘He’ll eat too. He looks as if he needs it.’

Cranston spun on his heel, went back outside and re-entered, dragging in Leif by the scruff of his neck. ‘This idle bugger will also be joining us. After which, find him a job. He will be spending Yuletide here.’ He tapped his broad girth. ‘For all of us, hot oatmeal and spiced cakes!’ The coroner sniffed the air. ‘And some of that white manchet, freshly baked.’ He looked slyly at his wife. ‘And claret, hot and spiced. Then tell the groom I need a horse!’ He grinned broadly, but despite his bluster Cranston noticed how pale and ill his wife looked. He glanced away. Oh God! he thought. Am I to lose Maude? He tossed off his cloak and strode past his wife, touching her gently on the shoulder as he passed.

Athelstan was distributing communion, placing the thin white wafers on the tongues of his parishioners. Crim held the silver plate under their chins to catch any crumbs which might fall. Most of the parish council had turned up, some wandering in when Mass was half over.

The friar was about to return to the altar when he heard a tapping on the outside wall of the far aisle. Of course! He had forgotten the lepers, two unfortunates whom he’d allowed to shelter in the musty charnel house in the cemetery. Athelstan provided them with food and drink and a bowl of water infused with mulberry to wash in, but never once had he glimpsed their scabrous white faces, though from his clothes one was definitely a male. He wished he could do more for them but Canon Law was most insistent – a leper was not allowed to take communion with the rest of the congregation but could only receive it through the leper squint, a small hole in the wall of the church.

Crim remembered his duties and, picking up a thin twig of ash, handed it to the friar who placed a host on the end and pushed it through the leper squint. He repeated the action, whispered a prayer, and went back to finish the Mass.

Afterwards Athelstan disrobed in the sacristy, closing his ears to the crashing sounds from the nave as Watkin the dung-collector rearranged the benches for the meeting of the parish council. Athelstan knelt on his
prie dieu
, asked for guidance, and hoped to God his parishioners would overlook the dreadful events happening outside.

As soon as he stepped into the nave, he knew his prayers had been fruitless. Watkin was sitting in pride of place, the other members on benches on either side of him. Crim had placed Athelstan’s chair out of the sanctuary ready for him and, as he took it, Athelstan caught Watkin’s self-important look, the ominous flickering of the eyes and the mouth pursed as if on the brink of announcing something very important.

Ursula the pig woman had joined them, bringing her large fat sow into church with her in spite of the protests of the rest. The creature waddled around grunting with pleasure. Athelstan was sure the annoying beast was grinning at him. He did not object to its presence. Better here than outside. Ursula was a garrulous but a kindly old woman. Nevertheless the friar hid a blind hatred for her large, fat-bellied sow which periodically plundered his garden of any vegetables he tried to plant there.

Athelstan said a prayer to the Holy Ghost and leaned back in his chair.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ he began, ‘welcome to this meeting on our holiday feast of St Lucy.’ He ignored Watkin’s eye. ‘We have certain matters to discuss.’ He smiled at Benedicta then noticed with alarm how Watkin’s wife was glaring at Cecily the courtesan. A mutual antipathy existed between these two women, Watkin’s wife in the past loudly wondering why it was necessary for her husband to confer so often with Cecily on the cleaning of the church. Huddle the painter stared vacantly at a blank wall, probably dreaming of the mural he would like to put there if Athelstan gave him the monies.

Most of the parish business was a long litany of mundane items. Pike the ditcher’s daughter wished to marry Amisias the fuller’s eldest boy. The great Blood Book was consulted to ensure there were no lines of consanguinity. Athelstan was pleased to announce there were not and matters turned to the approaching Yuletide: the Ceremony of the Star which would take place in the church, the timing of the three Masses for Christmas Day, the non-payment of burial dues, and the children using the holy water stoup as a drinking fountain. Tab the tinker offered to fashion new candlesticks, two large ones, fronted with lions. Gamelyn the clerk volunteered to sing a pleasant carol at the end of each Mass at Yuletide. Athelstan agreed to a mummers’ play in the nave on St Stephen’s Day, and some discussion was held about who would play the role of the boy bishop at Childermass, the feast of the Holy Innocents, on the twenty-eighth of December.

Athelstan, however, noticed despairingly how Watkin just slumped on his bench, glaring impatiently as he clawed his codpiece and shuffled his muddy boots. Benedicta caught Athelstan’s concern and gazed anxiously at this man she loved but could not attain because he was an ordained priest. At last Athelstan ran out of things to say.

‘Well, Watkin,’ he commented drily. ‘You have a matter of great urgency?’

Watkin drew himself up to his full height. His greasy brow was furrowed under a shock of bright red hair, receding fast to leave a bushy fringe. His pale blue eyes, which seemed to fight each other for space next to a bulbous nose, glared around at his colleagues.

‘The cemetery has been looted!’ he blurted out.

Athelstan groaned and lowered his head.

‘What do you mean?’ shouted Ranulf the rat-catcher, his face sharp and pointed under a black, tarry hood.

‘In the last few days,’ Watkin announced, ‘corpses have been exhumed!’

Consternation broke out. Athelstan rose and clapped his hands for silence, and kept doing so until the clamour ceased. ‘You know,’ he began, ‘how our cemetery of St Erconwald’s is often used for the burial of corpses of strangers – beggars on whom no claim is made. No grave of any parishioner’s relative has been disturbed.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Nevertheless, Watkin is correct. Three graves have been robbed of their bodies. Each had been freshly interred. A young beggar woman, a Brabantine mercenary found dead after a tavern brawl, and an old man seen begging outside the hospital of St Thomas, who was found in the courtyard of the Tabard Inn, frozen dead.’ Athelstan licked his lips. ‘The ground is hard,’ he continued. ‘Watkin knows how difficult it is to dig with mattock and hoe to furnish a grave deep enough, so the very shallowness of the graves has assisted these blasphemous robbers.’