The Book of Fires (15 page)

‘He must have fled?’

‘Apparently so, Sir John, but he took none of his possessions with him, no money or valuables.’

‘And his manuscripts?’

‘I think he took most of them. Brother Athelstan, you may see what is left – nothing remarkable or noteworthy.’

‘And your brother’s chancery?’

‘Of course, we have been through all his papers, Rohesia and I, assisted by Mortice and Buckholt. Do you know, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that I searched, as did the others, but we discovered nothing from those years my brother spent abroad? No mention of “The Book of Fires”. Oh, there are
billae
, memoranda, indentures and lists of this and that, but nothing really significant.’

‘And “The Book of Fires” itself?’

‘I’ve told you, Brother, Sir Walter hardly ever referred to it, and when he did he gave that sly smile, tapping the side of his nose and claiming its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone but that it was safe on the island of Patmos, and no, I don’t know what he meant.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You went into the city accompanied by Buckholt and Rosamund?’

‘Yes.’ Lady Rohesia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

‘Did you stay together?’

‘No, when we reached Cheapside we went our separate ways.’ Lady Rohesia gestured. ‘We all had different tasks, errands, items of business.’

‘For how long?’

‘Brother, at least two hours. Sir Henry said we should all meet at the Standard as the bells chimed for noon,’ she glanced at her husband, ‘and so we did.’

Athelstan sensed he would make little progress on this issue: it would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove one or more of them slipped away to launch that murderous attack so he just nodded, tapping his sandalled feet against the floor.

‘Now, Sir John, are we finished here?’ Sir Henry asked.

Cranston looked at Athelstan, who nodded. Once they’d left, Athelstan sat back in his chair.

‘We never did anything wrong,’ he whispered. ‘But, there again, we never did anything right.’

‘Friar?’

‘An epitaph inscribed above Hell’s door, Sir John. Believe me, that precious pair could tell us more but chose not to. Ah, well, you have summoned Falke and Garman?’

‘Yes, and let’s see if they have arrived.’

Nicholas Falke, blond hair all dishevelled, face flushed, blue popping eyes blinking with anger, was ushered into the buttery. Mortice served more ale.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Falke began, ‘I am very busy.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cranston replied. ‘So let’s be brusque and brisk. Tell the truth and you will have nothing to fear.’

‘Sir John, are you threatening me?’

‘Yes. I am Lord High Coroner of London and this session is as valid as any court. So first, before you defended Lady Isolda did you have any dealings with her?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you defend her? Come on,’ Cranston snarled and banged on the table, ‘I will have you put on oath and, if you lie, haul you off to Newgate on a charge of perjury.’

‘For the love of God,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘Falke, you did your duty. You tried your best but Isolda has gone to God. We need to know why you, a complete stranger, a well-respected lawyer, defended her. Isolda, so we understand, had very little money of her own?’

Falke, raising his hand in a sign of peace, scraped back his chair and walked over to the window. He pulled back the shutters and stared through the thick mullion glass.

‘I truly believed that Isolda was innocent. I accepted and still do that the story about the goblets was a mere fabrication. Isolda maintained Sir Walter must have been poisoned by others.’

‘Like whom?’

‘Oh,’ Falke didn’t turn round, ‘Buckholt, even Vanner. But I saw these accusations as the outpourings of a tormented mind. All she could cite was household gossip.’

‘And Vanner?’

‘She admitted he was her ally here at Firecrest and, like the others, had grievances against his master. She pointed out that Sir Walter could have been poisoned before she gave him the drink or at some time during the night. People could have gone in or out of his chamber – after all, he wasn’t found dead until after daybreak.’

‘And “The Book of Fires”?’ Cranston warned. ‘You must answer our questions truthfully.’

‘Ah, well.’ Falke turned and walked back to his chair. ‘I did not know Isolda Beaumont before her arrest or imprisonment. I was visited in my chamber by a Greek merchant, Nicephorus – he and his three companions, professional swordsmen. I later found out they were from the elite Imperial corps of the Varangian Guard at Constantinople. Nicephorus was most pleasant, calm and courteous. He wanted me to defend Isolda. I asked him why. He said that was his business. I told him to make it mine.’ Falke sipped at the tankard. ‘He was direct. He didn’t care if Isolda was innocent or guilty, he simply wanted the whereabouts of the manuscript, or at least Sir Walter’s copy, of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”.’ Again Falke paused to drink. Athelstan watched him and recalled those mysterious rescuers earlier in the day.

‘I pressed for more. Nicephorus said it was a long story and did not concern me. However, once I accepted his commission, he gave me details. As a young man Walter Beaumont travelled to Constantinople. He served in their mercenary corps of gunners, where he deepened his knowledge of gunpowder, cannon, projectiles, Greek fire and all the secrets of the Imperial army. It was a time of unrest. The Turks were redoubling their attacks. Matters were made worse by earthquakes, plagues and civil war. Eventually peace was restored when John Cantacuzene emerged as the victor, assuming the title of John VI. However, during the unrest, Walter Beaumont and his mercenary troop took part in the pillaging of the Imperial palace. According to Nicephorus, they were not after treasure; instead Beaumont, with a few of his companions, no more than six henchmen, invaded the secret chancery of the Emperor’s library. There, in a locked arca which they forced, they found a copy of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Beaumont stole this and fled. Now Beaumont led a company.’ Falke paused.

‘Luciferi?’ Athelstan gently prompted. ‘The Light Bearers?’

‘The Luciferi,’ Falke agreed. ‘Some of them were caught and executed. Beaumont and others escaped and returned to England. However, the Imperial court had to be careful. If they issued demands to the English Crown, our late King Edward III and his warriors would have become deeply intrigued. “The Book of Fires” is greatly valued, the knowledge it holds highly prized. The Imperial court did not wish to emphasize this too much. Moreover, Beaumont soon became a very powerful merchant directly patronized by the Crown. Finding Beaumont was easy enough but the Greeks dared not do anything against him lest the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” died with him.’

‘So Nicephorus asked you to defend Isolda and, by doing so, discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”?’

‘In a word, yes, Brother Athelstan. I was given a fee, a good gold coin, and promised much more if I located the precious manuscript. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I am talking about a veritable fortune.’

Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘In God’s name,’ the coroner whispered, ‘why do they want it back so much? Surely the Greeks have copies? Of course,’ he clapped his hands as he answered his own question, ‘“The Book of Fires” is a veritable treasure trove with all its formulas and secret mixtures. Others want it!’

‘Precisely, Sir John. The Greeks use such fire, the Imperial navy carries it. It’s the last line of defence against their enemies. The Turks are swallowing up one territory after another. One day the Greeks will have to confront their darkest nightmare, a Turkish army laying siege to Constantinople. Greek fire would be crucial to its defence, whilst the Turks would use it with devastating effect. Nicephorus was desperate to retrieve “The Book of Fires”.’ Falke shook his head. ‘Sometimes Nicephorus changed his story.’

‘In what way?’

‘He talked of Sir Walter, or “Black Beaumont”, pillaging the Imperial chancery and escaping with a close group of Luciferi. Nicephorus hinted that Imperial agents killed some of these but others of the company may have been murdered by Black Beaumont himself. And something else.’ Falke paused to collect his thoughts and Athelstan sensed the man was telling the truth. ‘There may have been two copies of “The Book of Fires”. Beaumont gave one back but withheld the other.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not too sure. You must remember my sole task was to defend Lady Isolda. They paid my fee and provided me with extra money so Lady Isolda could have her own cell in Newgate, squalid though it was. If she’d been thrown in with the common herd, God knows what would have happened.’

‘And Lady Isolda knew all this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Naturally. She conceded that the Greeks had approached her very soon after her marriage to Sir Walter, offering a veritable fortune for the return of what she called “that damnable book”. I begged her to tell me what she knew. All she could reply was that Sir Walter kept it secret.’

‘Do you know,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if the Greeks approached other members of the Luciferi? You did say some survived and returned to England?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Falke nodded. ‘I asked the same question. They said it had been easy to find Walter Beaumont but the rest were not so simple. Sir John, you must know this, men who travel abroad to be mercenaries often change their names and identities.’

‘I agree,’ the coroner grunted. ‘On one occasion I did it myself.’

‘Anyway, to return to Lady Isolda, I pressed her to tell me what she knew. She replied that Sir Walter was too cunning even to share such secrets with his brother.’ Falke rubbed his face in his hands. ‘Nicephorus was honourable; he paid for the cell and necessities as well as a generous fee. I continued to defend Isolda. I truly believed in her innocence. In the end she could not explain away the testimony of Mortice or Buckholt, whilst the disappearance of Vanner did not help her case. All she could maintain was that she was the victim of a cruel plot.’

‘On the question of money,’ Cranston asked, ‘was Sir Walter a generous husband?’

‘No. He kept a tight rein on what he called his “high-spirited filly” of a wife. He was not overly generous to her.’

‘Did she blame Vanner?’ Athelstan asked.

‘She said it was possible that he was the killer, that he fed Sir Walter some potion before or after he drank that posset.’

‘Interesting,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how she accepted that her husband had been poisoned.’

‘Oh, yes, but not by her.’

‘Did she,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever refer to a possible annulment of her marriage to Sir Walter?’

Falke gaped in astonishment. ‘Never,’ he spluttered. ‘That was part of her defence, how her relationship with Sir Walter was cordial.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘she would, wouldn’t she? Now, Vanner disappeared the day before her arrest. Did she ever enquire about his whereabouts?’

‘No, not really. She said Vanner might have had a hand in Sir Walter’s murder, but she was more concerned about herself than anyone else. You can understand why: she faced disgrace, humiliation and a savage death. She maintained her innocence. She claimed she was a victim of a clever plot by others in the household, Buckholt, Mortice, Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia. Sir John, you are a law officer, you can appreciate my situation in defending her. She hadn’t a shred of evidence to support any counter-allegations and the case against her was so pressing it might well have been the outcome of a very clever plot. The question of the goblets, Sir Walter falling ill …’ Falke let his words hang in the air.

‘And the Greeks?’ Cranston asked. ‘Have they troubled you since?’

‘No. I was paid my fee, Nicephorus was honest and honourable.’ Falke wiped the sweat from his face. ‘They have left me alone. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I have told you what I can. I really must leave.’

‘Were you busy this morning?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, around the Inns of Court: I attended a session of the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. Why?’ Falke leaned forward. ‘Has something happened? It did, didn’t it? I have witnesses. I can swear to where I was. I …’ He paused as Athelstan lifted a hand.

‘Master Falke, we are finished – you may leave.’

‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked as the door closed behind the lawyer.

‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t. We have a number of strands here: the innocence or guilt of Isolda; the truth about a host of secrets at Firecrest Manor such as the where-abouts of Vanner; the role played by Sir Henry and his wife. There’s the identity of the Ignifer, the annulment of Isolda’s marriage, the business of “The Book of Fires” and the fact that some of its dreadful secrets are being used to murderous effect. We deal with the present, Sir John, but many of these mysteries trail back decades. Ah, well, has Parson Garman arrived?’

Cranston rose and went to the door. He talked to Mortice and returned, followed by the tall, lanky figure of Brother Philippe, Canon of the Order of St Augustine and principal physician in the House of Mercy at the Hospital of St Bartholomew, Smithfield.

‘Garman is unable to come,’ Cranston explained, ‘he is attending executions over Tyburn stream.’ He smiled. ‘However, I believe you are acquainted with our next guest.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Athelstan stepped round the portly coroner to exchange the kiss of peace with Philippe Layburn, who, in Athelstan’s opinion, was the most skilled physician in London. The Augustinian, his long, weather-beaten face smiling in pleasure, hugged Athelstan close.

‘You’re still too skinny, Dominican,’ he whispered. ‘You should eat better.’

‘Sir John does that for me,’ Athelstan replied, stepping back and studying the Augustinian from head to toe. ‘Brother physician, you look well.’ What always fascinated Athelstan was Philippe’s sharpness; it seemed to express itself in almost claw-like fingers and eyes as keen as those of a hunting hawk.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am well.’ Philippe sat down, gratefully accepting the tankard of ale Cranston poured for him on the side-dresser and brought across.

‘Thank you for coming, Philippe.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘We live and work in very dangerous times. You’ve heard of the Ignifer?’ Philippe nodded. ‘He appears to have marked Sir John and me down for death and it’s all connected to Firecrest Manor, where you are physician, yes?’