The House of Shadows (27 page)

Athelstan stared across at the glorious red rooster Huddle the painter had begun to depict on one of the pillars. It was supposed to represent the cock which crowed three times, marking Peter’s denial of Christ during the Lord’s Passion. On the other pillar an elegant pelican stabbed its own breast to feed its young, a symbol of Christ giving His Body and Blood to the world. The friar realised only now, sitting here, how he had underestimated Huddle’s consummate skill in bringing these two symbols to life, and he felt a pang of regret at not congratulating that dreamy-eyed painter more forcefully.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we should do it now. But Tonnelli won’t see us without John of Gaunt’s permission, he’ll act the cautious banker.’

‘I’ll send the letter myself,’ Cranston offered. ‘His Grace the Regent is at his palace in the Savoy.’

Athelstan became busy, hurrying across to his house for a sheet of better vellum, a sander of pounce and a slice of sealing wax. Sir John dictated the letter. Athelstan melted the wax and used the sander to sprinkle the very fine dust, so that the ink wouldn’t blur. The letter was sealed by Sir John, and sealed again when Athelstan folded it.

‘Benedicta’s in the house,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I think Malachi is getting under her feet. She’ll take this over to the Savoy.’

He hurried off and came back to find Cranston beating his boot on the paved floor.

‘There’s the other mysteries,’ the coroner declared mournfully. ‘In God’s name, Athelstan, how was Chandler poisoned? And that psalter of his, what great wrongs had he done to keep begging forgiveness?’

‘He was a soldier, and only the mind of God knows what horrors he committed in Outremer whilst his lust for soft flesh must have been a canker in his soul. But for his murder? I can’t say, Sir John, and the same for Broomhill. Oh, he was lured into that cellar, but by whom, how and why remain a mystery.’

Athelstan sat on his stool, head in his hands. Cranston stared at him out of the corner of his eye. Such mysteries often perplexed him; he was more concerned that Athelstan, this little dark-faced friar, was mystified. Time was slipping away like sand in a glass. How long could he detain those knights? Sooner or later they would assert themselves and seek the writ of the Chancellor or a Justice of the Bench at Westminster, and he would have to let them go. Athelstan lifted his face and smiled.

‘Now I know,’ he sighed, ‘what the ancients meant by psychomachia.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A Greek term, Sir John, signifying war in the mind or the soul, the conflict of different ideas. Contradictions impede any progress,’ he tapped the side of his head, ‘in all this confusion.’

‘So?’

‘Well, I’ll quote the great Archimedes, and his famous phrase, “
Pou-sto
”; it means “I act from where I stand”. Archimedes meant that if you stand in the right place with the right instruments, no problem is impossible.’ He gestured round the sombre church. ‘This is where we begin, Sir John, this is our place.’

‘And the right instruments?’

‘Well, I recall my studies of that brilliant Dominican Thomas Aquinas, and his
quinque viae
.’

‘Oh no,’ Cranston groaned.

‘No, Sir John, Aquinas had to study a more complex problem than the one facing us – the existence of God. He established what he termed the
quinque viae
, the five ways. To summarise, Sir John, everything must have a cause. So let’s look at the cause of all this, and the place where it all began. Well, my Lord Coroner?’

‘Why, the robbery of the Lombard treasure, twenty years ago on the Oyster Wharf.’

‘Right, let’s start there. We are told the treasure was brought to the wharf.’

‘Yes,’ Sir John grunted.

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well, because it was away from the City but near the Crusaders’ fleet.’

‘How do we know that?’

‘Well,’ Cranston spread his hands, ‘it’s the accepted story.’

‘Yes, that’s what intrigues me. Indeed, old Margot was less specific. Would you send treasure to a quayside in Southwark? What guarantee would you have that the quayside would be safe, that footpads and outlaws weren’t sheltering there? The Good Lord knows Southwark has enough of those, and always has. And if you are going to rob it, would you launch an attack on four strong men and just hope that there would be no witnesses? No beggar loitering in the shadows, no footpad sheltering from the law, no lovers locked in close embrace? If you had planned such a robbery you would be taking a terrible risk. After all, you didn’t know John of Gaunt wasn’t sending a company of archers with it.’

‘But that proves Culpepper and Mortimer are guilty,’ Sir John retorted. ‘We now know they were by themselves.’

‘No we don’t. The boatmen must have been accomplices because they have disappeared as well. I know what you are thinking, Sir John, but your hypothesis is weak. I find it difficult to accept that Culpepper and Mortimer received the treasure chest, loaded the barge, persuaded two honest boatmen to go out on the river with them, journeyed to some lonely place, broke the chest open and disappeared into the night for ever. I don’t think, Sir John, that Culpepper and Mortimer stole the treasure, which means others did, which in turn brings us back to the problem of how the attackers felt so secure in robbing a valuable treasure on one of the well-known quaysides of Southwark. Remember, Sir John, the Oyster Wharf is mentioned in all accounts, but according to old Margot, that was only the place her husband was to reclaim his barge. Did he take it there or somewhere else?’

Sir John’s lower lip came out, a sign that he was seriously considering Athelstan’s theory. He held the friar’s bright-eyed gaze and winked.

‘You’re correct, little monk.’

‘Friar, Sir John.’

‘Whatever, you’re still right. I wonder what Moleskin would think of your theory?’

‘
Res ipsa loquitur
– the matter speaks for itself. Now let’s look for the proof. I know Moleskin is not far, he’ll be plotting with Merrylegs.’

Athelstan hurried out through the main door and down the steps. Cranston heard him shouting at Crim, who was playing hodman in the cemetery. When the friar returned, Cranston was pleased at Athelstan’s ill-concealed excitement. He started walking up and down, fingering the vow knots on the cord round his waist.

‘It can’t be the Oyster Wharf,’ he kept exclaiming, ‘it just can’t be, not with a parish like this nearby.’

So distracted, Athelstan ignored Cranston’s questions about Moleskin and went off to fill the situla with holy water. Only then did he return to sit opposite Sir John.

‘Benedicta has left to deliver the letter,’ he declared. ‘We must question the Regent whether he likes it or not.’

‘Is he behind this mystery? Oh,
Jesu miseieie
, I hope not.’ Cranston lowered his voice. ‘He’s a veritable salamander. Everything he touches becomes tainted.’

‘Salamander or not,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he has a finger in this pie.’

Athelstan was about to go and trim the candles on the high altar when Moleskin, garbed in sajreen green, the coat of his guild, fashioned out of the untanned skin of a horse and dyed a rich hue, came running through the door.

‘Oh, Brother,’ he gasped, ‘I was with Merrylegs. He’s a marvellous cook and had some pastry to sell to my wife . . .’

‘Never mind.’ Athelstan was unusually sharp. ‘Moleskin, you’ve heard the rumours about the great robbery? I ask you in confidence, would you bring a treasure, even in the dead of night, to the Oyster Wharf in Southwark?’

‘No, Father, I wouldn’t, and I’ve often thought about that—’

‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued, ‘who would be found at the Oyster Wharf at the dead of night?’

‘Well, Father, the usual, whores, a few fishermen, beggars looking for scraps or a place to sleep. Oh!’ Moleskin’s fingers went to his lips. ‘This was twenty years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘The year of our Lord 1360 – the thirty-third year of the old King’s reign?’

‘Yes,’ Cranston barked.

‘Ah!’ Moleskin blithely ignored the coroner’s anger. ‘That would be three years after the year of the Great Stink.’

‘The what?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The Great Stink,’ Cranston explained, ‘occurred in the summer of 1357, after a very dry, hot summer. There was no rainfall, the brooks and the canals of the Thames became polluted and full of rubbish. The smell carried as far north as the great forest of Epping.’ He wagged a finger at Moleskin. ‘I know what you are going to say.’

‘That’s right, Sir John, the Stink lasted for years – at least two, I think. Many pious old ladies thought the Second Coming was due and the Seventh Seal on the Judgment Book of God about to be removed, so they formed the Vespertines. Every night after vespers, these pious old creatures would form a torchlight procession, whilst their husbands would carry statues of the plague saints; you know, Sebastian and the rest. They walked along the quaysides of Southwark, praying that God would send fresh rain and a cleaning wind. I was a young man then but I’m sure the Vespertines were still busy about the same time as the great robbery. I can still remember their chanting and prayers, asking God to repel the demons and the foul airs and vapours they’d brought up from hell.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’

Athelstan dismissed Moleskin and slowly began to put away his writing implements.

‘So, it wasn’t the Oyster Wharf after all, Sir John. I want to visit the Chancery room in the Tower. I want to see what the documents published at the time actually said. I’ll tell Malachi where we are going . . .’

Rosamund Clifford, she called herself. Of course, when they had held her over the font in St Mary-le-Bow Church, she’d been given another name, Mathilda, but that wasn’t a name used by the troubadours or minstrels. Rosamund Clifford had a romantic ring about it; she’d heard the legends, how once an English king had a mistress of the same name who was later foully poisoned at the centre of a maze. Well, that would not be her fate, she thought as she left Mother Veritable’s house and turned into a needle-thin alleyway. Rosamund: Mother Veritable said it came from
rosa mundi
– rose of the world. That was flattering, even though her rivals, who also knew a little Latin, called her ‘Rosa Munda’, the cankered rose. She would ignore such taunts! After the deaths of Beatrice and Clarice, as well as the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Donata, she was now Mother Veritable’s principal lady of the bedchamber.

Rosamund hunched her pretty shoulders in glee; she had received a message from what Mother Veritable called the Castle of Love at the Night in Jerusalem. Sir Thomas Davenport needed her services. Rosamund was delighted at the news, and had decked herself out in all her glory. Her fiery red hair was scooped up in an embroidered net, or reticule, whilst her low-cut gown, loaned by Mother Veritable, was of costly pers, a rich blue fabric from Provence. Beneath it, white lace-edged petticoats and stockings of dark blue with silver stars, on her feet Spanish pattens, and thick-soled high-heeled shoes over soft woollen slippers. Rosamund had visited Sir Thomas before; he always liked to see her in these. She fingered the silver brooch on her cloak, carved in the shape of a pear, a blatant symbol of sexual desire. She tripped down the alleyway oblivious to the lecherous glances and whispers; she was well protected by two of Master Rolles’ bully boys, armed with cudgels, only a shadow-length behind her. Rosamund felt hungry and her mouth was watering as she entered the Night in Jerusalem. Perhaps Master Rolles would give her a bowl of rapes and lentils mashed with a mortar along with breadcrumbs, spices and herbs, or perhaps a dish of pain-pour dieu, circlets of bread soaked in egg yolks, salted till golden and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. She was soon disappointed.

‘He’s upstairs.’ Rolles broke her reverie. The tavern keeper was standing at the entrance to the tap room. He certainly didn’t look well, Rosamund reflected. She climbed the stairs; he hadn’t even offered her a goblet of wine! She’d been informed that Sir Thomas was waiting for her in the Galahad Chamber and had to walk into the adjoining gallery before she spelled out the words painted in gold above the great oaken door.

‘Sir Thomas.’

No answer. Probably maudlin, she thought, as he did like his wine.

‘Sir Thomas!’

She knocked hard, and pressed her ear against the door. She tried the latch but the door held firm. She picked up a jug from the floor outside the room and used this to bang noisily.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sir Maurice Clinton, his thin face all cross, came out of the room next door, pulling a fur-edged cloak around him. ‘What’s the matter, girl, can’t you rouse Sir Thomas?’

‘No, sir, I cannot.’

Fair Rosamund would never forget what happened next. Master Rolles, also alerted by the noise, came thundering up the stairs. They were joined by Sir Reginald Branson as well as servants and other maids. Sir Thomas Davenport still could not be roused, and their agitation deepened as people recalled the brutal murders of Chandler and Broomhill. At last the door was forced, broken off its hinges, the locks and bolts snapping free. It fell back with a crash like a drawbridge going down, revealing a gruesome sight. Sir Thomas lay stretched on the floor with a pricket, a pointed candlestick, thrust deep into his heart. The floor around him glistened with blood, still curling and running, as it found its way through the turkey carpets. Nobody told Rosamund to stand back and fascinated by the horror, she followed the rest into the room.

‘He’s been murdered,’ the head ostler whispered.

Rosamund gazed at the frightful sight. Sir Thomas lay crumpled, slightly to one side, as if he had fallen from the soft-backed chair beside him, face all pale, but the look on his face! As if his sightless eyes were about to blink and those gaping lips about to talk! Rosamund watched Sir Maurice pick up a solace stone, semi precious, its flashing rubies oval cut and polished, and place it on the table. He crouched down beside the corpse, turning it over gently.

‘We had best leave him,’ Rolles whispered. ‘That fat coroner and his snooping friar have to be called. No, don’t,’ he intervened as Sir Maurice went to pluck the pricket from Sir Thomas’ flesh.