The House of Shadows (28 page)

‘Yes, leave it,’ Sir Reginald urged. ‘We should clear the room, leave everything until Cranston comes.’

Athelstan and Cranston sat blowing on their fingers in the freezing Chancery room of the Tower. Athelstan’s throat felt slightly sore and his back sweaty and cold. He wondered if he was about to suffer an attack of the rheums. He quietly promised himself a boiling cup of posset before he retired that day and tried to forget the symptoms. He stared round the circular room high in one of the towers, just a short walk from the Norman Keep. The lancet windows had been boarded up, a fire burned in the cavernous hearth, braziers crackled and glowed, yet the chamber was still freezing cold. Colebrook, the surly lieutenant, with whom Cranston and Athelstan had done business before, had greeted them at the Lion Gate, and taken them immediately up to the Chancery room. Hubert, the chief clerk, had reluctantly left his beloved filing and recording of memoranda, writs, letters and proclamations. A small, curiously bird-like man, in both appearance and movement, Hubert had gestured at the various great coffers and chests arranged neatly around the room by regnal year. At first he gave Cranston a lecture on the storage, preservation and filing of parchment and, ignoring their interruptions, insisted on showing them how documents were recorded and stored. He then proudly demonstrated the new invention he had found in Hainault, what he termed a ‘Rotulus’, a small wheel with a handle on the side. The roll of vellum was attached to a clasp on the rim and the wheel cranked round so that a searcher could scrutinise the different membranes twined to each other.

‘If a letter is sealed by the Great or Privy Seal,’ Hubert pompously announced, ‘it is copied and brought here. Oh, I heard you before, Sir John, I remember the year of the Great Stink, and who can forget the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’ He creased his face into a look of sharp condemnation. ‘I was in the Chancery at that time; letters of proclamation were issued, north, south, east and west. Come, I’ll show you.’

He searched amongst the coffers and brought out a small roll of parchment, its contents summarised in Latin shorthand on the back. He inserted this on the Rotulus and Athelstan began his search.

‘Very curious,’ Athelstan remarked, turning the wooden handle. ‘There’s no doubt His Grace the Regent,’ he nodded at Hubert, ‘although he wasn’t that then, there’s no doubt about his rage.’

‘Oh, very true,’ the clerk intoned. ‘Brother, I saw him the day after the robbery. Raging like a panther he was. Eyes bright with anger, he lashed out with his tongue.’

‘You’re sure of that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, I’m a skilled clerk. I have inscribed the letters of the old King, when he was lying in bed, ill with myriad ailments. On that day His Grace was angry. If he had caught the perpetrators he would have hoist them from the highest gallows.’

Athelstan, Cranston standing beside him, continued the search.

‘Most remarkable.’ Sir John pointed to one document. ‘The ships weren’t riding at anchor off Southwark but between the river fleet and St Paul’s Wharf.’

‘And look,’ Athelstan pointed to a line, ‘there’s no reference, well at first, to the Oyster Wharf. Simply to a great robbery along the river.’ He turned the handle again, moving the document forward. ‘Only a month after the crime is the Oyster Wharf mentioned. Remember what I said, Sir John, about Archimedes. We must go to the right place, and now we have it.’

He paused as Cranston took a deep draught from the miraculous wine skin, offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head, and then to Hubert who, despite his size, surprised Cranston with the generous swig he took.

‘What it means, Sir John,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and we shall have to ask His Grace this question, is why was the Oyster Wharf mentioned, when all the evidence indicates that the robbery took place on the south bank of the river, but much further down? Imagine, Sir John, if you can, the Southwark bank. You pass the Bishop of Winchester’s inn, the stews, the washing places, and then what?’

Cranston closed his eyes. ‘Muddy banks,’ he replied, ‘marshy fields, giving way to mud and shale. Lonely places.’ He opened his eyes. ‘The ideal spot.’

‘Exactly, Sir John, I think that’s where the robbery took place.’

Hubert the clerk was listening intently.

‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ he muttered. ‘By St Mary and all the angels, this is interesting.’

‘It will become common knowledge soon enough.’ Athelstan stood back. ‘Right, Sir John, in that fertile mind of yours, imagine the treasure barge, leaving the Tower. It goes directly across the river, following the bank along the Southwark side, past the Oyster Wharf, down to this lonely spot. Culpepper and Mortimer are waiting with their own barge. They use lanterns or torches to bring the party from the Tower in to where they are waiting. The treasure is exchanged. In the flickering light of the torches, Culpepper hastily signs the indenture.’

Athelstan returned to the Rotulus and found the indenture. ‘Only one word,
thesaurum
, the Latin word for treasure, indicated the great wealth he received. The document had been drawn up by some clerk. The party from the Tower probably took writing implements with them. Culpepper scrawled his name, “Ricardus Culpepper”, with a cross beside it, and beneath that “Edwardus Mortimer”, who drew a roughly etched lion, his family symbol.’ Athelstan stared at the signatures. Something about them pricked his memory, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the treasure is exchanged, the Tower barge leaves. I’m not too sure when the bargemen arrived, but there, on that dark lonely bank, the demon struck. Whatever people say, I truly believe four souls were sent into eternal night. The treasure chest is stolen, the barge is ransacked and pushed out into the river, where the tide takes it down to some reeds near Westminster.’

‘And the corpses of the four men?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t.’

‘But why all this mention of the Oyster Wharf?’

Athelstan was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. Colebrook entered, grasping a tap boy from the Night in Jerusalem by the scruff of his neck. The lad broke free and hurtled towards Athelstan, almost colliding with him.

‘Brother,’ he gasped. ‘You have to come.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Sir Domus—’

‘Sir Thomas,’ Athelstan corrected.

‘Well, he’s dead,’ the boy retorted, ‘stabbed through the heart with a pricket. Master Rolles is fair raging like a hungry dog on a leash.’

‘When did this happen?’ Cranston asked.

‘This morning,’ the boy declared, eyes riveted on the coin in Athelstan’s hand. ‘A real mystery,’ he whispered. ‘The windows all shuttered, the chamber doors all locked and barred. Master Rolles wasn’t pleased with that either.’ His little eyes didn’t leave the coin. ‘A good door to the Galahad Chamber broken down, bolts and hinges all destroyed. Sir Thomas lying in his own blood like a duck on a stall, fair swimming in blood he was—’

‘Thank you,’ Athelstan interrupted, pressing the coin into the child’s hand. ‘Now lead on, Gabriel.’

‘My name is not Gabriel.’

‘It is today,’ Athelstan smiled.

They thanked Hubert and Colebrook and, with the lad scampering ahead like a monkey released from its chain, left the Lion Gate, up Thames Street and into Billingsgate. They pushed their way through the fish market, thrusting aside the sharp-eyed apprentices eager to sell them the fresh catch of the day. The boy moved like a coursed hare, dodging round the stalls, making obscene gestures at anyone trying to stop him. On the approaches to London Bridge, Cranston had to roar at him to halt whilst he and Athelstan paused to catch their breath.

‘Another murder, Brother,’ the coroner gasped, ‘and it looks as mysterious as the last.’

And they were off again, threading their way through the narrow thoroughfare. They passed the shops and houses built on either side of the bridge, the gaps where the great laystalls stood, full of reeking rubbish from the midden heaps, wary of the makeshift sewer coursing down the centre of the thoroughfare. The stench was sickening. Athelstan hated the place. the bridge rails soared the long ash poles bearing the severed heads of traitors and criminals. The boy had to slow down here, as the crowds thronged, to look over the side and watch the water rushing through, gape up at the severed heads, visit the shops and stalls, or pray in the cold darkness of St Thomas’ Chapel, built in the middle of the bridge directly above the rushing torrent. Athelstan crossed himself as he passed the half-open door. He sketched a blessing in the direction of Bourdon, the diminutive Keeper of the Bridge, who was sitting on the steps of the chapel, between his feet a bucket of brine in which he was washing the severed head of a criminal. Athelstan kept his eyes on the ground. Such sights were offensive, and the dizzying height over the rushing water always made him feel nervous. He was pleased to be off the bridge and hurrying down the lanes and alleyways and into the courtyard of the Night in Jerusalem.

Rolles met them at the door and, like a prophet come to judgement, mournfully took them up the polished oaken staircase into the Galahad Chamber.

‘I told people not to move anything.’

‘Has Brother Malachi been sent for?’ Athelstan asked, staring down at the blood-soaked corpse.

‘He was here much earlier this morning,’ Rolles replied. ‘Then left with his belongings. Good riddance, say I.’

‘Did he come up here? Did he visit Sir Thomas?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, his chamber is on the other side. Anyway, at that time Sir Thomas wasn’t in his chamber but sitting in the garden. He came in, took a cup of malmsey and returned to his chamber. He’d hired the services of one of Mother Veritable’s girls, a whore called Rosamund. I’ve put her in the garden arbour.’

Athelstan turned and looked at the door. The lintel had been ruined; the leather hinges, bolts and locks had torn away huge strips of wood as they were forced.

‘The door was fully secured?’

‘See for yourself, Brother.’

Cranston went across to the window. This was still shuttered, the bar down. The room was very warm, and beneath the faint fragrance of perfume he smelt something else, the tang of blood, of something unwholesome. He opened the shutters and stared at the window with its small latch door which looked as though it hadn’t been opened for days, whilst it was too small for a man to force his way through. He turned back to the corpse, lying slightly on one side, mouth and eyes open, the skin a dirty white. He could tell from the arms and hands that the muscles were stiffening, and reckoned Sir Thomas must have been dead for at least two hours.

Athelstan took napkins from the lavarium and used them as a kneeler beside the corpse. Removing the small wooden cross he wore around his neck, he performed the rites of the dead, blessing the man’s brow, eyes, nose and bloodied mouth, sketching with his thumb as he quickly recited the words of absolution and invited the powers of heaven to go out and meet this soul, to protect him against the hands of the enemy. Athelstan secretly wondered if it was too late. Perhaps the soul had already left the body, its fate resting with the mercy of God. Once finished, he turned the corpse over and, using both hands, pulled out the pricket, an ugly-looking weapon with its broad base, the point as sharp and deadly as any slitting knife. It came out with a gentle plop, and more blood dripped. Athelstan handed the pricket to Cranston and carefully scrutinised the corpse. The flesh was cold and clammy, the muscles hard. He noticed how most of the blood stained the stomach and the lap of the gown. He could detect no other bruise or mark, and when he sniffed the goblet of wine standing on the table, as well as the plate of sweetmeats beside it, no malevolent odour. He picked up a solace stone and felt how it fitted snugly into the palm of his hand.

‘Sir Thomas often used that.’ Clinton stood in the doorway, Branson behind him. ‘He would often use that stone, flexing his fingers to comfort himself.’

‘Did he need comforting?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir Maurice shrugged.

‘And you, sir,’ Cranston pointed to Sir Reginald Branson, ‘do you know anything about this man’s death?’

‘Only what you see,’ Branson retorted tersely, ‘and all I can add, Lord Coroner, is that good men, knights of the Crown, are being foully murdered, but no one is brought to justice. He was murdered.’ Branson advanced into the room. ‘Look, Sir John, at the corpse, search this chamber. Sir Thomas liked life and all its comforts. He brought up a goblet of wine, a dish of sweetmeats. He had invited a young lady to share his company; that was all cut short! Someone came into this chamber and stabbed him to the heart.’

Athelstan, still kneeling down, picked up Davenport’s right hand, slightly blood-splashed, the skin clean and smooth, the nails neatly cut. He sighed and got to his feet and, ignoring Clinton’s protests, began to search the chamber with Cranston’s assistance. He found nothing significant: personal treasures, a prayer book, clothing, documents, purses of silver. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed curtains of the tester bed had already been folded back, as if Sir Thomas was preparing for his visitor. Athelstan could find nothing of significance, no sign of a struggle.

‘Is this how the room was?’ he asked.

Sir Maurice nodded.

‘But how,’ Athelstan asked, ‘can a man be stabbed to the heart when the door is locked and bolted, the windows shuttered, with no other entrance? There isn’t one, Master Rolles, is there?’

The taverner shook his head.

‘Yet someone came in here,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘a friend who was allowed to get very close, snatch up that pricket and stab Sir Thomas through the heart. Had he drunk much claret today?’

‘A fair bit,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘He was sitting out in the garden for most of the morning, enjoying the sunlight, watching the carp in the pond.’

‘He then came in.’ Rolles picked up the story. ‘He was in excellent humour. He demanded a goblet and a plate of sweetmeats to be sent up to his chamber and asked me to send for Rosamund.’

‘So he didn’t use the Castle of Love? The pocket in the tapestry.’