The House of Shadows (33 page)

‘Brother, good morrow, what’s this all about?’

Athelstan took him into a far corner, whispering what he had planned and what Sir John must do. The coroner loosened his cloak, took off his beaver hat, scratched his head and whistled under his breath.

‘Little friar, you have been busy!’ He nodded at the doorway. ‘As I came in, they were gathering in the solar.’

‘So, we must join them. There must be a guard in the room and one outside.’

‘And the bailiffs?’

‘Oh, they’ll be busy. They have a garden to dig!’

Athelstan, clutching his writing satchel and leather bag, left the tap room, followed by a mystified Cranston. The others were already grouped either side of the solar table. Athelstan sat at one end with his back to the window, Sir John at the other.

‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

The knights grunted a reply as if bored by the proceedings. Rolles, however, was clearly agitated by the presence of the guards and so many bailiffs.

‘Ah, Henry.’ Athelstan pointed at Flaxwith, who was standing behind Cranston. ‘I must ask you to leave. I have a very important task for you. In the outhouse, across the stable yard, you will find spades, mattocks and hoes. No, keep still, Master Rolles.’ Athelstan spoke as the taverner scraped back his chair. I want you to collect them, go into the garden behind me and start digging.’

Athelstan glanced quickly at the knights, gratified at the shock in their faces. Rolles was so agitated he couldn’t keep still.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Flaxwith retorted, ‘Master Rolles’ garden is beautiful.’

‘Master Rolles, you will keep seated,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘or I will ask you to be bound. Henry, the garden behind me is not beautiful. It houses the mortal remains of five poor souls, murdered by the men who are now seated around this table.’

The knights jumped to their feet, followed by Rolles. Cranston banged the table, shouting that they would be arrested if they moved three paces from their chairs. Once silence was imposed, Cranston looked over his shoulder and nodded at Flaxwith.

‘Do it!’ he ordered. ‘And dig deep. Brother Athelstan?’ He turned back.

‘Thank you, Sir John. I will repeat what I’ve said. Each of you seated at this table, all four of you, is guilty of the most hideous homicide.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One is missing. You may have made enquiries about her, Mother Veritable. She has been taken by two friends of mine across the river. She has confessed, and will do so again, to the murderous events of twenty years ago.’

‘It is an unassailable theory,’ Athelstan began, ‘that murder, like charity, always begins at home. In this case, home was the Night in Jerusalem, where a group of young knights, brothers-in-arms, assembled over twenty years ago to take part in the Great Crusade of Lord Peter of Cyprus. Eager, hungry young men, raised in the House of War, who saw their fortunes threatened by the recent peace treaty with France. A group of such knights from the shire of Kent assembled here with their chaplain Brother Malachi.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Only one was an outsider: Edward Mortimer, a landless knight who’d become the handfast friend of Culpepper, so close they were like peas in a pod.’

Athelstan moved his chair sideways so he could stare out of the window to where Flaxwith and the others were busy digging up Master Rolles’ garden.

‘You didn’t have much money.’ He was aware how quiet the solar had become; the ghosts were now gathering. ‘You came up to London,’ he continued, ‘and took lodgings in this tavern, recently purchased by Master Rolles with the plunder and the ransoms he had earned in France. Through Master Rolles you became acquainted with Mother Veritable, who owned a pleasure house down near the stews. Now, Culpepper fell in love with one of the ladies of the night, who rejoiced in the name of Guinevere the Golden, a beautiful woman, fair of face but fickle of heart. You all enjoyed yourselves while the crusading army gathered and the cogs of war assembled in the Thames.’

‘What does all this mean?’ Sir Maurice Clinton spoke up, his face ashen and sweat-stained.

‘God knows the true reason,’ Athelstan ignored the interruption, ‘but His Grace John of Gaunt, together with the Lombard banker Teodoro Tonnelli, decided that part of the war chest, the loan raised by the Crusader commanders, should be transported secretly, by night, to the Admiral’s flagship waiting in the Thames. His Grace wished to avoid any public show, so as not to attract the attention of the outlaw gangs or mob of river pirates which crowded along the Thames like flies on a dung heap. To make a long story brief, on the Eve of St Matthew, the Year of Our Lord 1360, the treasure barge left the Tower, crossed the Thames and went along the south bank, past the Oyster Wharf to a secret location. His Grace had decided that the treasure would be taken out the Fleet by his trusted retainer Edward Mortimer, who’d also brought Richard Culpepper into the secret design. Both knights were well rewarded by His Grace. They were to attract the treasure barge in, by lantern or torchlight, and the chest would be moved to an ordinary barge specially hired for that occasion. The treasure duly arrived. The two knights, waiting on the river bank, took charge of it, and brought their own barge in. They were to pay the boatmen off and take the treasure to the flagship.’

Cranston played with the edge of his cloak. He didn’t know what path Athelstan was following, but he understood why the little friar was talking so slowly, keeping a watchful eye on what was going on in the garden. Cranston was also vigilant. The two knights sat like carved statues as their mask of respectability was slowly peeled away. Cranston was more wary of Rolles, who seemed to have recovered his wits. One hand had already slipped beneath the table. Cranston remembered how this dagger man had a knife in a sheath on his belt, as well as another in the top of his boot. His fingers slipped to the hilt of his own knife. He would watch Master Rolles.

‘Imagine the scene,’ Athelstan continued, ‘a fairly cloudless sky, the moon riding high, the Thames quiet and sluggish, the silence broken by the cries of the night, creatures hunting their prey. Culpepper and Mortimer talking to the bargemen, eager to be away, unaware that more deadly hunters were loose along the river that night.’

‘But, but,’ Sir Reginald Branson intervened, ‘no one knew of this.’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan scoffed. ‘No one, apart from those two knights, was supposed to know; they didn’t even tell the boatmen why they needed their barge. Culpepper, however, had made a dreadful mistake. He truly loved Guinevere the Golden. He had shown her the money he had earned, and whispered about how there would be more. Guinevere was the last person he should have told, and he did tell her everything: the treasure, the secret place along the Thames, the arrangements, even the hour. Guinevere was fickle of heart. Culpepper may have loved her, but her attentions were already wandering. Unbeknown to Culpepper, she was also bestowing her favours on one of the other knights. I don’t know who. Perhaps you, Sir Maurice? Sir Thomas Davenport, or Sir Laurence Broomhill? She told one and he told the rest. Were you poor, penniless knights already resentful of the fortune and favour shown to Culpepper and this relative newcomer Mortimer? So, you hatched a plot to steal the treasure, and you enlisted the help of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable.’

‘I didn’t . . .’ Master Rolles raised a hand. ‘Sir John,’ he gasped, ‘this is nonsense.’

‘Hush now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘On the night in question you pretended you were all revelling and carousing in a chamber here at the Night in Jerusalem. No one would mark the hours, not even the Misericord, who was serving as a pot boy, or the other heavy-eyed servants and maids, only too eager to slip exhausted into their narrow beds. Now, Master Rolles, you owned a great high-sided cart, the perfect place to hide a group of men under a leather awning. You had the cart hitched, its wheels covered in straw and sacking to hide the sound, and slipped away, leaving probably only two of the knights to continue the sound of revelling and carousing so as to distract the attention of others. You knew, thanks to Guinevere, where Culpepper and Mortimer would be waiting for the treasure. You came upon them suddenly and silently. All of you are trained bowmen, skilled archers. You arrived at the moment Culpepper and Mortimer took possession of the barge.’

Athelstan paused.

‘The attack would be swift, the shafts hissing through air.’ The friar glanced quickly at Malachi, now so pale his eyes seemed like dark pools, his lips thin, bloodless lines. ‘Four corpses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘transfixed by arrows. You quickly carried them to the waiting cart, together with the treasure chest. The location was secret. The river water would soon wash away any signs of violence. You pushed the barge out into mid-stream, having cleared it of any possessions.’

‘And Guinevere the Golden?’ Cranston asked, his gaze still intent on Master Rolles.

‘Ah, Guinevere the Golden,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘She whom fortune didn’t favour. Poor Culpepper died thinking she loved him and him only. The men she betrayed him to encouraged her to maintain this illusion. I suppose she was told to wait for Culpepper somewhere lonely and dark; what better place than their usual love tryst, the cemetery at St Erconwald’s, near to the river but far enough away from the Night in Jerusalem. She was to wait there until it was all over. Of course, if you betray one person, it’s only a matter of time before you betray someone else. Guinevere had to be silenced. I have no proof that it was at St Erconwald’s, but I do know that Mother Veritable took care of her. The cart containing the four other corpses would stop to pick up her body as well. In the dead of night that cart, its wheels muffled, slipped back into the Night in Jerusalem.’

‘Master Rolles on his cart,’ Cranston intervened, ‘was a common enough sight at all hours of the day and night. Slatterns and servants, the Misericord included, slept in the tap room, under the tables. There’d be enough of you to keep watch in the dead of night . . .’

‘There was also another way in.’ Athelstan spoke quickly, fearful lest Cranston be carried away by his excitement at what was being revealed. ‘The small postern gate to the garden.’ The friar stared down the table. ‘Master Rolles, I must study your accounts. I believe you were having the garden laid out then, weren’t you? The ground all dug up? A beautiful place now, but an ideal one at the time for hiding five corpses and all their possessions. They were brought through the postern gate that night.’ Athelstan gestured at window. ‘No wonder you had mantraps to protect such a place.’

‘This is preposterous,’ Sir Maurice broke in. ‘You have no proof.’

‘You don’t deny it,’ Cranston barked, ‘you simply ask for evidence.’

‘I’ll supply that soon enough.’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘We’ll find the corpses, then there’s Mother Veritable: she’ll be about to take the oath now, provide the Crown and its lawyers with all the proof they need.’

‘But this treasure . . .’ Sir Reginald Branson spoke up.

‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’ll come to it by and by. What were you planning to do with that treasure? Break it up, hide it away until you returned?’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile. ‘But you couldn’t do that, could you? In the end all you had to do was hide the corpses, and let those poor men take the blame. The perfect crime, except for Mother Veritable. She has already confessed to killing Guinevere the Golden. She was supposed to destroy all that poor woman’s possessions, make it look as though she had packed all her bags and vanished without a trace, but she was greedy. She kept a small coffer owned by Guinevere.’ Athelstan leaned under the table, brought out the small casket and placed it carefully in front of him. ‘The years passed, the casket became tawdry. Mother Veritable grew careless or her conscience pricked her. She gave the casket to Beatrice and Clarice, not realising the terrible mistake she was making.’ Athelstan tapped the broken clasps. ‘Look at that, gentlemen, do you see the insignia? Dark blue Celtic crosses on a tawny background. Don’t you remember whose insignia it was?’

‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice leaned forward, hands shaking.

‘Ah, Sir Maurice, you have reached the same conclusion as I have, hasn’t he, Brother Malachi?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Aren’t those the personal insignia of your brother, as opposed to your family escutcheon? A dark blue Celtic cross on a tawny background. I noticed that in the Tower when I scrutinised the indenture. Your brother Richard always signed a cross like this next to his name, while Mortimer used a lion, the heraldic device of his family. You had forgotten that, but the Misericord didn’t. He became very friendly with Beatrice and Clarice. One day he saw this coffer and, being keen of eye and sharp of wit, realised it must have been a personal gift from Sir Richard, a fact Mother Veritable had overlooked. The Misericord would wonder why their mother Guinevere, supposedly so devoted to Sir Richard, would vanish but leave that here. He began to reflect, racking his memory, recalling the events of that night. Did he remember something amiss? An item he had glimpsed? Did he grow suspicious of the accepted story? Eventually he shared his secret with Beatrice and Clarice whilst enigmatically hinting to his own sister what he had found. Something which could also be found on Edith’s person, namely a cross. When I visited Edith at the convent of the Minoresses she was wearing a cross similar to this one.’ Athelstan tapped the casket. ‘The Misericord must have told those two young women to be careful, to entrust the casket to someone else, which they did, their friend Donata. After their murder, Donata suspected something was wrong and decided to flee Mother Veritable’s, entrusting this to me.’

‘Is this true?’ Sir Reginald Branson shouted, glaring at Brother Malachi.

‘You know it is,’ the Benedictine spat back.

‘Of course you do,’ Athelstan declared, pushing the casket further down the table.

Malachi’s hand went out, as if by caressing it he could somehow touch his dead brother.

‘Let me continue my story,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Once the vile deed was done, you warriors of Christ went to Outremer, Master Rolles returned to looking after his tavern, whilst Mother Veritable followed her own evil path. But sin, like a beast at the door, crouches and waits, doesn’t it, Brother Malachi? You see,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Brother Malachi was very anxious about his brother. For a while he believed the accepted story, that his brother, with Mortimer, had stolen the Lombard treasure, and disappeared with his leman, Guinevere the Golden. Now the Crown, not to mention the Lombard bankers, had circulated a list of the missing treasure to the goldsmiths’ guilds in all the principal cities of the kingdom. Brother Malachi did likewise.’