Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

‘I am not a well man, Brother.’ The taverner gestured at his clothes, which were soaked in blood. ‘I am losing custom. I do not want these knights here ever again.’

He paused as Brother Malachi came up the stairs, a stole round his neck, in his right hand a phial of holy oils, in his left a beeswax candle.

‘I must anoint him,’ murmured the Benedictine.

They let him by. Rolles continued on his way down; Athelstan and Cranston went up on to the gallery and waited outside the Morte D’Arthur Chamber.

‘You may come in.’

Brother Malachi was standing by the bed, the candle snuffed, the holy oil replaced in its small leather bag.

Cranston whistled as he looked round. ‘It’s like a battlefield!’

The bed drapes, linen, coverlets and rugs were drenched in blood. Bandages, linen pads, as well as the poultices Stapleton had used to try and staunch the bleeding lay everywhere. The corpse, its skin as white as a leper’s, sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Athelstan went across whilst Cranston, grasping his miraculous wine skin, turned away in disgust. Broomhill’s right leg was shattered midway between knee and heel. The wound exposed raw flesh, muscle and vein, and, peering down, Athelstan could see even the bone beneath was gashed. The smell was offensive; infection had already set in.

‘He must have been in agony,’ Athelstan remarked, staring at the dead man’s face, contorted by his last convulsions.

‘Stapleton gave him an opiate,’ Malachi replied.

‘There was nothing we could do.’ Rolles stood in the doorway like a prophet of doom. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Did he say anything before he died?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He babbled about the past.’ Rolles came into the chamber. ‘He talked of a great river beast which could swoop up and gulp a man’s body. He was feverish, he didn’t know what he was saying.’

‘What was he doing in the cellar?’

‘He went down in the evening. I found a jug nearby; perhaps he was going to fill it from one of the vats?’

‘Aren’t there servants, scullions, tap boys?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course,’ Rolles snapped, ‘but sometimes the galleries are deserted, and I do not object to favoured customers helping themselves. The knights always pay well.’

‘Pay well.’ Athelstan echoed the words. ‘Brother Malachi, what is the source of these knights’ wealth?’

‘Estates, some of the most fertile land in Kent, flocks of sheep, fishing rights. You could fill a charter with the sources of their profit.’

‘But once they were poor.’

‘Poor men become rich when their fathers die. Moreover, the knights brought plunder back from Egypt. They stormed palaces and treasures. Sir Maurice Clinton seized a box of mother-of-pearl, exquisite in their beauty, called the Pearls of Sheba; supposedly they once belonged to the great Solomon’s lover.’

‘And what happened to these?’

‘On our way home, the fleet docked in Genoa. The Genoese were only too pleased to buy whatever treasure the Crusaders had seized.’

‘Did you receive a portion of this wealth?’

‘No,’ Malachi smiled, ‘but my order did.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s leave here.’ Cranston picked up a coverlet and draped it over the corpse. ‘Master Rolles, I want to see where he was wounded.’

Malachi stayed in the chamber whilst Rolles took them down to the cellar, Athelstan gingerly following the coroner down the stone steps, where a few candles glowed in wall-niches. At the bottom they paused as Rolles lit lantern horns slung on hooks to reveal a long, low-ceilinged cavern with vats and barrels stacked down either side. In the corner, to Athelstan’s right, were garden implements: mattocks, hoes and spades.

‘I did my best to clean the blood,’ Rolles muttered, and gestured at the great oval-shaped mantrap now resting against the wall. He pulled this out and prised apart the teeth.

‘A simple contraption,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘yet so deadly.’

The trap opened up and was kept apart by a spring. When Rolles touched this with a stick, the teeth came together with such a clash Athelstan jumped.

‘I need this,’ Rolles explained, sensing Athelstan’s horror. ‘Brother, ask Sir John, anyone! I have carp ponds, stables and outhouses which must be protected. A gang of rifflers can take your livestock in a night. Just knowing the traps are here will keep them away.’

‘You need a licence,’ the coroner snapped.

‘I have that. I know the law, Sir John, I can only use this when I can prove I am in danger of being robbed.’

‘More importantly,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘why was it left open down here last night? And why did Sir Laurence come down here?’

He picked up the metal jug.

‘Was this from his chamber?’

‘I don’t know.’

Athelstan stared down the narrow passageway of this gloomy cellar, trying to imagine what had happened. Undoubtedly the Knights of the Golden Falcon would have been upset by Chandler’s death, as well as their own forced confessions about consorting with prostitutes. They might have drunk deeply. Sir Laurence, eager for more wine, took a jug from his own chamber or the kitchen and came down here.

‘This cellar is always in darkness, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ the taverner replied. ‘Candles are lit only when necessary.’

‘What if Sir Laurence came down here expecting to see somebody. He didn’t know this place. What do you do, Sir John, when you walk downstairs in the dark, particularly if you have been drinking?’

‘Take great care; those small candles in the wall-niches provide scanty light.’

‘And we don’t know,’ Athelstan mused, ‘if Sir Laurence was carrying a lantern.’

He closed his eyes, trying to recall how he came down the steps of the bell tower at his church. He hated that spiral staircase; he was never too sure when he reached the bottom. Wouldn’t Sir Laurence have felt the same? Athelstan got to his feet. The area around the steps stank of the brine and vinegar Rolles had used to clear up the blood; here and there splashes still stained the wall and the ground at the foot of the steps.

‘Sir Laurence must have been distracted.’

Athelstan pulled the mantrap over, placing it closed at the bottom of the steps. He then walked down between the vats and barrels to the far wall. The brickwork here was uneven and Athelstan noticed, just above his own gaze, a rather large gap.

‘Sister Wax,’ he murmured, recalling his discovery at the squint hole at the church earlier that day. ‘Sister Wax, you’ve helped me again!’

The wax on the brickwork was soft and clean, freshly formed.

‘Master Rolles, come here.’ The taverner came down to join him. ‘Did you place a candle here?’

The taverner brushed the wax with his fingers.

‘No, no, I didn’t. By the amount of wax, a candle must have been burning here for some time.’

Athelstan asked Rolles to bring a tallow candle down. The taverner took one from the box beneath the staircase, lit it and placed it in the niche. The cellar lanterns were doused. Athelstan went back up the steps, ignoring Cranston’s moans about the darkness, then turned and came slowly down again. Even though he was aware of the small lights in the wall-niches, he was still attracted by that solitary candle burning at the far end of the cellar. He reached the bottom step.

‘Sir Laurence was murdered.’ His voice echoed sombrely through the darkness. ‘Master Rolles, please light the lanterns. Sir John, if you would. .’

They left the cellar and walked out into the stable yard, well away from any eavesdropper.

‘I’m sure Sir Laurence was murdered,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘That’s how it was done. Somebody, somehow primed that trap and invited him down to the cellar. I wonder what the lure was? Perhaps a revelation about the mysteries now besetting us, or something else?’