Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

‘What was he doing when you entered the cell?’

The keeper pointed towards the rusting manacles hanging from a clasp in the far corner. ‘Like other prisoners, whiling his time away carving the wall. I’ve looked at it but can’t make sense of it.’

Athelstan picked up the lantern horn, gave it to Cranston and went across. The Misericord’s carvings were fresh, different from the rest. A Latin quotation, ‘ Quern quaeritis? ’, and beneath it the numbers ‘1, 1, 2, 3, 5’.

‘What does that mean?’ Cranston asked. ‘I understand the Latin — it’s a question, “Whom do you seek?” But what does it mean? And the significance of the numbers?’

‘God only knows,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and the Misericord, but he too has gone to God. Remember, Sir John, the Misericord probably didn’t tell us everything. He must have been holding something back.’

Athelstan returned to the keeper.

‘So, then you left. What happened?’

‘I went back down the passageway. Suddenly I heard this gut-wrenching screaming. Now I’m used to that. What happens, Brother, is that when prisoners are brought here, they often don’t realise what is happening, then something occurs, and it can be something pleasant like food, a cup of wine or a visit, and they realise where they truly are and what has become of them.’ The keeper looped his clutch of keys back on his belt. ‘If I opened the door to every prisoner who screamed I would spend all day doing it. The screaming went on, then it began to fade.’ He jabbed a finger at the wall to his left. ‘Then the prisoner in the next cell, he’s usually quiet, he began to shout that something was wrong.’

‘Who’s in there?’ Cranston asked.

The keeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah yes, that’s it. Number 35, Spindleshanks.’

‘Ah!’ Sir John smiled. ‘The relic-seller! Master Keeper, let’s have a word with him.’

The gaoler led them out and opened the next door. A little man, sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet. He was so small and thin in his torn shirt, patched hose and boots apparently far too big for him that Athelstan could see why he was named Spindleshanks, for his legs were as thin as needles. The prisoner walked into the pool of light. A mournful face, even his eyes seemed to droop. He reminded Athelstan of a professional mourner; an impression heightened by the lank grey hair which hung down either side of his face.

‘Oh, Sir John Cranston,’ Spindleshanks whined with a gap-toothed smile. He clasped his hands together. ‘What a great pleasure, what a great honour, a visit from the Lord Coroner.’

‘Innocent or guilty?’ Cranston barked.

‘Oh, guilty, my Lord Coroner. I won’t tell a lie. As felonious as Judas.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Oh, the usual, Sir John, relics, they’ll be the death of me.’

‘How many times is it now, Spindleshanks?’

The prisoner tapped his chin, staring up at the ceiling. ‘My sixth, no, it’s my seventh time, Sir John. It’s bound to be a flogging this time,’ his face grew more mournful, ‘or my ears clipped.’ His lower lip trembled as he fought back the tears. ‘Maybe even a brand mark on my cheek.’

‘What were you doing this time?’

‘Dead dogs, Sir John.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Dead dogs. I was boiling their corpses, crushing their bones in a maer. . a handmill.’ Spindleshanks answered Athelstan’s puzzled look. ‘I ground the bones down, bought some little gilt cases and a roll of linen, which I cut into ever so small strips, and sold them as relics.’

‘Whose?’ Athelstan was genuinely intrigued by this funny little man.

‘St Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins martyred by the devilish Huns.’

‘And how were you caught?’ Cranston asked.

‘My neighbours, they alerted the watch complaining about the smell.’

‘Well, at least it was only relics and not those potions you were selling. Why have they put you in the Netherworld?’

‘Hermisimus!’

‘What?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Have a smell, Brother.’

Spindleshanks drew closer to Athelstan, and the friar recoiled at the foul stench from the old man’s clothing.

‘Hermisimus, Brother,’ Spindleshanks said proudly. ‘Sweaty armpits.’

‘Even the other prisoners object,’ the keeper explained. ‘We had to put him here for his own safety.’

‘You should wash your armpits,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Use a mixture of mint and wild strawberries, it will help to clear up your condition.’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea, Brother. I’ll be able to sell it as a genuine cure, won’t I?’

‘And if you are helpful,’ Cranston stooped down, pinching his own nostrils, ‘I’ll set you free. I’ll write a writ under my own seal.’

‘Oh, Sir John,’ Spindleshanks closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure, ‘that would be most kind.’

‘You’ll give up the dog bones?’

‘On my soul, Sir John.’

‘Tell me then,’ Cranston urged, ‘what did you hear from the adjoining cell?’

‘Oh, I heard the clank of the manacles, so I knew he was carving the wall.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sir John urged, ‘but what happened next?’

‘I heard the door open, the keeper’s voice, and then all went silent. Oh, it must have been some time, then low moans, followed by terrible screams. Sir John, they cut me to the heart. He was also shouting something.’

‘What?’

Spindleshanks opened his eyes. ‘I’ll go free?’

‘What?’ Cranston persisted.

‘He was shouting “Askit, Askit,” or something like that. Sir John, that’s all I can recall. I swear if I remember anything else, I’ll visit you personally.’

‘Only after you have washed your armpits!’ Cranston dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the prisoner’s hand. ‘Now go and wait in the press yard. I’ll send a writ across to the keeper.’

‘Oh, my Lord Coroner.’

Spindleshanks would have sunk to his knees, but Cranston gripped him by the shoulder and thrust him towards the half-open door.

‘Oh, Sir John.’

‘What?’

‘Would you have any need for a thousand relic cases?’

‘Bugger off.’

‘Very good, Sir John,’ and Spindleshanks scampered down the passageway.

‘Have the corpse taken to Blackfriars,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Put it in a proper brandeum. . a shroud,’ he explained. ‘My good brothers will put him in a coffin until his sister decides where he should be buried.’

They left Newgate. The area outside the prison had now been turned into a makeshift fair, drawing in the crowds to watch a mummer’s play, an old story, with two central characters wearing the mask and horns of a cow. First, Chivevache, a lean, ugly cow, who fed on patient women; consequently it was always thin and hungry. Next, Bicorne, a large fat cow, because it fed on patient husbands. In between these two danced a character dressed in a leather hood who assumed the role of the ‘Digitus Infamus’, the ‘Middle Finger’, who kept up lewd commentary on why these two cows existed and were so different. Of course, this provoked the ribald interest of the spectators, who quickly divided into male and female, hurling obscenities at each other as the Digitus Infamus explained why wives lacked patience whilst husbands were models of virtue. Every so often the mummer would break off from his commentary to sing an even more ribald song about a gentle cock residing in its lady’s chamber. Naturally, when a boy in tattered rags ran round the crowd with a pannikin for pennies he received plenty of coins from the men and raucous refusal from the women.

‘I’ve seen that play a hundred times,’ Cranston murmured, as he led Athelstan through the milling crowd. ‘The effect is always the same. The men relish the joke and pay the money; next week they’ll return, and the lean, ugly cow will feed on patient husbands and consequently go famished, whilst the fat cow will be the result of patient wives. It’s a clever way of drawing in money.’