Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

Sir Maurice still sat in his chair, slightly pushed back from the table. Sir Reginald’s hand edged slowly towards his own dagger.

‘All this,’ Rolles shouted so loudly the guards outside became alarmed and burst in, only to be waved away by Cranston, ‘all this,’ he screamed again, a white froth appearing at the corner of his mouth, ‘lost because of you.’

‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston warned, ‘put down your knife.’

‘And you,’ Rolles took a step forward, ‘fat Jack Cranston, come to take my profits, have you? I never did like you, with your prying eyes, all bluff and merry, ever righteous.’

Cranston took a step back, raising both sword and dagger. Rolles was lost in his own fury, mad with rage at what was about to be revealed. Athelstan had calculated that the disappearance of Mother Veritable would disconcert Rolles, but not to this extent.

Suddenly there was a tap on the window. Flaxwith, alarmed, was peering through. Cranston lowered his sword; Rolles seized the opportunity, turning slightly sideways like the fighting man he was, and lunged, his dagger making a feint for Cranston’s face, but moving just as quickly, he brought the dagger down, aiming for his true mark, the coroner’s broad chest. Cranston, despite his bulk, acted even more swiftly. Instead of retreating, he moved to the right. His dagger hand blocked Rolles’ blow, whilst he thrust his sword deep into the soft flesh where stomach and chest met. The force of Rolles’ lunge made him take the blade deeper, and for a while he just rocked backwards and forwards on his feet, a look of pained surprise on his face as he dropped his dagger.

Sir John pulled his sword out. Rolles tried to speak, moving forward even as the blood frothed between his lips. He made one last effort, then fell to his knees, gave a sigh and collapsed to the floor. Flaxwith threw open the door, others of his company thronging in behind, Cranston roared at them to withdraw.

‘But Sir John, I’ve-’

‘Never mind,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You saw it all, Henry. I had no choice.’

Flaxwith nodded. ‘It’s treason, Sir John, to draw a weapon on a King’s officer who is about to make an arrest.’

‘Thank you, Henry.’

Cranston gestured to the door. The bailiff withdrew, and Cranston ordered the rest to stay where they were and keep their hands on the tabletop. He knelt down, pressing his fingers against Rolles’ neck. Athelstan joined him. By now the blood was gushing out of Rolles’ mouth and the gaping wound in his chest, forming a dark red puddle on the floor. Neither Cranston nor Athelstan could find the life beat. The friar whispered a prayer, but Cranston was more practical.

‘He’ll have to wait. Let his corpse sprawl there and his soul can hear our judgement.’

‘Are you sure?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Sit down, Brother,’ Cranston ordered.

The friar returned reluctantly to his chair. Malachi was smiling to himself, as if savouring the moment.

‘You celebrated Mass in my church,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You condemned these men because they consorted with whores, yet you smile because an enemy lies dead a few paces in front of you.’

Malachi’s response was to turn and spit at the corpse. ‘He was an assassin,’ the Benedictine replied. ‘You know that and so do I. He was lawfully executed by a King’s officer in pursuit of his duty. Rolles had a hand in the murder of my brother.’

‘Aye, and others.’

Athelstan stared across at the two knights. Both men looked beaten, faces grey with fear.

‘And so we come to the night of the Great Ratting,’ Athelstan continued. ‘All of you, the knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable, had decided that the Misericord was too great a danger to ignore; his friendship with Beatrice and Clarice posed a threat, whilst the knights, especially Chandler, had other grievances against him. Mother Veritable had heard rumours, and God knows what questions the Misericord may have been asking. The Misericord moved about in the twilight of the law; he could piece information together, reaching the conclusion that you, Malachi, were innocent but the rest were a coven of assassins. He would keep such knowledge close, fearful of reprisal, unable to approach the law but greedy for what wealth blackmail might bring. He wouldn’t have learned everything, but enough to feed suspicions. Once this were known, his death, and those of the two women, was decided upon. Beatrice and Clarice were easy prey; it was just a matter of time, of waiting for a suitable occasion. The Misericord was different; a man of keen wit, he would have to be hunted down, so the Judas Man was called in. He was, in fact, hired by all the assassins.

‘On the night of the Great Ratting, Beatrice and Clarice were lured here and sent to the hay barn. The Misericord was to be killed by the Judas Man, but he escaped and fled to the last man he should have approached, Master Rolles. The taverner sent him to the hay barn, either to be killed with Beatrice and Clarice or trapped and depicted as their assassin. The cunning man’s stomach saved him: he was desperate for the privy. He was fortunate, blessed by that luck which had always kept him one step ahead of the law. He wasn’t there when the assassin entered the hay barn.’

‘Who was it?’ Brother Malachi asked.

‘Oh, I suspect Master Rolles. He had sent both the girls and the Misericord to the hay barn. He must have known that the Judas Man had trapped the wrong felon, but he didn’t really care. He pretended to be busy in the kitchen to distract the likes of harassed Tobias, then slipped through a side door, out across the yard. Sir Stephen Chandler was waiting in the shadows. He would act as sentry, whilst Rolles committed the deed. Broomhill also came down to keep an eye on matters.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Rolles crept into the hay barn, killed those two women, but realised what Chandler may have told him, that the Misericord wasn’t there. He bars the hay barn door and returns to the kitchen. Chandler, drunk and maudlin, goes into the barn to view the corpses before staggering back to the tavern. If anything went wrong, Chandler and Rolles could vouch for each other. The Misericord had escaped, but he could wait for another day, and that day came sooner than he thought.

‘The Misericord is arrested and taken to Newgate. He now realises what the deaths of Beatrice and Clarice mean. Whilst locked in Newgate, he leaves further clues about what he suspects. He scratches on the wall “ Quern quaeritis ”, “Whom do you seek?” It comes from the Gospel at Easter; when the women arrived at Christ’s tomb to anoint His Body they met angels who asked the same question. It’s a reference to the Crusaders, soldiers who vow to fight for the sepulchre of Christ. In a subtle way the Misericord was naming those knights who, twenty years earlier, had robbed the treasure intended for that crusading fleet. Such an allusion would appeal to the Misericord, with his knowledge of music and liturgy, as did the second-clue, the reference to numbers — 1, 1, 2, 3, 5. He was actually numbering the assassins — the five knights staying at this tavern. In fact he was doing more than this. The numbers 1, 1, 2, 3, 5 come from Signor Fibonacci’s work on geometry, Practica Geometriae . The writer demonstrated a sequence of numbers, each of which, after the first, is the sum of the two previous. The Misericord, a scholar, had to show off: he was not only listing you knights, but demonstrating how you were all bound up in one murderous coven. Finally,’ Athelstan sighed, ‘as he died, the Misericord became more explicit. He tried to scream the source of his suspicions. The prisoner in the adjoining cell thought he was shouting “Askit”. In truth, it was “casket”.’