Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

Athelstan stretched out and brought the casket towards him.

‘You had decided on his death, hadn’t you, Sir Maurice? You and your companions, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable. You were a coven of conspirators, who could vouch for each other whatever pretended quarrels occurred between you. When Sir John came with his questions, you could act all innocent, and claim that no one left the tavern, but one or more of you certainly did slip across to Cheapside and, cowled and cloaked, arrange for that poison pie to be sent in to the Misericord. I suspect two of you went. Mother Veritable bought it, and one of your company gave it to the keeper. You knew we were going there. You simply watched and waited for us to leave, then carried out your murderous design. You must have known a gift from the Lord Coroner to a prisoner in Newgate would be handed over immediately.’

Athelstan paused. In the garden outside the window the bailiffs were gathering around a deep pit, talking excitedly at each other, pointing down to something. Athelstan half rose to get a better view, and realised that the bailiffs had been digging near the small flower arbour where he and Rosamund had sat.

‘In a while,’ he murmured, ‘all will be revealed. By now. .’ he continued. Sir Maurice seemed not to be listening, leaning on the table, head in hands, whilst Branson gazed at the wall like a man who had taken a blow to the head. ‘By now you had decided on other deaths. The Judas Man was a danger, narrow of soul but with a razor-sharp wit. He grew suspicious; indeed, anyone would have. During those long hours in St Erconwald’s cemetery, he would ask himself questions like, why the Misericord? Who had hired him? Why the great secrecy? He would learn about the Lombard treasure and the mysterious events of twenty years ago, and, of course, he was a suspect over the killings of Beatrice and Clarice, even though he was involved in a brawl on the night they were murdered. I searched his chamber and found a scrap of parchment where he had written “4 not 5”.’

‘He was talking about this present company, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, he was,’ Athelstan agreed.

‘He had met you, hadn’t he, Sir Maurice? He knew all about the five knights and their chaplain. He was keen-eyed, and on the night of the Great Ratting, he came down into the tap room. He must have met you, did he not?’

Sir Maurice refused to look up.

‘He noticed one of you was missing around the very time that those two young women were murdered. He noticed Chandler wasn’t there. This is pure deduction,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘but the Judas Man would be intrigued: what important event where only four of the knights, not five, were present? The only significant occasion, the only murders which occurred when he was close by, were those of Beatrice and Clarice. He must have heard the gossip about Sir Stephen quarrelling with those women as well as being seen in the yard afterwards. Above all,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the corpse stiffening beside him, ‘he wondered why Master Rolles never interfered with his confrontation with that poor miscreant Toadflax. Was Rolles so busy in the kitchen he couldn’t come out? The Judas Man started asking questions, so one of you killed him, very close, with a crossbow bolt. The Judas Man was a soldier, a hunter; he would have to be caught unawares. I could imagine Master Rolles tapping on his door, the primed arbalest well concealed. The Judas Man flings the door open, and in a few heartbeats he is dead.’

Athelstan glanced at Malachi, lost in his own thoughts, beating his fingers against the table edge.

‘Master Rolles must have been involved. You would need his cart. The Judas Man’s corpse, stripped naked, was concealed under mounds of rubbish. At dusk Master Rolles took it out to the lay stall, the great refuse mound on London Bridge. Nobody lingers to watch refuse, ordure and other unmentionables be unloaded. The Judas Man’s corpse became part of the midden heap, and along with the rest was tipped into the Thames.’

He paused at the furious knocking at the door, and Flaxwith came in. The bailiff stood fascinated by the corpse sprawled on the floor.

‘What is it, Henry?’ Cranston asked.

Flaxwith whispered hoarsely in the coroner’s ear. Athelstan overheard a few words: something had been found in the garden.

‘Let it wait, Sir John.’

Cranston agreed, but ordered Flaxwith to remove the taverner’s corpse. A sheet was hastily brought, the body rolled in it, and taken out into the passageway. Athelstan heard the cries and groans of the servants and maids, now gathering, horrorstruck at what was happening. He rose and closed the door firmly against the noise.

‘Brother Malachi, we come to you. You were attacked in my church by a dagger man. One of the knives used belonged to the Judas Man, but of course, that was just to muddy the water. That poor unfortunate had already gone to God. Master Rolles, a prime mover in all these matters, was your assailant.’ Athelstan pointed at the coroner. ‘When Sir John first described Rolles, he called him a sicarius, “dagger man”; the knights sent him to silence you.’

‘And why should they do that?’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm.

‘You know why.’ Athelstan held the Benedictine’s gaze. ‘Once you had that ring,’ he continued, ‘you realised your brother was dead. On the day of the great robbery you had been absent across the river; for all I know, that may have been arranged by Rolles, Sir Maurice and the other conspirators. You returned and, like the rest, were mystified at what had happened. In the end you reluctantly accepted that your brother was a thief and a fugitive. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. The crusading fleet left the Thames; never once did you see or hear anything to arouse your suspicions, until that ring came into your possession. It was a matter of logic. Who else would have known about that treasure? Who else had the means to carry out the deed? Did you reflect upon Guinevere the Golden, on the possibility that she may not have loved your brother as he loved her? And, of course, the treasure. Have you been to see His Grace, John of Gaunt?’

Malachi gazed coolly back.

‘What was it, Brother?’ Athelstan urged. ‘What made you decide to carry out God’s judgement on these murderers?’

‘Did I?’ Malachi taunted back. He scraped back his chair, smiling to himself. ‘Tell Sir Maurice how I did it, Athelstan.’

‘You decided Chandler should die first,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That fat knight was all a-quiver, still disturbed by the events of the previous night, hot and sweaty and agitated. He wanted to sip at claret and soothe himself in a hot tub. You saw the taverner take it up. You waited until he had gone and then, carrying an identical cup, of claret, tapped on Sir Stephen’s door. The knight, all in a fluster, admitted you. He was in a state of undress, and when he realised that you had come to talk about nothing of significance, he wanted you to go.’

‘But only after Malachi had exchanged one cup for another,’ Cranston replied.

‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘The goblet Malachi brought was heavily laced with poison. How many times do we put a cup down and pick up the wrong one? Chandler didn’t even notice. He let Malachi out, placed his boots to be cleaned, locked and barred the door, climbed into that hot bath and swallowed his own death. The rheums in his nose would dull the taste of poison.’

‘And Sir Laurence Broomhill?’ Cranston asked. ‘You lured him into that cellar, lit the candle at the far end and he stumbled into that repulsive mantrap.’

‘God knows,’ Athelstan added, ‘how you did it. A message that Broomhill was to come alone to learn something? You know all about this tavern, the cellar and what it holds.’