Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Puddlicott, my lad!’ the gaoler shouted. ‘You poor benighted bastard! You’ve got a visitor!’

Ranulf peered through the gloom. The cell was a perfect square, clean and swept. There was a privy in the corner, which evidently drained down to the city ditch, and even some furniture: a small table, a broken stool and a long bed with a straw-filled mattress on which Puddlicott now half sat, his face heavy with sleep. At last he shook himself awake, stretched and yawned. Ranulf had to admire his coolness. The prisoner smiled at him.

‘There’s a candle on the table but I have no flint.’

Ranulf took his own and the candle sparked into light. Puddlicott went to piss in the privy, plucked up his cloak and came back to sit on the edge of the bed.

‘So, Corbett has sent you again, eh? Has he missed something out?’

Ranulf sat on the table. ‘Not really, we now know what happened. You apparently slipped in and out of the country when you wished, and moved sacks of coin to Gracechurch Street down to the docks by using a dung cart.’

Ranulf leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He and Corbett had made one mistake: never once had they asked why an important envoy like de Craon had not chosen a better lodgings. Yet, there again, accredited envoys had every right to choose where they stayed.

‘Didn’t you wonder,’ Ranulf abruptly asked, ‘why some of the whores invited to the abbey were murdered? Some of your girls must have been amongst the victims?’

Puddlicott shrugged his shoulders and pulled his gown tighter. ‘You know the way of the world. It’s Ranulf, isn’t it?’

His visitor nodded.

‘Men die violently, as do women and children, so why shouldn’t whores.’ Puddlicott stretched his legs. ‘Your master will keep his word about my brother?’

‘Yes,’ Ranulf answered. ‘And if you tell me more, you have my oath that twice a year I shall go to St Anthony’s to make sure all is well.’

Puddlicott got to his feet and went to stand over Ranulf. ‘Corbett didn’t send you. You’ve come here on your own. I have told you what I know and, although I think all law officers are bastards, you are not here to gloat. So what is it? The slayer of the prostitutes?’

‘No,’ Ranulf answered defensively. ‘We have our own thoughts on that.’

‘What then?’

‘Information!’

‘For Corbett?’

‘No, for myself.’

Puddlicott roared with laughter and went back to sit on his bed. ‘So, that’s your game, Master Ranulf? The servant competing with the master? Why do you think I have more information?’

Ranulf leaned forward. ‘I accept,’ he began, ‘that de Craon would come to England to take the treasure home. I also understand why he would hide away but, what I can’t understand, Master Puddlicott, is why you, digging away at the foundations of the crypt, had to leave such an important task and go back and forth to France!’ Ranulf looked at the prisoner. ‘That’s the only loose thread. Why didn’t you stay in London? What was so important that you had to journey backwards and forwards to Paris. We know you did; your accomplices stated how you would disappear for weeks. So, what else were you up to?’

Puddlicott waggled a finger at him. ‘You’re very sharp, Master Ranulf. Corbett didn’t ask me that.’

‘Perhaps he thought you were going back for fresh instructions.’

Puddlicott shrugged. ‘So?’

‘So,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Will you tell me the real reason?’

Puddlicott lay back on his bed, crossing his hands behind his head.

‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘I’ve got nothing to gain,’ Puddlicott snapped.

‘There’s your brother, and, as you know, Puddlicott, the hangman has his own way of easing pain. I am also sure our good friend the gaoler could provide a deep-bowled cup of spiced wine before your last ride in the death cart.’

Puddlicott lay whistling softly through his teeth.

‘Agreed,’ he said sharply and swung himself off the bed. ‘I am a dying man, Ranulf. You know any oath made to me is sacred.’

‘I’ll keep it.’

Puddlicott tapped his feet on the ground. ‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’

‘Of course. What do you mean?’

‘You know the Order of the Templars?’

‘Of course!’ Ranulf snapped.

‘Well,’ Puddlicott drew in his breath. ‘I don’t know the full story but sometimes de Craon babbled in his cups. His master, Philip of France, is desperate for money; the roads of northern France are clogged with men-at-arms as Philip assembles his armies for all-out war against Flanders.’ Puddlicott held a hand up. ‘I realise you know that. Anyway, Philip has heard of a precious relic, the Shroud of Christ held by the Templars.’

‘And now he wants it so he can sell it abroad?’

Puddlicott made a face. ‘Ah, but there’s more. You see, I had three tasks: breaking into the crypt was one, the others were to collect information about the Templars in England as well as the whereabouts of their famous relic.’

‘Why this information?’

‘Ah.’ Puddlicott rose and whispered in Ranulf’s ear. He then stood back, enjoying the amazement on Ranulf’s face.

‘You are telling the truth?’ he asked.

Puddlicott nodded. ‘The breaking into the crypt is nothing compared to Philip’s plans for the future. Only four others now know what you do.’ Puddlicott held up his fingers. ‘Philip of France, Master Nogaret, de Craon and myself.’ Puddlicott shrugged. ‘I’ll soon be dead. Let’s face it, that bastard de Craon did nothing to save me.’

Ranulf eased himself off the table and hammered on the cell door.

‘You’ll keep your word?’ Puddlicott pleaded.

Ranulf looked over his shoulder. ‘Of course, provided what you have told me is the truth!’

In the porter’s lodge, Ranulf dug deep into his purse and slipped some silver coins into the gaoler’s palm.

‘You’ll do what I say?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I understand, Master,’ the fellow replied. ‘On the morning he dies, Puddlicott will drink deeply and go high up the hangman’s ladder.’

Ranulf assured him that he would check that his silver was well spent and, breathing a sigh of relief, stepped out of the prison, the iron-studded door slamming firmly behind him. He stood for a while sucking in the cool night air and staring up at the stars.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ he whispered to himself. ‘The searcher of secrets.’ He recalled what Puddlicott had whispered to him. Oh, he would tell Master Long Face but his own quick wits would choose both the time and the place. The revelation of Puddlicott’s terrible secret would be the key to Ranulf’s fortune.