Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘That could have been written by anyone,’ he murmured aloud.

The rest of the items included a rough sketch map of London, or at least the area around St Paul’s, Cheapside, Aldgate, Cripplegate and Farringdon. Crosses had been etched in red. According to the memorandum drawn up by Rastall, the map, definitely the work of Boniface himself, marked some of the murders carried out by the Mysterium. A second sheaf consisted of faded scraps bearing the same macabre message the assassin had pinned to the corpses of his victims: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. Corbett held one of these up; undoubtedly they had been sent to the chancery by the coroners and sheriffs who’d attended the victim’s corpses. Boniface had apparently collected them, but why? More important was a piece of parchment with the words ‘St Paul’ scrawled above a square roughly divided into columns, twelve across and twelve down. According to Rastall, the document had been found in Boniface’s coffer and was certainly in his hand. Corbett tapped the table, muttering to himself. Evesham had revealed the Mysterium’s murderous method only after he had arrested both Ippegrave and the merchant Chauntoys. Only did then did he deduce, supported by Chauntoys’ full confession, how the Mysterium chose his victims and demanded payment.

‘But that was after the event!’ Corbett exclaimed to himself. ‘So how did Boniface know about St Paul’s?’

He couldn’t have done, he reasoned, unless he truly was the Mysterium. Yet he had protested his innocence to his sister and to others. He’d written that puzzle about being guiltless, standing in the centre and pointing to the four corners; what did that mean? An enigmatic riddle to protect himself? Was Boniface a liar and an assassin who’d managed to escape and had now returned to exact vengeance?

Corbett blew on his mittened fingers and extended his hands over the nearby chafing dish, then picked up a parchment that Rastall had again confirmed was written in Boniface’s hand. The lettering was neat and precise, as if the author had carefully reflected before scribbling each word. The entries were elliptical: Hervey Staunton, Blandeford? Clerks? Messengers to St Paul’s Cross ? Then beneath this, Walter Evesham? Ignacio Engleat? Clerks in the city? Corbett moved the manuscript around and glimpsed a sketch in the far right-hand corner: two letters, ‘B’ and ‘M’, separated by a heart pierced with an arrow. Was that a mere jotting? Some long-lost love of Boniface’s? He picked up the last piece of parchment. Grey and faded, it bore a list of names beginning with ‘Emma’, then others that sparked Corbett’s memory though he couldn’t place them: Odo Furnival, Stephen Bassetlawe, William Rescales. Beneath this the letters

A,B,C,

D,E,F,

G,H,I

A flurry of noise followed by a creak in the gallery outside made him start. Footpad or Assassin had struck! He settled in his chair, allowing the exhaustion to seep in. When, he wondered, would he strike at this cunning killer? The piece of parchment slipped from his fingers and, eyes growing heavy, he drifted into sleep.

Adelicia Ippegrave started awake. She’d been dreaming about walking through the moon-washed woodland of the abbey searching for Boniface. She was worried about the tapping that seemed to follow her. Pulling herself up on the cot bed, she realised the noise was coming from the shuttered window of her anker house. She picked up the small crucifix from the rough-hewn table beside her bed and crossed herself with it, whispering a prayer to St Michael against the prowlers of the dark. Then she drew a deep breath, took a tinder and lit the fat tallow candle in the lantern horn. Again the tapping on the shutters.

‘Adelicia,’ hissed a voice, ‘Adelicia, pax et bonum .’

She moved across, opened the shutters and stood back. A rush of icy night air made her snatch up her mantle and wrap it about her shoulders. She stared into the blackness.

‘Who are you?’

‘Why, sister, your sweet brother Boniface.’

Adelicia caught her breath and sat down clumsily on a stool.

‘I don’t believe you!’ she gasped. ‘Show yourself.’

‘It’s best not, not the way I am now.’

‘Then how-’ Adelicia flinched as something sparkling was tossed lightly through the window. She scrabbled on the ground and picked up the circle of gold with its jasper stone.

‘Your ring.’ The voice was low, slightly mocking. ‘Your ring,’ it repeated. ‘Mother’s ring. You sent it to me.’

Adelicia held the ring fast as tears pricked her eyes. ‘If you are Boniface, where have you been? Why have you come back now? Why didn’t-’

‘The past is closed, sealed, Adelicia. No going back down amongst the dead men. My hour has come, vengeance is here.’

‘For what?’

‘Sins reeking of malice and evil.’

‘But you said the past is sealed.’

‘So it is, except for sin. Its blossoms bloom rich and thick, they have to be culled.’

‘Are you the Mysterium?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you protested your innocence. You claimed to be guiltless, standing in the centre, pointing to the four corners. You wrote-’

‘That was then,’ came the whisper.

‘Did you. .’ Adelicia’s mouth went dry, ‘kill Evesham and the others? Dreadful deaths. Even more, I’ve heard news from the city. I have been summoned by the royal clerk. .’

‘Dogs nosing the muck,’ taunted the voice. ‘What do we have to do with royal clerks, Adelicia?’

‘Boniface, how did you escape?’

‘I will answer that if you answer me.’

‘What?’

‘When you came to see me, when I was in sanctuary at St Botulph’s, did Evesham,’ the voice thrilled with hatred, ‘did Evesham, that limb of Satan, ask about a woman called Beatrice?’

‘No,’ whispered Adelicia, ‘but later, when you escaped, he and Engleat came to our house. They searched it from cellar to garret, but of course-’

‘I never kept anything there; well not much, did I, sister?’

‘No, no.’

‘And Evesham, what did he ask?’

‘He screamed at me about a woman Boniface, if that is who you are. Yes, he gave her name, Beatrice, that’s all. And now my question: how did you escape?’

‘Sister, I simply walked through the door.’

‘But that’s. .’ Adelicia hastened to the window and gripped the rough wooden sill. She stared bleakly into the darkness, but her visitor had gone.

‘I don’t understand.’ Hervey Staunton, Justice in King’s Bench, tightened his vair-lined cloak, then leaned over and rapped the dark green leather covering of the judgement bench in the chamber of oyer and terminer just off the great hall of Westminster. ‘I don’t understand,’ he sniffed, glancing quickly at his companion Blandeford, who also sat swathed in a costly robe, face all peevish.

Ranulf leaned back in his high chair and stared around the comfortable lofty chamber. The walls were half covered in gleaming linen panelling, the pinkish-coloured plaster above adorned with paintings, cloths and triptychs all showing the same theme of justice, be it Daniel defending Susannah or Solomon deciding over the ownership of a child. He then glanced quickly at Chanson, Clerk of the Stables, now acting as court usher, sitting on a stool near the door. Outside, two burly men-at-arms, resplendent in their blue and gold scarlet livery, were ready to provide assistance.

Ranulf smiled to himself when Staunton repeated his question. ‘Master Long-Face’, as Ranulf secretly called Corbett, seemed oblivious to everything except the sheets of parchment before him. He wondered if he should intervene. He leaned forward, but Corbett, quick as a cat, gently tapped the table, a sign to remain silent. Ranulf rearranged his writing tray, its ink pots of red, blue and green still warm to the touch, the sharpened quills gleaming like knives ready to be grasped, the smooth creamy parchment stretched out under the weights carved in the shape of grimacing gargoyles. The inquisition would soon begin, but Corbett was determined to emphasise his authority over these two arrogant officials.