Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘Parson John?’ Corbett called. There was no answer. He entered the flagstoned kitchen and scullery, a neat, tidy place with its scrubbed table, simple benches and aumbries, cooking pots stacked on the shelves above the mantle. It was bitterly cold; the brazier and small hearth both brimmed with grey ash.

‘Parson John?’ Corbett moved into what must be the solar, a sparse room, its whitewashed walls decorated with a crucifix and a few coloured cloths. A chancery table and chair stood in the far corner; above these ranged shelves filled with calfskin-covered books. A lectern, a high chest and some small coffers and caskets were the only other furnishings. He called the priest’s name again, then went up the stairs built into the corner and pushed open the door at the top.

Parson John sat on the edge of his bed, fully clothed, head in his hands. He glanced up bleary-eyed as Corbett entered. The chamber stank of stale sweat and wine. Corbett noticed the flagon on the small table beside the bed. The light was poor, the window still shuttered. He went across and opened it, then picked up the lantern horn from a carved chest beneath the sill and stood over the priest. Parson John just stared back. He looked pitiful, dirty and unshaven, his lips stained with wine.

‘I know, clerk,’ he slurred. ‘A bailiff came here, a raucous fellow muttering about how poor Fleschner is dead, hung like a rat down at Queenshithe.’ He clambered to his feet, breath heavy with wine. ‘I cannot stay here, I’ll never come back.’ He rubbed his eyes and stared at Corbett. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘As you said, poor Fleschner. What happened yesterday?’

‘Very little,’ mumbled the priest. ‘We left Westminster. Fleschner brought me here. He put me to bed. He added an opiate to the wine and I fell into a deep sleep. I woke in the middle of the night, so cold! I fetched more wine, drank it and slept again until the bailiff came.’

‘What will you do now?’

‘Sir Hugh, I am going to go out and fill my belly with good food. Afterwards I will seek out some barber in a warm, comfortable spot. He’ll shave my face and cut my hair. I’ll come back here to pack my bundles and books then go to seek shelter at Syon Abbey as my late, but not lamented, father did.’

‘Listen,’ Corbett said. ‘Fleschner found the heads of your stepmother and her steward in the baptismal bowl at the back of your church. Why do you think they were left there of all places?’

‘I don’t know,’ muttered the priest. ‘I truly don’t.’

‘And why should the assassin murder Fleschner and leave his demonic insult? What had Fleschner to do with events some twenty years ago?’

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’ Parson John wailed like a child. ‘Let me go to Syon. Let me rest, let me think, then I. .’ He paused, mouth gaping at a sound from below.

Corbett pressed a finger against the priest’s lips, then undid the clasps of his own cloak and drew both sword and dagger. Through the half-open door he glimpsed a shadow shift at the bottom of the stairs. He hurled himself out, crashing down the stairs. The intruder fled, but stumbled over the step leading back into the kitchen, sprawling and twisting, hand going for his own dagger. Corbett went and stood over him, the tip of his sword pressed against the man’s chest. Leaning down, he pushed back the cowl, undoing the muffler across the man’s mouth.

‘Ah, Lapwing, you steal like a thief into Parson John’s house.’ He gestured with his sword for the intruder to get up. Lapwing did so, scrambling to his feet, eyes and face no longer merry.

‘Like a thief!’ Corbett repeated, aware of Parson John coming down the stairs behind him.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I heard the herald’s proclamation in Cheapside about Master Fleschner being found hanged down at Queenshithe. I thought I should visit Parson John to see if there was anything I could do.’

‘Is there, Parson John?’ asked Corbett over his shoulder. The priest came up beside him and smiled at the intruder. Corbett wondered if there was a friendship between these two. ‘Parson John?’ he snapped.

‘He could help me pack. As I said, Sir Hugh, I must fill my belly, wash, shave and leave for Syon Abbey. There’s no crime in entering a priest’s house to help a friend.’

‘Is Parson John your friend?’

‘After the Newgate riot,’ Lapwing gestured with his head towards the church, ‘when I was falsely arrested, I came here. Parson John was kind. I have a debt to repay.’

‘In which case, sirs, I leave you to it. However,’ Corbett tapped the clerk’s shoulder with his sword, ‘do not leave your lodgings in this city. If I send for you, or visit you, you must be there.’

Lapwing, his composure regained, shrugged nonchalantly, and Corbett left St Botulph’s, making his way once more towards Milk Street. Tinkers were selling ribbons and other geegaws, and one of these showed him to Lady Idola’s house. Corbett knocked on the door, and a maid answered. Corbett showed her the seals and demanded entrance. The slattern was about to protest, but he leaned closer and touched her under the chin.

‘Don’t worry my pretty,’ he whispered. ‘I’m on king’s business. I need to see Lady Idola now, so I do not want to be told she is otherwise engaged or shopping. The morning is cold. I am sure she is in her chamber.’

A short while later, he was shown up the stairs into a beautiful, elegant room. The bottom half of its walls were covered in gleaming wainscoting; above this hung heraldic devices, embroidered cloths, triptychs and paintings. It was furnished with gleaming settles, chairs and stools, and smelled fragrantly of the herbs and spices sprinkled over the great log fire spluttering in the mantled hearth. Lady Idola, an imperious old woman, was sitting on a throne-like chair swathed in robes, her sandalled feet on a rest before a fire. She was supping from a goblet of mulled wine, in her lap a silver tray of sweetmeats. She looked Corbett up and down, received his introductions and waved him to the smaller chair beside her.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of you. What are you here for?’ Her bright button-black eyes studied his face. ‘You look cold and pinched. Have you eaten?’

Corbett smiled and nodded.

‘Would you like some wine?’

He shook his head.

‘Well, clerk, what is your business? Oh, by the way. .’ She popped another delicacy into her mouth and slurped noisily from the goblet. ‘I am expecting other visitors.’

‘Lady Idola, I will not keep you long. You were married to the merchant Adam Chauntoys; I think you know his history.’

‘Let me tell you, clerk,’ she settled herself more comfortably, ‘I sit here nursing my memories. Oh yes, I know all about my late husband’s. . how can I put it. . dealings with the King.’

‘Which were?’

‘Master Chauntoys was first married to Lady Alice, daughter of Sir Walter Plumpton. Lady Alice was born of a wealthy family; she was well educated but had the morals of an alley cat. She brought my late husband a large and generous dowry. He thought that the ceremony at the church door, the binding of hands and the swearing of eternal love, meant that Lady Alice would change her ways, but she did not. There wasn’t a young man in Cheapside who, if he caught her eye, didn’t share her bed. My husband put up with such strumpet behaviour for at least five years of their marriage. She gave him no son. He suspected she took medicine or potions to prevent herself conceiving. He did consider seeking an annulment from the Church. Of course Lady Alice’s family were powerful, and would fight such a slight to their honour, whilst Master Chauntoys was advised by canon lawyers that no grounds existed for annulment. The years passed. What should have been love turned into a deep, languishing hatred between them. My husband decided to go to Southampton on business. While he was absent, his wife was attacked by street brawlers and killed.’