Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘Today,’ the Gleeman shouted, ‘we shall start early, as darkness will soon be upon us. We must prepare our play for the twelve days of Christmas. The good burgesses of Canterbury, in their markets and outside their churches, will demand to see a play they’ve never seen before. So we must get all our items correct. We must have a palm for Gabriel to bring from Paradise to Mary. There must be a thunderclap. We need a white cloud to come and fetch St John preaching on Patmos and bring him before the door of the Virgin Mary’s house at Ephesus. We must have another cloud to bring up the Apostles from the various countries; a cloth of gold robe for Mary’s Assumption, together with a small truckle bed and several torches of white wax which the attendant virgins must hold. Jesus Christ must come down from Paradise to greet His Mother, accompanied by a great multitude of angels. So we must have fragrances as well as a crown circled with twelve stars. He will use these to anoint and crown her in Paradise.’ The Gleeman glimpsed Corbett and paused. ‘All these items must be ready. So come on,’ he clapped his hands, ‘the rehearsals must be underway before the Angelus bell.’ He climbed down from the barrel, shooing the troupe away.

‘Well, sir, what can I do for you?’ The Gleeman walked over to Corbett, smiling and winking. Corbett led him away from the rest.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘when you met Griskin in Suffolk, he pretended to be a leper?’

‘That’s right, Sir Hugh,’ the Gleeman murmured. ‘He would come into our camp once darkness fell and seek me out. We would gossip, then he would leave. Why do you ask?’

‘I believe,’ Corbett decided to be blunt, ‘that Griskin was betrayed.’

‘Sir Hugh, not by me!’ The Gleeman stood back, hands to his chest. ‘I promise you, Griskin was safe with me and my company. No one would betray him.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett moved closer, ‘Griskin was murdered when? At the end of November? Is there anybody, Master Gleeman, who’s joined your company recently, mysteriously? Someone skilled, someone you need, but nevertheless a stranger. You do hire men, don’t you?’

The Gleeman nodded, eyes narrowing. He was about to open his mouth to reply when he coughed, turned away and spat. ‘We have such a man. He joined us around the Feast of All Souls, or All Saints, I can’t remember which. He calls himself the Pilgrim. At first he acted suspiciously, but he was skilled in fashioning joists and other woodwork. He also proved to be a marvellous devil.’

‘A what?’ Corbett asked.

‘One of the mummers,’ the Gleeman explained. ‘Certain people possess that skill of mind to conjure up an appearance and act a part. The Pilgrim is certainly one of these. He played the role of a demon to perfection. I put it to the vote and we accepted him. Come.’ The Gleeman took Corbett by the elbow, pushing him gently towards the old priest’s house. He ushered him inside the deserted kitchen, told him to sit on the stool before the fire and went out. A short while later he returned. Corbett looked over his shoulder, but all he could see was a dark outline in the doorway. He immediately sensed that this man, whoever he may be, was very fearful.

‘Come in!’ Corbett ordered, getting to his feet. ‘Master Gleeman, I prefer to be by myself.’ The Gleeman nodded and hastily withdrew.

Corbett took the stranger closer to the window. Lean and lithe, he reminded Corbett of a cat, with his slanting eyes, a face like the very devil, cheeks and jaw bare of any hair, all cleanly shaven. Corbett stepped back. The man had a thin, narrow face. He was dressed in yellow hose and a tattered scarlet jerkin. In his left hand he held a cither and in his right a crude form of bow. He made no sound, no comment, his mouth slack, lips open, only those eyes in that lean, vicious-looking face watching Corbett intently.

‘What do you want?’ The voice was guttural. ‘Sir, I asked you what you want with me. Master Gleeman said I had to talk to you.’

‘What is your name?’ Corbett asked, stepping closer.

‘Pilgrim.’

Corbett drew his dagger and dug its point into the side of the Pilgrim’s neck. ‘I am the King’s clerk, his commissioner in these parts,’ he whispered, ‘and you, sir, when I ask a question, will answer truthfully. You proclaim yourself the Pilgrim, but I doubt you were called so at the baptismal font. What is your true name?’

‘Edmund Groscote.’

‘Ah, well, Edmund Groscote,’ Corbett continued, digging the tip a little deeper until a small bead of blood appeared. Groscote winced but did not flinch; his eyes held Corbett’s. ‘Just keep holding the bow and cither,’ Corbett warned. ‘Don’t drop them; don’t even think of looking for that knife hidden somewhere about you. Let me tell you a little about your life, Master Groscote. You’re a cunning man, a conjuror, a foist, a nap, someone who lives on their wits. You have been pursued the length and breadth of the kingdom for this crime or that. I wager in some town in Suffolk or Norfolk there are rewards on your head for all sorts of trickery, am I correct? Please answer the truth. You have nothing to fear from me except a pardon.’

Groscote sighed. ‘The blade,’ he murmured. ‘I beg you. .’

Corbett withdrew the dagger.

Groscote’s body went slack. He backed away until he reached the door, then slid down, arms across his stomach, knees up. He glanced fearfully at Corbett.

‘My name is Edmund Groscote,’ he repeated. ‘I am wanted by various sheriffs, port reeves and town bailiffs. I have a list of crimes any man would be fearful of. I was a clerk once, Sir Hugh — that is your name, is it not? Ah well,’ he continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘I was a clerk. On two occasions I’ve taken sanctuary, on three occasions pleaded benefit of clergy. So, Master Royal Clerk, if I am taken up again, I’ll be hanged. I was born in Norfolk of good family, sent to school, studied hard at my horn book, but I took to devilry as a fish does to swimming or a bird to flying.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘I became the quarry of a venator hominum .’

‘Hubert Fitzurse?’ Corbett asked.

‘The devil’s own,’ the Pilgrim retorted. ‘He was terrifying, Sir Hugh. You don’t know what it’s like to be hunted day and night by one man, a shadow, whose face you never see. So every tavern you enter, every alehouse you frequent, every marketplace you cross, you never know if he is there waiting for you. He had a fearful reputation. You’d be seized, bound and handed over to be hanged.’

Corbett knelt down beside this frightened man. ‘But Hubert the Monk disappeared,’ he declared. ‘You joined Les Hommes Joyeuses on the Feast of All Souls last. For many a year the venator hominum had been quiet. He suddenly reappeared, didn’t he?’

‘I wasn’t hiding from him,’ Groscote replied wearily, ‘but from others, members of a gang; we’d taken some silver and I had divided it, according to them, rather unfairly. Anyway, I decided to give up my nefarious ways and join the Gleeman’s company. I was happy to do so. One night I was in the tavern. I was drunk, full of ale, my belly fit to bursting. I went out to relieve myself. I felt a dagger, like yours, Sir Hugh, nipping at my neck. I was pushed against the wall, my face scarred against the brickwork, and a hoarse voice whispered in my ear, asking me many questions. Was I not Edmund Groscote? Was I not a member of Les Hommes Joyeuses? Was I not wanted in this town or that for this crime or that? Of course, I had to agree. “Do you know who I am?” the voice asked. I was too terrified to reply. “I am Hubert Fitzurse,” the voice continued, “the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, the venator hominum . You, Master Groscote, are my prisoner. Within a week you’ll hang.” I begged for mercy, I spluttered for my life.’ The Pilgrim spread his hands, eyes fearful. “No real need for you to hang, Master Groscote,” that voice whispered. “I just want information about Les Hommes Joyeuses and the Gleeman. Has a leper visited your camp?” Of course I had seen one and confessed as much. Fitzurse told me to return to the same tavern at the same hour the following evening and tell him all I knew. I did that.’