Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

'Johanna's a nun?' I whispered.

Benjamin shook his head. We disembarked and walked up the gravelled path to the iron-studded convent gate. My master pulled the bell and a postern door opened. Again Benjamin whispered, the white-veiled nun smiled and beckoned us forward. We were led round a flower-filled cloister garth, down white-washed passages into a room furnished with nothing except a bench, a few stools and a large black wooden cross. The nun brought us two cups of watered wine and slipped out, closing the door behind her. Naturally, I was full of questions but Benjamin's face had become cold and impassive, drained of both colour and emotion. Ten, fifteen minutes passed before the door opened and an old nun walked in, leading a girl of no more than nineteen or twenty summers. She had fiery red hair under the dark cowl of her cloak and her face was truly beautiful – marble white with rosebud lips – but her eyes, though a sea-washed blue, were empty and vacant. She stumbled as if finding it difficult to walk and, when Benjamin rose to embrace her, just shook her head and gave him a blank smile.

My master led her over to one of the benches where they sat together, Benjamin caressing her, pulling her close to him, crooning like a doting parent would over a favourite child. The old nun just stood and watched whilst I listened to him mutter sweet endearments but the girl hardly moved, allowing herself to be rocked gently backwards and forwards. I stared but looked away when I saw the tears streaming down my master's face and felt the sheer sorrow of his soul. After a while the nun went across and took Johanna gently out of Benjamin's arms. She and my master whispered for a while, the door was opened and Benjamin and I were left alone.

We did not talk until we were through the postern gate of the Tower and alone in our chamber. By then Benjamin had composed himself.

'Who was she, Master?'

'Johanna Beresford,' he murmured.

The name stirred my own memories. 'There were Beresfords in Ipswich,' I replied, 'an alderman by the same name.'

'Yes, that's correct.'

Suddenly I remembered the rumours I had heard about Benjamin: vague gossip about him being enamoured of an alderman's daughter.

'What happened?'

Benjamin rubbed his face in his hands. 'Some years ago,' he began, 'just after I was appointed as Clerk to the Justices in Ipswich, I fell deeply in love with Johanna Beresford.' He smiled wanly. 'She was rather spoilt, being the only daughter of a wealthy, elderly couple. Nevertheless, I made her laugh and I think she had some affection for me.' He licked his lips and looked around. 'All went well, at least at first. I was received into her father's house where I pressed my suit.' He fell silent.

'What happened then?' I prompted.

'The Assizes came to town, the great judges from Westminster doing their circuit of Suffolk. The captain of the guard was a young nobleman, one of the Cavendishes of Devon.' Benjamin bit his lip. 'To cut a dreadful story short, Johanna became besotted with this young nobleman. Of course, I protested but she was infatuated. Now, I might have accepted that: Johanna was of an honourable family and would have made a dutiful wife, but Cavendish just trifled with her, seduced and then abandoned her. Johanna was distraught with grief. She went down to London but he laughed at her, offering to provide her with comfortable lodgings. He treated her no better than a whore.' Benjamin looked at me, no longer the gentle soul I knew. The skin across his pallid face had drawn tight, his eyes seemed larger, wilder. 'Johanna went mad!' he continued. 'Her parents, distraught, tried to remonstrate with Cavendish but the insults they received only hastened their own demise. Before their death they put her in the caring hands of the Nuns of Syon and left their money in trust to the Order. Alderman Beresford also made me swear that for as long as I lived I would take care of Johanna.' He smiled. 'No duty, Roger, but a sacred trust: Johanna is insane, driven mad by love, witless because of desire. So now you understand.'

I did. I now knew why Benjamin would occasionally hasten down to London on some mysterious errand. Why he was so shy in the company of women. Why he always bore that terrible aura of sadness, and why he'd been so skilled in putting Selkirk at his ease.

'What happened?' I asked. 'To whom?' 'To Cavendish?'

Benjamin rubbed his hands together.

'Well,' he coughed, 'I killed him!'

Now, the Lord be my witness, I went cold with fright. Here was my gentle master, who became sad when a dray horse was beaten, calmly announcing he had killed a young nobleman! Benjamin glanced sideways at me.

'No,' he said tartly, 'not what you think, Roger. No poison-laced wine or arrow in the back. I might not carry a sword but I was taught fencing by a Spaniard who had served in Italy, then fled to England when the Inquisition took an interest in him. Anyway, I sought out Cavendish in a London tavern. I bit my thumb at him, slapped him in the face and asked if he was as brave with Ipswich men as he was with Ipswich women. One grey morning, on thirty yards of dew-drenched grass near Lincoln's Inn Fields, we met with sword and dagger. I could say I meant to wound him but that would be a he.' He shrugged. 'I killed him clean in ten minutes. There's a law against duelling but the Cavendishes saw it as a matter of honour and accepted that as a gentleman I had no choice but to issue the challenge. My uncle the Lord Cardinal obtained a pardon from the King and the matter was hushed up.' He sighed. 'Now, Johanna is mad and hidden away in Syon, Cavendish is dead, my heart is broken and I owe my life to the Lord Cardinal.' He got up and unclasped his cloak. 'Have you ever, Roger,' he said, talking over his shoulder, 'wondered why I saved you from the hangman's noose in Ipswich?'.

To be truthful I had not, accepting Benjamin as a simple, honest, kindly fellow. Now, in that dark chamber in the Tower, I realised that old Shallot had been wrong and fought to hide the cold prickling fear in my heart.

Benjamin slung his cloak down on the bed.

'Well, Roger?'

'Yes and no,' I stuttered.

He knelt down beside me. I tensed, seeing the small knife secreted in his hand. His eyes were still wild in his pale, haggard face.

'I saved you, Roger, because I liked you, and because I owe you a debt.' He smiled strangely. 'Remember that Great Beast of a school master? But,' he seized my wrist in a grip like a steel manacle, 'I want you to swear now, before me and before God, that if anything happens to me, you will always take care of Johanna!' He pulled back the sleeve of his jerkin and nicked his wrist with the knife until a thin, rich, red line of blood appeared; then he took my wrist, the edge of the knife skimming it like a razor. I did not look down but kept my eyes fastened on his. One flicker, one change of expression, and I would have drawn my own dagger but Benjamin harmlessly forced his cut on mine so our blood mingled together, trickling down, staining our arms and the starched whiteness of our shirts.

'Swear, Roger!' he exclaimed. 'Swear by God, by your mother's grave, by the blood now mingling, you will always take care of Johanna!'

'I swear!' I whispered.

He nodded, rose, and tossing the knife on the floor, lay down on his bed and rolled himself up in his cloak.

I waited while the blood on my cut wrist dried, staring across at Benjamin.

Now, let old Shallot teach you a lesson – never presume you know anyone! Benjamin was not the man I thought he was. In truth he was many people: the kindly lawyer, the innocent student, the boon companion… but there was a deeper, darker, even sinister side. He was a man who strove to conceal extravagant passions behind a childlike exterior. Outside the Tower, a cold wind from the river cried and moaned like a lost soul, seeking Heaven. I shivered and drew my cloak around me. Benjamin had killed a man! Could he kill again? I wondered. Had his questioning of Selkirk reminded him of Johanna and stirred the demon festering in his soul?