Paul Doherty - The White Rose murders

'First,' Benjamin continued, 'When we arrived at Coldstream, the prioress said she had not seen Irvine.'

'But the pedlar could have told her.'

'How would he know? His wallet had been taken and it was you who found his concealed pocket. Before you did, the prioress called him: 'John Irvine'. So she seemed to have recognised the corpse and knew his christian name. I didn't tell her that, did you?'

I shook my head. 'But what makes you think he was murdered in the convent?' I asked.

'Ah, that's my second point. When I was on the parapet of the convent wall I saw fresh horse dung lying near the main gate; it was not from our mounts, but the lady prioress said no one had approached the convent.' Benjamin brought his hand up to emphasise his point. 'Did you notice the cloister garden?' he continued. The ground was covered with a fine white sand. There were traces of that on Irvine's boots. Finally, the points on his leggings had been tied up wrongly as if done by someone else in a hurry.' Benjamin squinted at me. 'I suspect poor Irvine was murdered in that convent when he loosed his trews, either to relieve himself or…' His voice faded away.

I felt a spasm of fear and rubbed my own throat, plucking greedily at the skin. Benjamin was probably right. Irvine had been killed, not preparing for a piss but to carry out the same amorous duties I had. I silently vowed I would not be returning to Coldstream.

'We could go back,' Benjamin muttered, as if he read my thoughts. 'But, of course,' he continued, 'that would prove nothing. The lady prioress would deny the charge, and call in the sheriff or some local justice she has in her power. Anyway,' he sighed, peering away into the mist, 'we have very little evidence.'

'And now, Master,' I answered, 'once again we go back with our tails between our legs! Selkirk was killed before he could reveal anything. Ruthven's dead, and now Irvine.' I had a wild thought but dismissed it: Had Benjamin killed Irvine? Had he gone out one dark night and ambushed the fellow?

'What are you thinking, Roger?'

'I am thinking,' I lied, 'about Irvine staying at the Sea Barque in Leicester.' I took out the piece of parchment I had found on the corpse.

'Strange,' Benjamin commented, watching me closely, 'the murderers did not find that.'

I shrugged. 'The poor fellow had to die quickly. They took his wallet and, after that, he was crows' meat. You do realise,' I added, 'that the lady prioress may have connived at Irvine's death but the murderer must be one of our party from Royston? Only they, as well as the Lord Cardinal, knew Irvine was coming here.'

'But who could it be? Catesby and Melford have gone to Nottingham and we can always establish what day they arrived there. I suppose someone could have come from Royston, perhaps leaving after us but passing us in the mist to plan their ambush…'

The guide came over, shouting at us in his strange dialect. Benjamin politely asked him to wait.

'So, Roger, you think we should go to the Sea Barque at Leicester?'

'Yes, Master. We may find something there which could explain Irvine's death and Selkirk's death-bearing verses.'

We bribed the guide with silver and a promise of more to take us to Leicester. A day later, we were struggling through the runnels and alleyways of that city. The good Lord knows what a dirty, loathsome task it was: the crowded houses, and the stinking sewers which smelt like a boiling cauldron in the heat of the city. At last we discovered the Sea Barque in a rundown market square just under the city walls. The houses on each side of this gloomy square were dirty and ramshackle; an old dog lay panting under the small market cross. Now and again it would rise and lick the feet of a sore-infested beggar fastened tight in the stocks. It was eventide, the market was finished and both the hucksters and their customers were sheltering under the striped canvas awnings of the small ale booths. Benjamin pointed to the Sea Barque, a narrow tenement three storeys high with a great ale stake tucked under its eaves and a gaudily painted sign hanging tipsily over the battered door. Around this entrance were a small group of tinkers and pedlars selling brightly coloured ribbons, gloves, plums and green apples. We pushed through these into the tavern whilst our guide stayed outside to hold the horses.

The taproom of the Sea Barque was cool although musty, its tables nothing but barrels, with a few rickety stools and benches round the walls. We had been warned by a merchant on the road not to drink either the water or the muddy-coloured ales because the plague had recently been raging in the city and the streams might still be infected. My master ordered a jug of wine and questioned the slattern, a pretty, fresh-cheeked wench, who would have been quite comely if she had kept her teeth. Benjamin, courteous as ever, let her sip from his cup and thrust a penny into her small but calloused hand.

'Child,' he remarked, 'do you remember a man called Irvine – fresh-faced, sandy-haired, perhaps secretive and sly? He talked like a Scotsman?'

The girl looked puzzled so I repeated the description and recognition dawned in her bright blue eyes. She nodded her head vigorously and chattered gaily though I could only understand half of what she said. Apparently Irvine had been a constant patron of the place.

'At first he came alone,' the slattern announced. 'He ate and drank generously and was well liked by the other customers, even though he was a Scotsman.' She stopped speaking and winked at my master, taking another sip from his goblet and grabbing the second penny he offered. 'But then,' she continued like a child reciting a story, 'he became secretive and withdrawn and took to meeting in a corner with a sinister-looking fellow.' She screwed up her eyes to remember. 'This stranger had dark brown hair, a patch over one eye and a large purple birth mark which stretched across his cheek.'

'Was he English?' I asked.

She laughed and shook her head. 'A true Scotsman. He could drink like a fish and I couldn't understand his coarse speech.'

'And did Irvine leave anything?' my master asked.

'Oh, no. I cleaned his room.' She looked slyly at me. 'Or, at least, I tried to.'

'Why do you say that?' Benjamin snapped.

'Because he left a drawing on the wall. The landlord was furious and told me to wash it off.'

'What was it?' I asked.

'A large bird,' she answered. 'He drew it with a piece of charcoal. A large bird with a cruel beak and a crown on its head.'

'Like an eagle?' I queried.

'Yes, yes,' the girl replied.

'And Irvine's strange companion?' Benjamin asked. 'What did he do?'

'Nothing but chatter to Irvine, then he left, and Irvine shortly afterwards.'

We thanked the wench who could tell us nothing else. We spent some more time moving around Leicester, going from tavern to tavern trying to discover if anyone else had seen Irvine's strange companion. We met with nothing but failure. The end of the second day in the city found us faded, dirty and eager to leave.

We spent two days travelling back to Royston with a guide who was as tired of us as we were sick of him. The manor house, despite a change in the weather, still looked grim: a gloomy, squat huddle of buildings hiding behind a cracked, moss-covered curtain wall. Melford and a group of bowmen greeted us at the gate. Above them, his feet kicking, his hose stained, face black and tongue protruding, danced one of the kitchen minions.

'Hanged!' Melford cheerily announced. 'For stealing household goods and trying to sell them in the surrounding villages.'

The bastard smiled evilly at me as if he would have loved to have put a noose round my neck and had me swinging on a branch of the overhanging elm tree. We hid our disgust and made our way up to the main door where the ever-benevolent Doctor Agrippa was waiting for us. Whilst grooms took our horses away, we were led into the dreary Chapter House, now made a little more comfortable with hangings and arras, cushions and chairs, from Queen Margaret's stores.