Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

(It's different now, of course. Due to the persecution of the Catholic priests, every great house has caverns, trap doors and hiding-holes. I have at least three here. There should be four but I've forgotten where one of them was put! They were all built by that Jesuit lay brother, Nicholas Owen, a little man with a cheery face, God's own carpenter. Elizabeth's master spy caught him. Poor Nicholas went to the Tower, Topcliffe the executioner racked him so much his body had to be pinned together before they could take him away and hang him. He left a great legacy, did Owen, secret rooms and chambers up and down the kingdom. It will be hundreds of years before they are all discovered!) Benjamin and Cornelius gave up in disgust. 'What made that dog so excited?' Benjamin asked. I kicked at the floor. 'Perhaps something here, master?'

Benjamin agreed. Servants were summoned and, armed with shovel and pick, hacked at the floor. Benjamin was very careful. He ordered another servant to bring down sacks and the earth was carefully placed in it. 'I've found something!' one of them cried.

Benjamin pushed him aside and, crouching down, stared into the great, yawning hole. He leaned down and picked up a piece of yellowing fabric, covered in dirt and crumbling with age. He took the shovel from the groom and dug more carefully. We were forced back on to the steps as the cellar floor was turned into a gaping hole. Straining our necks we could see that Benjamin had unearthed a rolled-up piece of cloth.

At last it was all free. We carried it upstairs where Benjamin carefully unrolled it. In its prime, the cloth had been one of those thick tapestries that hung on a wall. Now it was faded, stained and contained its own grisly relic: a skeleton of a woman: the bones were brittle and grey strands of hair still clung to the gaping skull. One of the ribs was broken and the remnants of the dress around it were stained a dark maroon colour. The servant swore and stepped away. Benjamin, however, laid the skeleton out carefully. One of the wrist bones snapped as he searched amongst the fabric and picked up a small locket inscribed with the letters 'I.M.' 'This has nothing to do with our search?' Cornelius asked. Benjamin shook his head.

'What you are looking at, sir, are the mortal remains of Isabella Malevel, once owner of this gloomy manor. Whoever broke into her house and plundered it, smashed one of her ribs, probably in an attempt to find out where she had hidden her wealth.' Benjamin pointed to the dark stains on the rags. 'They then cut her throat, wrapped her corpse in a tapestry and buried it in the cellar.'

I kept staring at the locket. I had seen those same letters before – on a tapestry in Lord Charon's cavernous, underground chamber.

Benjamin ordered the remains to be taken into the parlour and laid with the rest of the corpses. Another courier was despatched to Westminster.

'I doubt if she had heirs or relatives,' Benjamin declared. 'So, what happens to the poor woman's remains is a matter for the King.'

Accompanied by Cornelius we went to the gatehouse where Oswald and Imelda were waiting. The day was drawing on: halfway down the path, I stopped and looked back at Malevel with its shuttered windows and grim walls. A house of death! Was that the reason for the sense of evil? Did the old woman's ghost still walk there? Pleading, like Hamlet's father, for vengeance for a life snuffed out in such a cruel fashion? I had no doubt that Lord Charon and his coven had been responsible for the old woman's grisly murder: swarming in one night, like rats into a barn, plundering the house and torturing old Isabella to death. Afterwards, they must have wrapped her corpse in that cloth and buried it in the cellar, then swept the house clean, making it look as if everything and its owner had mysteriously disappeared. However, the important question was whether Lord Charon and his gang had stormed the front door or whether they had used some secret entrance and passageway as yet unfound? 'Roger?' Benjamin and Cornelius were looking at me strangely. 'I am sorry.'

I joined them and went into the gatehouse. Oswald and Imelda were all a-tremble in the small guard room. They looked like ghosts sitting on a bench, clutching each other's hands; the archers had informed them about the grisly events that had occurred.

'We know nothing,' Oswald declared, putting his arms round his wife's shoulders. 'Sirs, we have been involved in no trickery.'

Sometimes you can tell just from the first word: in my soul I knew Oswald was telling the truth. They were both innocents, caught up in this Byzantine game. A young man and his wife, eager to make their fortunes in the city, now cursed by their close acquaintance with the Great Ones of the land. Cornelius and Benjamin thought the same. We sat opposite them: Benjamin took Imelda's hand, assuring her of the Cardinal's protection.

'Just tell us what you know,' he declared. 'What happened in those days?'

'We visited four times,' Oswald replied. 'We never noticed anything amiss.' 'Tell us again,' Benjamin declared.

'We always arrived just before three. Master Cornelius would lake us up to the door and let us in. The manor was dark, it was not a pleasant place. The galleries and rooms were gloomy yet the soldiers were friendly enough, even the Noctales. Sometimes one or two would flirt with Imelda but they were no trouble.' 'Did you go to any other part of the house?' Benjamin asked.

'Only once,' Oswald replied. 'Well, no, perhaps on two occasions, we used the latrines, a small closet down the gallery near the cellar.'

'Most of the time,' Imelda intervened, 'we were in the kitchen. We would bake bread 'How many loaves?'

'Twenty-eight to thirty,' she replied. 'We took nothing with us. Lord Egremont insisted on that. The meats and other ingredients were already there.'

'We baked and cooked,' Oswald explained. 'Cut up vegetables, cleaned the traunchers and platters: prepared oatmeal for breakfast the following morning and set the table for the meal at nine o'clock.'

'Were you always together?' I asked. 'I insisted on that,' Cornelius retorted. 'And you never noticed anything amiss?' Benjamin asked. 'No, sir!' Oswald and Imelda shook their heads. 'How was Jonathan?' Cornelius asked.

'Silent, preoccupied. Rather nervous,' Oswald replied. 'I heard one of the guards say he would take a lot of food but never finish his meal.' 'They were all nervous,' Imelda offered. 'Nervous?' I asked. 'They didn't like the manor. They claimed it was haunted. One guard even said he heard sounds at night.' 'Sounds?' Cornelius asked.

'I don't know what they meant,' she replied. 'But the old manor did creak. You should stay there yourself, sir. You'll find out.'

'But there couldn't have been anyone hidden away?' Oswald added. 'I noticed when the guards were walking up and down, the floorboards groaned, the stairs creaked. Master-' He glanced anxiously at Cornelius. ‘We have been told that they are all dead. One of the soldiers at the gate said their throats had been cut. It would take a small army to do that.' He laughed nervously. 'Not a cook and his wife. Look-' He opened a small, leather bag he carried. 'There are our draft bills: we have the finished accounts at home.' He pushed the scraps into Benjamin's hand. 'We were promised they would be paid.' 'And they will be,' Benjamin reassured him, getting to his feet

He thanked the couple and they left. Cornelius stretched out his legs, folded his arms and leaned against the wall: with his heavy-lidden eyes half closed, he looked as if he were sleeping. 'What was Jonathan like?' Benjamin asked. 'A former officer in the Imperial Guard,' Cornelius replied. 'And he would take orders from you?' 'No, from Lord Theodosius, as I am supposed to.' 'Supposed to?' Benjamin asked.