Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

'Are you saying this could be the work of the Schlachter?' I asked.

'Possibly,' Cornelius replied. 'It bears all the hallmarks of his handiwork. The removal of the tips of fingers, the dagger wounds on the legs.' His face became grave. 'If Archetel is involved in this business, then it doesn't bode well. He would like to hurt the Emperor as well as line his own purse.'

'And what about your outlaws?' Egremont intervened. 'This Lord Charon you mentioned?'

'Ah yes.' Kempe came forward, the bastard was smiling from ear to ear. 'We discussed what you told us, Master Shallot, with His Grace the King. He wants Lord Charon trapped, arrested and interrogated.' He tweaked my cheek. 'And you, my dear Roger, are to be the bait.'

We returned to the Flickering Lamp: it was late in the afternoon and I was torn between rage and fear. 'Always poor Shallot,' I snarled as we sat in the taproom.

Boscombe came over: this time he was garbed as a friar, even his face was pulled in a sanctimonious expression and his little mockery did something to restore my good humour. Benjamin introduced himself fully, thanking Boscombe for his kindness to me during my recent troubles. The landlord simply pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, smiled beatifically, sketched a blessing in the air and walked away. Benjamin watched him go curiously. 'Master?' I asked.

Benjamin picked up his blackjack, tossing the remains of his chicken on the floor for Castor to eat.

'I am sure I have seen him before,' Benjamin declared. He put his tankard down. 'I am sure I have,' he repeated.

'Perhaps when we came here first?' I retorted. (Oh yes, I regret I was so dismissive.) 'Maybe you glimpsed his face then? But, never mind him, what am I to do about Lord Charon?'

'Sir Thomas Kempe made it very clear,' Benjamin replied. 'Lord Charon may have had a hand in the business at Malevel Manor.' He leaned across and gripped my wrist. 'Roger, it's the only path we can follow: better that than being summoned to kneel before the King and listen to him rage or, even worse, have things thrown at us!' Benjamin glanced across the tavern to where Boscombe was standing beside the ale casks. 'If we fail the King on this,' he added, 'it will no doubt mean spending months in the Tower, followed by some sea voyage down the coast of Africa.'

He came over, sat beside me and leaned his back against the wall.

'Let's summarise, Roger, what we know. First,' he said. 'We have the Orb of Charlemagne. The King has really no intention of allowing that out of his realm. He therefore hires a royal goldsmith to fashion a replica. Secondly, this Orb contains a secret. If the amethyst on the top is held up against a flame, I believe the crucified Christ can be seen. This information is known to the King and to Sir Thomas Kempe. Now the relic-seller Henley also knew it but the thief did not. That is why Henley was killed and Berkeley was taken out on to that lonely heath, to be tortured and interrogated about the replica, before he was foully murdered.'

'Thirdly,' I added. 'The replica that Berkeley fashioned apparently fooled both Lord Theodosius and Cornelius. Otherwise they would never have accepted it.' I sipped at my ale. 'This leads us to other interesting possibilities. Was the replica Kempe showed us the genuine article? Or did Berkeley make two?' 'And?' Benjamin asked. 'Where is the replica now?' I asked.

'I can't answer that,' Benjamin replied. 'However, Dearest Uncle told me that Henry has been negotiating with the Emperor for help against France for the last year. In that time Berkeley could have fashioned two or more replica Orbs.' He sighed. 'But we'll never know, will we? Well, Roger, what else have your sharp wits dug up?'

'Fourthly,' I continued. 'We know fifteen men were killed at Malevel Manor but how or by whom is a mystery. There's no evidence as to how the assassin was able to enter and massacre so many able men and then leave without disturbing a mouse. Fifthly, Sir Thomas Kempe is not above suspicion. We believe that at least one archer may have been sending him messages from Malevel Manor.'

'But there again,' Benjamin intervened, 'we have no evidence that it was Kempe who was receiving such messages.'

'Finally,' I concluded. 'Lord Charon may be involved in this wickedness. He was undoubtedly responsible for the murder of Lady Isabella Malevel and he may know some secret entrance into the manor.'

'There is one other person,' Benjamin added. 'The man Cornelius referred to as the Schlachter, a former member of the Noctales who may be working for himself…' 'Or for Lord Charon?' I suggested.

I gazed round the taproom. The day was drawing on; traders, journeymen, porters, a few of the street trollops, two wandering musicians and a beggar with a fistful of pennies were now clamouring for wine and food, laughing loudly at Boscombe's imitation of a friar. One of the porters, a drunken oaf, caught my gaze and came lumbering across threateningly; Castor raised his head and growled and the fellow scuttled off like a beetle.

'I wonder if Cerberus, or another of Lord Charon's men, is here?' Benjamin pulled a face.

'Boscombe!' I called. I held up my hand, a silver piece between my fingers.

The taverner almost jumped across the room, knocking aside other customers. 'Master Roger?'

'If I wanted,' I whispered, 'to speak to Lord Charon, how would I do it?'

Boscombe took the silver piece and, before I could stop him, clapped his hands.

'Hear ye! Hear ye!' he bellowed, mimicking a town crier. 'Know that Master Shallot, my guest and dearest friend, wishes to have words with the Lord Charon!' Boscombe put his hand on his chest and bowed. 'Of course,' he added, 'at a time and place of Lord Charon's choosing.'

The rest of the customers just gazed at him and a deathly silence held the taproom. Boscombe clapped his hands again and laughed.

'The scullions and tap boys will look after you: a free blackjack of ale.' His eyes slid towards me. 'On our good friend Master Shallot!' He sat down on a stool. 'Was that really necessary?' I asked.

'It is the only way, my son,' Boscombe replied unctuously. 'Do it in any other manner and Lord Charon would become suspicious and you, my son, would be dead.' He leaned across the table. 'Why, Roger?' he whispered. 'Why Lord Charon? You were out at Malevel Manor, weren't you? There are terrible stories about a massacre taking place. Was Lord Charon…?'

'They are all true,' Benjamin retorted. 'Will one of Lord Charon's men be here?'

'Oh, don't worry,' Boscombe replied. 'Within the hour he'll know all about it'

'Where do you come from?' Benjamin asked abruptly. 'Your accent?'

'From the West Country,' Boscombe replied cheerily, wiping his hands on his robe. 'But there's not good custom along the south-western road, that's where my father had his tavern. Anyway, we sold up and moved into London, my wife and I. She's now lying in peace in St Botolph's churchyard.' His smile widened. 'And if she's at peace then so am I.' He was about to push his stool back. 'Ah, Master Roger, when Lord Charon took you and your belongings I found a bag under your bed.' He got up, hurried away and then came back and thrust the bag at me.

I looked inside. Nothing much: the cup I had stolen from the Poppletons and a few of my makeshift relics. My smile of thanks faded as I realised that, when all this was over, I would have to go back to Ipswich and face their malice, King's pardon or not. Such a thought would turn any man to drink and indeed I drank so deeply that I slept the night with Castor on the taproom floor. I spent the next day recovering, glad that Lord Charon did not strike immediately; my wits were so befuddled I would have been no use to anyone.

Now Sir Thomas Kempe had called me the bait so, naturally, I became anxious about what might happen if this self-styled lord of the underworld took me prisoner again. I pestered Benjamin but he was of very little help.