Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

'Is there anything else, sir?' His close-set eyes studied me curiously.

'My name is Roger Shallot,' I replied. 'I can be found at the Flickering Lamp tavern.' 'Yes,' he interrupted quickly. 'I know where it is.'

'I am a farmer,' I continued. 'I am looking for a slaughterer: certain beasts have to be killed before Michaelmas. I want someone skilled, not a butcher's lad.' 'That will be one silver piece, sir, just for my searches.' I paid the coin over. 'And when will I meet him?' I asked.

"Oh, don't worry, sir. You will be informed as soon as possible. Now-' He pushed back the table and pointed to the hour candle burning in its small glass holder. 'My day's work is done.'

I thanked him and left. Once outside the cathedral, I remembered poor Berkeley so I went along the lanes and alleyways to his house. His steward let me in. The man's face was tear-streaked, the household still in mourning. All the walls were covered in mourning cloths and the rooms were shuttered; it was no longer the convivial, merry household I had joined. 'You see, Master Shallot, Sir Hubert had no heirs,' the steward explained. 'His will has still to go through Chancery. All work has stopped.

I expressed my condolences and accepted his offer of white wine and some marzipan wafers.

'It's about his work I've come. Are Sir Hubert's accounts here?' 'Oh no, sir. Sir Thomas Kempe came and took them all away.'

'What was Sir Hubert working on?' I asked. ‘I mean, what different artefacts?'

'None of us know,' the fellow replied. 'For the last year Sir Hubert was hired by the court. He worked by himself without any of his apprentices. God knows what he was doing!' 'Did Sir Thomas Kempe come here often?'

'Yes, he did, sometimes carrying clinking saddlebags. We suspected they contained gold to be melted down. Only once,' the steward continued, 'did I catch a glimpse of Sir Hubert at work. I was in a chamber upstairs.I looked down into the garden, and saw that Sir Hubert had taken a lantern out: he was holding something precious up against the light. I caught a glint…' he faltered. 'A jewel?' I asked. 'Yes, probably a jewel, some precious stone.' I finished my wine, once again expressed my condolences and left. Darkness had fallen. A watchman stumped along the lane.

'Nine o'clock!' he bawled. 'And the night is fine! Pray to God for grace divine!'

The villains who stood in the doorways of the inns and taverns slunk away at his approach, though these did not bother me. Old Shallot can easily act the ruffler, cloak thrown back, sword and dagger hanging from my belt, chest out like a cock of the walk. Thank God we cannot judge a book by its cover. I was strutting along, thinking about what I had learnt, when two shadows came out of an alleyway, cloaked and hooded. My hand was seized before I could grab my dagger and I was dragged into the doorway of a tumbled-down house. I was getting ready to plead for mercy, to offer my assailants anything I carried, when one of the figures pulled back his hood. Cornelius's heavy-lidded eyes studied me. 'Going for an evening stroll, Master Shallot?' 'Yes, yes,' I snarled. 'Taking the night air.'

'A busy, busy man,' Cornelius retorted. 'Writing letters for poor old William Doddshall; asking for a slaughterer to kill some beast; then down to the late lamented Sir Hubert Berkeley's house. To find out what?'

Oh, I could have kicked myself. However, you must remember those were my green days. I had not yet learnt to crawl about the streets and so give the slip to any pursuer. Cornelius, his companion standing behind me, grasped my jerkin and pulled me closer.

'Every step you take, Master Shallot, I am there. When you meet the Slaughterer, you will thank God. In Germany we have a proverb: "He who plans to sell the bearskin, even before he goes hunting, often ends up as the bear's dinner".'

'And we have a proverb in England,' I retorted. '"A stitch in time saves nine.'" He looked at me curiously. 'And what does that mean?'

To be quite honest I didn't know either, but it sounded clever! I pulled myself away and strolled off down the alleyway. (Always remember that: if you are ever in doubt, say something enigmatic and walk away. People will think you are wise and cunning. It's a device used by the playwrights. I have never understood certain lines in Marlowe's Edward II. I was going to invite him to supper to ask him what they meant but then poor Kit was killed in a lodging house on the Isle of Dogs, stabbed in the eye by that bastard Poley!)

I reached the Flickering Lamp and found Benjamin in his chamber, lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling. I told him all I had done, including my visit to Berkeley.

'Why did you come here in the first place?' he asked abruptly. 'I mean, to the Flickering Lamp?'

I told him about the relic-seller I had met whilst he was on his travels in Italy. Benjamin just nodded. 'Why?' I asked. 'And Boscombe gave you licence to sell relics?' 'Yes,' I replied. 'But the Lord Charon had other ideas. I was too successful.'

We heard laughter from the taproom below so we went down for our supper: Iamb cutlets in rosemary sauce, followed by quince tarts. It was a merry evening: Boscombe was dressed up as a bawdy man and he had brought others in for some entertainment. These were the most fantastical-looking creatures: men and women who were known as 'Bawdy Folk'. They were dressed in the skins of animals, mostly otter and fox, whilst some of them wore masks of bears and wolves on their heads. They didn't wear hose but instead had leather aprons across the groin. The men were otherwise naked, crotch to neck. The women had soft woollen bands to cover their generous breasts. They all wore bangles on their ankles and wrists. Large earrings hung from their ear lobes whilst they had painted their faces grotesque colours.

They began with a shuffling dance and followed this with acrobatics, somersaults, and an act of swallowing knives and spoons. They then performed a most scurrilous play about a vicar, a bishop, an inn-keeper and two whores. I will not offend your susceptibilities. It was absolutely disgusting but very, very funny. Boscombe joined in, ever the actor, and the jokes and jests became sharper and more pointed. Benjamin murmured that he had seen enough and went off to bed. I, however, joined in with glee, drinking and dancing until I lost all memory of what followed. I woke up in an outhouse dressed in a bearskin with one of the bawdy women lying by my side. I went out and washed, pouring buckets of water from the small well in the courtyard. I dried myself off, collected my belongings and went upstairs for a few hours' proper sleep: it was good preparation for a day of horrors and bloody murder.

It started well enough. Benjamin kicked me awake. We broke our fast and then made our way along Cripplegate to Oswald's and Imelda's cookshop. It was a bright, clear autumn morning as we passed the traders and merchants preparing for a day's haggling. When we reached the cookshop I rapped on the door but there was no answer.

'Strange,' Benjamin murmured. 'They should be up, baking fresh pies.'

We went down the narrow runnel which ran alongside the house, through a small wicket gate into a narrow garden. The door to the scullery was open and we went in. The first corpse was lying there. In life she had been an old, plump, cherry-faced woman. In death, ashen-cheeked, she lay face down in the pool of blood that had gushed from her slashed neck. In the kitchen a young apprentice lay, flung like a rag doll in the corner, the wound to his neck looking like a gaping mouth. Oswald was in the shop, lying slumped in a chair; his wife was in her chamber on the second floor. Both had been killed silently, quickly, with a jagged cut running from ear to ear. A ghastly sight! Nothing else had been disturbed. The sweet smell of baking mixed with that of blood and gore. Benjamin felt the ovens.