Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

"They were killed either very late last night or early this morning,' he declared. 'No baking has been done for the day and their cadavers are cold.' He chewed the comer of his lip. 'As at Malevel, there is no sign of any resistance or disturbance. It's as if they knew their killer; who waited until they were separated and then struck.' Benjamin walked across and looked down at the tray of pies which had been left unsold from the previous day. He picked one up and looked at it curiously. 'Murder again eh, Master Daunbey?' Benjamin dropped the pie. I spun round. Cornelius and two of the Noctales stood in the doorway. 'Don't you ever sleep?' I snarled. 'No one sleeps, Master Shallot,' Cornelius crouched down and studied the apprentice's face, 'when a mad wolf is on the prowl!' 'Why are you here?' I asked. 'I told you last night: we follow you. I have answered your question.' He got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe. 'Why are you here?' 'Because nobody went into Malevel Manor except these cooks,' Benjamin replied. 'They must have seen something.' 'Master Daunbey, I don't treat you as a fool,' Cornelius sneered. 'I'd be grateful if you would return the compliment.' Cornelius walked over and sat in a small rocking chair near the hearth, pushing himself gently backwards and forwards. 'We noticed,' he continued, 'the arrows missing from the quiver. Jonathan told me about that. But I can see nothing wrong in Sir Thomas Kempe being informed on what was happening in the manor.' He smiled bleakly. 'After all, Jonathan did the same for me.' 'Did he?' Benjamin asked. Cornelius narrowed his eyes.

'Did he?' Benjamin persisted. 'You take orders from the Lord Egremont; did Jonathan do so too?'

Cornelius just waved his hand. 'True, true. However, we also noticed, Master Daunbey, how clean the kitchen and scullery were. Now I don't know about English archers, but it certainly made me wonder why a group of soldiers would spend their evening cleaning the table and washing the blackjacks. Why not just pile them in a heap for someone else to wash? After all, that is why those two cooks were hired. So, I ask you again, why are you here?'

He turned and said something in German to his companions, who left.

'What are you looking for?' Benjamin asked. 'I understood something of what you said.'

'The same as you, my dear Benjamin: Master Oswald's finished accounts.' He waved a hand. 'Not the scrap of paper he gave you but the finished bill that might contain some interesting information.' 'Such as what?' Benjamin asked.

Cornelius wagged a finger at him. 'I don't know and neither do you, yet there may be something, evidence you might not recognise until you see it.' He sighed and let his hand drop. 'Oh, perhaps you're right, the cooks did notice something untoward? Something which they later remembered.' He breathed out noisily. 'Though God knows what?'

One of the Noctales came in and whispered into his master's ear.

'Now, isn't that strange?' Cornelius looked up. "There are no accounts and the strong box containing all these poor people's savings has been broken into and rifled. So, it will be dismissed as the work of some housebreaker. One of your London nightbirds who came in quietly through the scullery, slashed their throats and then stole both the money and the accounts.' Cornelius got to his feet. 'However, we know differently, don't we? Our assassin worked quickly and expertly. Whoever he was, he was known and respected by these people. They allowed him into their house. Mistress Imelda went to her chamber, perhaps to change her working clothes or put paint on her face.'

'Yes, it must have been something like that,' Benjamin replied.

'Then the assassin struck, starting with the old woman in the scullery, then the apprentice boy. It would have been quick. A hand over their mouths, a quick slash to their throats. Oswald and Imelda came next. My question is, who did it and why?'

Cornelius slipped his hands up the sleeves of his gown. He reminded me of some monk at his prayers. His brain must have been teeming. He knew we were lying and holding back information on what had happened at Malevel. He tapped his foot against the paved kitchen floor.

'Who has the authority,' he said, 'to walk into a house like this?' He glanced sideways at me. 'You were friendly with Imelda and Oswald.'

‘I am Roger's friend,' Benjamin replied, 'but that doesn't mean that I would want to cut his throat.'

'True,' Cornelius replied. 'But there are others such as Doctor Agrippa or even Sir Thomas Kempe

'That's true,' I intervened. 'And there's also Master Cornelius and Lord Egremont. After all, these poor cooks were hired by you to undertake this lucrative work: you would have been even more welcome here.'

'I know,' Cornelius snapped, 'where Lord Egremont was last night.' He rubbed his face, stared at me then snapped his fingers and, the Noctales following, left the house as quietly as he had arrived.

My master and I went out into the street and along an alleyway to a small open space like a village green: there was a duck pond in the centre with battered wooden benches around it. We sat on one of these and watched children play on a hobby horse and chase an inflated pig's bladder. 'I think we'd best go back to Malevel,' Benjamin said. 'You have a theory, master?'

He scratched the tip of his nose. 'The beginnings of one, Roger, but they're still shadows in my mind.' 'And the murders in the cookshop?' I asked.

'I don't know. True, there could be something of interest in the accounts but don't forget, Roger, we have a rough copy of these. Perhaps those cooks knew something else and had to be silenced before they remembered it and began to talk.' 'The work of the Slaughterer?' I asked.

'Possibly, but how could even a professional assassin enter a house with four people in it and slay them all without meeting any resistance?' He got to his feet, fingers drumming the hilt of his sword. 'You are apprehensive, master?'

'No, Roger, I am frightened. If we leave on that ship, then it's the end for both of us. I don't think we're intended to come back. In ancient Israel the Jews used a scapegoat, an animal they burdened with their sins, to cast out into the desert to die. We are the King's scapegoats: that sea voyage will be our death.' 'This theory of yours?' I asked.

'It's based on the King,' Benjamin replied. 'I know your true opinion of him, Roger, and I agree with it. Henry of England would never give anything away. Oh, Henry wanted Imperial ships but he also wanted to make a fool of Europe's princes and collect as much silver and gold as he could. Such a ploy would please Henry: he could retreat into his private chamber with Norreys and the others to laugh and sneer until his sides were fit to burst. But come on, Roger, let's return. I am sure the Slaughterer will soon make his presence felt.' 'Do you think he will, master?'

'Oh yes. But not to help us. I believe we are about to enter the lion's den.' 'And Master Cornelius?' I asked.

'Oh, one of his men is watching us from a comer of a nearby alleyway' Benjamin slipped his dagger in and out of the sheath. 'I do wonder about him,' he murmured. 'Could he be the Slaughterer, the assassin? All he has to do is wait until his master gets bored and returns to the Imperial court.'

'Aye,' I added, 'and leave us poor bastards to the mercy of our King!'

We returned to the Flickering Lamp not in the best of humours. Benjamin sent a constable to the Guildhall about the murders at the cookshop. He then became lost in his own thoughts, sitting at the table in his chamber talking to himself, writing out comments in that strange cipher he always used. I hung around the taproom looking for any villainy which might emerge. Yet, I'll be honest, I began to wonder if it was time Benjamin and I bolted like rabbits for France or Spain, well clear of Henry's wrath. I drank and ate a little too much. I became mournful about Castor and Lucy and decided to write a poem about both of them. Boscombe tried to rally my spirits, recalling my escapades the previous evening with the Bawdy folk. But I wasn't in the mood. Doctor Agrippa visited us. He was closeted with Benjamin and then left as mysteriously as he had arrived. Towards dusk I decided to take the air. I was in the alleyway outside the tavern when a beggar boy caught my finger. He was a thin-faced little waif, with eyes almost as large as his face under greasy, spiked hair.