Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

'Come, come…' the poor, little bugger stuttered. 'The man is waiting for…' He closed his eyes. 'I have forgotten,' he moaned, 'the rest of the message 'Message?' I asked. 'Yes' he replied. 'But come…'

Like the fool I was, I followed him up the street. The little boy led me through a side door of the Church of the Crutched Friars. It was deserted, and the sound of my boots rang hollow through the nave. Someone had lit candles before the statue of the Virgin. I remembered Lord Charon and my spine began to tingle so I stopped the boy and crouched down. 'Who sent you?' I asked. 'Come,' the child repeated. 'Your friend is waiting.'

He led me across, out through the corpse door at the other side of the church and into the overgrown cemetery towards the charnel house. This was the Ossuary or, if you aren't too well educated, the Bone House. When the graveyard becomes too full, bodies are dug up and the bones simply slung into this long, open shed. The boy took me to a gravestone near the Ossuary and told me to sit down. I did so and drew my dagger, which I gripped beneath my cloak. When I looked round, the boy had gone. Now there's something about old Shallot: on the one hand I am the most cowardly of cowards but, on the other, I hate to show it. I didn't want to go running back to the tavern with my knees knocking so instead I sat and quivered like a jelly. My imagination was stirred by the shrieks of some bloody owl until my nerve broke. I turned and screamed into the darkness for the bird to piss off. Only then did I see it. Across the graveyard was a huge plinth, some tomb built by a London merchant who wanted to be remembered but who was probably forgotten before his corpse grew cold in his grave. The huge, rectangular stone slab was covered in moss and lichen. Now, candles arranged along it glowed eerily through the darkness.

'Who's there?' I called. I stood up and walked slowly across. 'Who's there?' I repeated. I drew closer. I stopped and blinked, believing my mind or eyes were playing tricks on me. In the candlelight a face, framed by long, straggly hair, peered at me, two hands on either side of the tomb, as if someone was hiding behind it and peering above it. I realised what I was looking at. Someone had severed the head of the scrivener I had met in St Paul's Cathedral. Both the head and hands of Richard Notley had been cut from his body and placed on the tomb, garishly illuminated by the lighted candles like some macabre child's game on Samain Eve. Oh horrors! Oh bloody murder! For a while I stood rooted to the spot. I could do nothing but stare at that ghastly head, the half-open eyes and blood-encrusted lips, with the hands on either side. I gave a scream which must have frightened even that bloody owl before I fled like a greyhound across the graveyard. I tripped on a grave and fell flat on my face. I got up. For a while I was lost. I screamed for the boy or to find the door to the church. In the darkness around me, someone gave a low and chilling laugh. I turned round, screaming abuse as I walked backwards. My elbow caught something. I darted around and, with a sob of satisfaction, threw myself into the church, slamming the door behind me. I ran towards the other side door but then the candles in front of the Lady statue were abruptly extinguished. I reached the door; it was locked, the bolts pushed fast across.

Oh Lord, then the whistling began. A most chilling though mundane sound, like a labourer going about his work: a man immersed in his task and happy to do it. The whistling drew nearer. Sobbing and crying, I fled back through the darkness towards the corpse door. A crossbow quarrel zipped by my head, smacking into the wall of the church. I stumbled over a bench, bruising my shins and legs. The whistling began again. I heard another click and a crossbow quarrel cut the air above me. Imagine poor Shallot! Weep for old Roger! For his legs shaking like leaves in a storm; for his belly rolling like a drum; for the tears which scalded his eyes; for the sheer, bone-wrenching terror which sent me crashing around that church like a pea in a barrel. And, all the time, came that dreadful whistling. I flitted around in the dark like a bat, the assassin following me. Oh, that's what I hate about killers – although, at the same time, it has been my salvation on many occasion – assassins enjoy their work. They like to see their victims suffer and recognise their power, accept they are going to die. It's true, isn't it? Those murders that take place in a family, the product of strong drink or hot blood, are quick and sudden like a brawl in a tavern over a dice or a wench. However, the born killer, the man who lives on human blood, wants his victim to know that death is about to stretch out its cold, hard hand! All I can say is, thank God! For, if they play such a game, it at least gives you a chance for the good Lord or his Holy Father, or some angel of light to intervene. On that night they did. As I hid behind the high altar there was sudden pounding on the corpse door. Angry voices were raised. I crouched, promising the good Lord everything he wanted: a life of fasting, of chastity, of bread and water. I heard the bolts of the side door being drawn. The assassin, fearful of being trapped himself, slipped out into the night. I ran across to the corpse door and drew back the bolts: outside, holding a sconce torch, were two venerable, but very aggrieved, friars.

'What's going on here?' one of them shouted. 'This is a house of God, not some tavern! Why are the doors locked? Compline bell hasn't sounded!' 'I was trapped,' I replied. 'Trapped? Who trapped you?'

I was too terrified to explain. I emptied the contents of my purse into their hands, stumbled back through the church, out into the lane and back up to the Flickering Lamp. I ignored Boscombe's curious gaze but pounded on my master's door. He threw it open and I almost collapsed into his arms. After two cups of claret and a meat pie, I felt better and told my master what had happened. He was too kind to upbraid me for my foolishness in going alone but listened very carefully.

'The Slaughterer has struck.' He pulled the shutters across the window and drew the bar down. 'The Slaughterer is sending us a message.' 'But why kill Notley?'

'Oh, the scrivener was punished. People like ourselves, Roger, should know nothing about the Slaughterer or how to hire him. He obviously suspected that we might return with some soldiers, and that Master Notley might have been asked to visit the Tower and forced to confess all he did now about this terrible assassin. So Notley had to die and the Slaughterer used his corpse to send us a grisly message. Now, Roger-' Benjamin pulled his stool closer. 'I have been studying everything that has happened since my arrival in London. You have told me a little about your own adventures. However, this time I want you to go back to the beginning. Tell me everything with whatever detail you can recall. Take your time.'

I lay back on the bed and told my master all I could remember from the moment he left our manor to his fortuitous arrival at Newgate prison. Now and again Benjamin would stop and question me about some point and then I'd continue. Sometimes he'd ask me to stop whilst he wrote something down on a piece of parchment. I must have spoken for at least an hour. 'Why is all this so important?' I concluded.

'Pies,' Benjamin enigmatically replied. 'It's all about pies.' He wouldn't say any more. I became cross but Benjamin had already returned to his papers, muttering under his breath. Now, full of wine and safe from the terrors, I drifted into sleep and spent the next day in bed, grieving over Lucy and wondering what revenge I could inflict on the Poppletons. Now and again my little brain (Excuse me a while -1 see my chaplain sniggering. A sharp rap across his knuckles brings him back into order so I can return to the turmoil of my youth) would come up with some brilliant scheme of vengeance, before returning to our present troubles.