Paul Doherty - The Relic Murders

Now, the more I thought of Malevel the more convinced I became that, if Castor could have talked, we would have now known why the cellar was so important. Benjamin kept well away from me all day, being more busy in the taproom. Late that evening he shook me awake from my slumbers. 'Get up, Roger! Up now! Arm yourself!'

His face was grim. I noticed he had his leather wrist guards on and his war-belt strapped around his waist, sword and dagger hung in the Italian style. He had his guarded look, the same expression that had threatened violent retribution if I approached the marvellous Miranda. 'Where are we going?' I asked, pulling my boots on. 'We are going for supper,' Benjamin replied. I glanced at the hour candle burning in its glass on a shelf. 'Boscombe will not be pleased, the ovens will be out…'

'I don't give a fig what Boscombe thinks!' Benjamin retorted. 'It will happen on the turn of a card.' He smiled wryly. 'Or, in this case, a knock on the door.'

We went down to the taproom. Boscombe grumbled but brought across two tankards of ale and a platter of cold meat, onions and apples neatly sliced. The pot boys and scullions had long left. The taproom was empty. Boscombe busied himself about, humming under his breath. A watchman stopped in the lane outside.

'It's eleven o'clock and all is well! Pray for your souls that they stay out of Hell!' Benjamin stopped, a piece of food halfway to his mouth. There was a loud rapping on the door. 'Answer that, Shallot,' Boscombe called. 'Master Boscombe, we are eating,' Benjamin replied.

Cursing and muttering under his breath, the taverner went to the door and pulled it open. I heard someone say something and Boscombe's exclamation.

'What? Impossible! I…!' His voice took on a nervous stammer. 'I don't know what you're talking about!'

I pricked up my ears because I am sure I caught mention of the names Berkeley and Notley. The change in Benjamin was startling. He stood up and drew his sword. I watched, open-mouthed, as Boscombe closed the door: drawing the bolts across, he turned slowly. He saw my master's drawn sword and smiled. 'Oh, Master Benjamin, what's the matter?'

'You know full well,' my master replied. 'The constable just knocked on the door and told you a strange story: how he met two men outside the church of Crutched Friars who gave their names as Berkeley and Notley, and said they had an appointment with you to discuss certain matters.'

Boscombe took a step forward, his genial smile faded, his eyes watchful. I noticed he was standing differently now, on the balls of his feet, like a man ready to run or leap.

'And I heard your reply,' my master said softly. 'You used the word "impossible". You were caught on the hop, were you not, Master Boscombe? Why is it impossible to meet two men who, in theory, you shouldn't know at all? Both men are dead. Notley's corpse hasn't even been discovered. Roger knows because he has seen his severed head. You know because you killed him. You are Jakob von Archetel, nicknamed the Schlachter.' Boscombe drew a bit closer.

'Earlier this evening,' my master continued, 'I took the constable into my confidence. I asked him to deliver that message tonight, just after the watchman had proclaimed the eleventh hour.'

'My name is Andrew Boscombe,' the taverner replied. 'I hail from the West Country.'

'The real Andrew Boscombe probably did,' Benjamin replied. 'But you are no more English than poor old Castor. I've listened to your tongue quite carefully. Now and again I can catch the rolling "R", the guttural "G". You are a Hainaulter – probably from around the town of Dordrecht. Once you were not only a subject of the Emperor Charles V but a high-ranking official, engaged in his secret business as a Noctale. About fifteen years ago you fled to England. You are a consummate actor, a born mimic. You probably did live in the West country for a while but, later, used your wealth to travel to London and buy this tavern. To all intents and purposes, Andrew Boscombe, the honest, jovial taverner, the man who loves a jest, play-acting and mummery. But, when the candles are extinguished, when the darkness comes, you are the Slaughterer, London's most skilful and subtle assassin. You are responsible for the deaths of many: Notley, Berkeley, those two poor cooks Oswald and Imelda. Above all, sir, you are responsible for those deaths at Malevel though how you did it and who you worked with is still a mystery.' Boscombe moved to a stool.

'Master Daunbey, you have me wrong. This is preposterous. I am what I claim to be. A taverner, your servant's close friend. Tell him, Roger.'

I stared at him narrow-eyed. Benjamin's allegations seemed fantastic yet I recalled my master's close interrogation of what had happened since I had arrived in London: Boscombe’s initial refusal to lodge me and then his abrupt change of mind. The way Lord Charon had seized and interrogated me. Boscombe's ability to disguise himself and then…

(Ah, excuse me, my little clerk is murmuring about coincidences. So what? Ask yourself, is anything in life planned? It may have started with coincidence, oh yes, but once I was in Boscombe's power, he had worked to keep me there.)

My suspicions deepened as I remembered how Boscombe had claimed to have made a trip to the West Country whilst we had been at Malevel. My change of mood must have been obvious.

Boscombe's lips curled. 'We have all night,' he said soothingly, 'to discuss these matters!'

Benjamin, his sword in hand, stepped back and sat down on the stool. 'I could have had you arrested,' he replied. 'Taken to the Tower for interrogation. However, men like you don't break, do they, Boscombe? Something untoward would happen: you might even escape, and there again, my evidence is not as strong as I would like.'

Boscombe pulled the stool closer, his eyes sliding to his war-belt hanging on a hook in the wall. I drew my own poignard.

'Let's hear your story.' Boscombe waggled a finger. 'And, if it's good, I'll put my hands behind my back and you can cart me off to Newgate.'

'You are an assassin,' Benjamin declared. 'A Hainaulter. My servant, Roger, came here to sell relics. Now, not all of life is planned and plotted; sometimes Fickle Fortune spins her wheel and kingdoms are won and lost on a single blow. If Prince Arthur hadn't caught a cold in the marshes of Wales, he would now be king and Henry would simply be a royal prince…'

'Or who would think,' Boscombe sneered, 'that a butcher's son would become Cardinal and First Minister of the Realm?'

'Ah, you catch my drift,' Benjamin replied, ignoring the taunt at Dearest Uncle. 'At first you saw Roger as a trickster, but when you discovered that Shallot worked for me and I for the Cardinal you gave him a comfortable berth here. You were intrigued. You couldn't accept he was working by himself, and thought there was some secret, subtle trickery. Nevertheless, he was dangerous to have about. You had ties with the Lord Charon, not close, but a sharing of information, so when you were laying your plans to seize the Orb, you asked Lord Charon a favour. Roger was seized, frightened and beaten and this provided you with a golden opportunity. You knew Sir Hubert Berkeley was involved in arranging for the Orb of Charlemagne to be handed over to the Imperial envoys. Accordingly, Roger, down on his luck, was provided with new clothes and sent along to St Paul's; at the same time you let it be known to Sir Hubert that my manservant was looking for employment in London. Berkeley was working on a secret assignment for the King, and was persuaded Roger would be the best person to offer him protection. How did you arrange it, Boscombe? Send Berkeley a message, saying it came from me?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Remember, Roger, Berkeley seemed to know you'd be in St Paul's.'

I nodded, my eyes never leaving Boscombe. The taverner just stared at Benjamin. Never once did he look at me: his cold, calculating gaze was for Benjamin and Benjamin alone. The hair on the nape of my neck curled, this man was intent on our murder. I could only sit and blink as I recalled Berkeley's words on hiring me. I also realised how Lord Charon had found me so quickly. 'Roger's imprisonment was an unforeseen occurrence,' Benjamin continued. 'However, he was released from Newgate and came back here. How could you leave such a tender friend in his adversity? You offered us both chambers, even taking in poor Castor; anything to keep us under close scrutiny.' Benjamin paused, tapping the tip of his sword on the paving stones. 'And then we come to the business at Malevel! God knows how it was done. Boscombe the taverner supposedly left for the West Country; but in reality you adopted your secret profession: the Schlachter, the Slaughterer! Somehow or other -' Benjamin jabbed a finger at him '- you were responsible for the deaths of those men. You stole the Orb and left.'