Paul Doherty: The Relic Murders

Giggling broke out. I stared round and saw old Doctor Littlejohn sitting there, tankard grasped in his hand, staring blearily at me. The old fool styled himself an antiquarian. He had been a schoolmaster and knew some Latin. I thrust the spear under his nose. 'Master Littlejohn, what do you think?'

The old fellow put on his spectacles. He took the spear shaft and held it gingerly in his hands. He examined the steel and even he, who looked as if he lived half-asleep, became visibly excited as he glimpsed the eagle and the letters S.P.Q.R. He touched the steel reverentially.

'I cannot say,' he declared, 'whether this is the actual spear used on Calvary but it is definitely very ancient and was once used in the armies of Rome.'

Well, that shut old Poppleton up for a start. Everyone crowded round. Offers were made but I just shook my head. Like the coy young maid, you show your customer your garters but that's as far as you go. Time was on my side: rumour and greed would grow and the gold would come pouring in once this spear, this most holy relic, was accepted. It would only be a matter of time before I got round to Goliath's foreskin.

‘If it's a relic,' Poppleton declared, shouldering his way through the crowd, his lips coated with a white foam of ale. 'If it's so holy, it should be able to perform miracles.'

'That's right!' another cried. 'Miracles! We want a miracle. Shallot!' My stomach curdled: I hadn't thought of that. 'A cure!' another cried. 'Perhaps it can cure my leg!' 'The only thing that cure your leg,' someone cried out, 'is to stop drinking ale and work a little harder!'

I tried to hide my apprehension. With all my subtle planning, I hadn't thought of such a challenge. Poppleton was sneering at me.

'Come, come, Master Shallot,' he taunted. 'A little miracle is not too much to ask.'

'There's Lucy,' Tom the taverner shouted from where he stood beside the barrels. 'Lucy?' I shouted as a diversion. 'What's wrong with her?'

'She's upstairs in a chamber, sick with a fever,' Tom replied, coming forward.

'Oh yes, that's right.' Poppleton planted himself squarely in front of me. 'The wench hasn't been to clean for days.'

His greasy smile widened. 'I believe Lucy has given you her favour?' He was cooing like a stupid wood pigeon. 'Surely, Master Shallot, it's not too much to ask that you use this great relic to cure the love of your life?' 'Let me see her,' I declared.

I put the spear back in the sack and followed Tom up the rickety, wooden stairs to a small garret at the top of the tavern built just under the eaves. Oh, Lord help me, but Lucy looked dreadful. She lay asleep on the soiled sheets but her face and hair were soaked with sweat. She tossed and turned, murmuring to herself and my heart skipped a beat as she muttered my name. I felt her brow, it was hot as a steaming pot.

'Out late she was,' Tom declared. 'Out late then came back with a chill, coughing and sneezing fit to burst,' he told the rest crowding the stairwell behind him.

'Cure her,' Poppleton whispered. 'Lay the sacred spear upon her!'

I wetted dry lips, my mind racing like a rat down a hole. I wished I had my medicines then I remembered something. 'Listen,' I said. 'I will lay the relic upon her but not yet.'

Poppleton lowered his head and began to snigger. There were groans and moans from the stairwell.

'Tonight,' I continued, 'I shall return. This room is to be cleaned. Vicar Doggerel should bless and make it ready for this great relic. At seven o'clock tonight I shall return.' Poppleton's head came up. 'No trickery, Shallot!' 'Of course not,' I whispered back. 'Only divine intervention.' 'We'll see,' he snarled.

I was glad to be out of that tavern. I rode swiftly back to the manor house, went upstairs and, from a secret casement in my chamber, pulled out a locked coffer. I opened it and stared at all the things truly precious to me; a lock of my mother's hair; a ring Benjamin had given me: a love letter which I never had the courage to despatch. Above all, a small phial, the real diamond amongst all my cures; a powerful potion I won at hazard from a Turkish physician in a tavern off the Ropery. God knows what was in it. The Turk had told me it was the scrapings of dried milk fermented in a soup of moss, a veritable elixir for any fever. I opened the phial, shook the white, chalky substance into my hand. I then locked the coffer, recited an Ave Maria, and fortified myself with two cups of malmsey.

Once dusk fell I returned to the White Harte. Now the whole village had turned out. Poppleton and his younger brother were waiting for me in the taproom. They looked the same, two cheeks of the same hairy arse. Tom the taverner took me upstairs. Lucy still lay tossing and turning, angry spots of fever high in her cheeks. However, the chamber had been swept and cleaned and the poor girl now lay between crisp, clean linen sheets. Vicar Doggerel the village parson, (to whom I'd sold cow dung as a cure for his baldness) was also present. He had a stole around his neck and an Asperges bucket and rod in his hands.

'I've blessed the room,' he announced. 'But, Roger,' he whispered, 'what knavery is this?' 'God works in wondrous ways, Father.'

'If he's working through you then he certainly does!' Doggerel replied. 'Well come on!' Tom shouted.

'God does not act because we click our fingers,' I snarled back. 'Does he, Father?'

The vicar nodded. I took the spear from my sack and laid it on the bed. 'It may take all night,' I replied.

A murmur of disapproval came from the group, led by the Poppletons, who thronged in the doorway.

'Come, come,' I replied. 'Surely you are not going to add the sin of heresy to that of doubt?' (I would have made a fine preacher!)

I laid the spear next to Lucy. 'I wish to be alone,' I declared, 'for an hour. I will then leave and the chamber will be locked, but I shall sleep here tonight. Now, all of you, go!'

Vicar Doggerel supported me so the crowd, led by the Poppletons, scowling and muttering under their breath, went back downstairs. Tom, who could now see a great profit in the evening's procedures, fairly leapt from foot to foot.

'Master taverner,' I said. 'A small jug of ale.' I smacked my lips. 'Nothing more.'

The taverner agreed. He withdrew and I could hear the gossip and the shouts of laughter from the taproom below. A slattern came up to find me kneeling by the bed, eyes closed, hands joined, with that oh-so-sanctimonious look on my face which the pious believe they must wear whenever they address the Almighty. She put the tankard down and tiptoed out. Up I leapt like a jack rabbit. I drank most of the ale but left enough in the bottom. Lucy was stirring on the bed, her eyes still closed. God knows how much I should have poured in but I mixed some of the powder with what was left of the ale, and made her drink. 1 waited an hour and gave her some more. Then I left the spear beside her and went down to rejoin the other revellers in the taproom.

I didn't drink that night. I stayed in the taproom for a time and then slept in a chamber just beneath Lucy's.

The next morning I was woken by a pounding on the door and, before I could answer, it was flung open and Tom, followed by a heavy-eyed Lucy, walked into the room. I must admit the girl looked rather pale, with black shadows under her eyes, and her hair still unkempt.

'Roger!' She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me. 'My cup,' she smiled, 'truly overflows.'

I gently pushed her away. 'Where is the spear?' I asked. 'Some bastard hasn't stolen it?' 'Roger, a miracle.' Lucy's eyes were bright.

If Tom hadn't been there, we'd have ended up romping on the bed. However, old Shallot is not ruled by his codpiece. 'Has anyone else seen her?' I asked.

'No, no, the Poppletons left. They said they would be back at ten.' Tom rubbed his hands together. 'The rest are all sleeping like hogs in the taproom below, farting and belching fit to burst!'