Paul Doherty - The Gallows Murders

Benjamin, who had walked away to study the great ravens, now came back. Where to now, my good Doctor?' he asked.

Agrippa peered up at the sun. ‘We are expected in Windsor by evening. Our barge will take us there. So, let's slake our thirsts, gentlemen, and join the Guild of Hangmen at the Gallows tavern.'

The prospect of a blackjack of ale, even amongst such macabre company, was a bright promise after such sinister tales. Nevertheless, as we walked back across the green and through narrow, winding lanes down to the Lion Gate, the Tower didn't seem so bright and sunny. Just before we turned a corner, I stopped and looked back at the summit of the great Norman keep. Some people claimed it had been built by the Conqueror, others by great Caesar who used human blood to mix in the mortar. Whatever, that keep was a witness to a great mystery. Forty years ago it had looked down upon two young boys playing archery on the green: one was the King of England, the other his younger brother; yet both had disappeared. Or had they? My mind became fanciful. Was it possible that some part of this Tower still housed a great Prince in hiding? 'Roger!' Benjamin called.

I was about to walk on when suddenly there was the most chilling howl. It made me start, curling the hair on the nape of my neck. 'In God's name, what was that?' I exclaimed.

'Henry's wolves,' Agrippa explained. 'A present from the Prince of Muscovy'

Now at that time I didn't know much about Muscovy or its icy, wild wastes. Nevertheless, ever since my days in Paris during the great famine, I have had a terror of wolves. The city had been cut off by snow and the wolves came down from the forests. One night they hunted me – I was sobbing and crying for mercy as usual – along the foul alleyways of Montmartre. Now their howling awoke old terrors in Old Shallot's soul. I needed no further urging but skipped along, sighing with relief as we crossed the moat and back into Petty Wales. Apparently Benjamin and Agrippa had changed their minds. Instead of following the Tower wall around to the tavern, we took an alleyway leading into the city.

We'll first visit Andrew Undershaft's widow,' Benjamin explained. 'Perhaps she knew something the good constable did not!'

I recalled that blackened corpse I'd dragged from the cage in Smithfield and seized Benjamin's arm. He paused and looked kindly at me. 'Roger, what is it?'

'Master, did you believe all that?' I indicated back towards the Tower. They are the King's loyal officers.'

'No, no, I am sure they are. Yet how could the Prince have survived forty years? Or, if he didn't, where did those seals come from?'

Benjamin shrugged. His thumb went to his lips. Whoever it is knows the King's mind and the nightmares which lurk there. The King has refused to hand over the first amount. I doubt if he will the second.'

He walked on, Agrippa and I trotting behind, struggling to keep up with his long-legged gait. Now and again he stopped to make inquiries. At last a beggar boy took us along a narrow, evil-smelling runnel which led into a surprisingly pleasant open green space. Across this stood the house of Andrew Undershaft.

'He must have hanged many men,' I remarked, pointing to the freshly painted plaster and glass-filled windows.

Benjamin stopped and stared at the tilers busy on the roof, removing damaged slate and replacing it with good. He looked over his shoulder at Agrippa. Was Undershaft well paid?'

'Oh, yes, a goodly sum every week. At Michaelmas, midsummer, Christmas and Easter, he'd also be able to draw fresh provisions, fuel and new robes from the royal household.' 'He must have died a wealthy man,' I remarked as we went through the gate and up the pavement; on either side lay gardens filled with flowers of every kind and hue. Benjamin knocked on the door which was briskly opened by a maid in a white mobcap and grey smock. Benjamin explained who we were. The girl curtseyed as if we were the Great Cham of Tartary. She ushered us into a sweet-smelling passageway, the walls freshly painted, and into a cosy parlour overlooking the front garden. Benjamin and I sat in the window-seat, Agrippa lounged in a chair alongside as the maid hurried off to fetch her mistress.

I heard a child crying, probably from the garden beyond, and two boys playing at the top of the stairs, followed by footsteps and the hoarse whispering of the maid outside. The door was pushed open and Mistress Undershaft came into the room. I immediately rose, sweeping off my hat: she was the prettiest wench you ever did see. Her face was narrow and pointed, the skin ivory pale. Hair the colour of straw peeped out from just beneath her widow's veil. Her dress of black taffeta, mourning weeds, only enhanced her angel-like beauty. She moved delicately with small steps, those lustrous eyes blinking against the sunlight pouring through the window. She glanced at Benjamin, myself and, more than once, at Agrippa, who must have looked like some monstrous dressed spider which had crawled into her house. 'Do I know you, sirs?'

Benjamin made the introductions. The woman's hand went out but not far enough for Benjamin to grip. She smiled quickly, her fingers flying to her lips, then opened the small reticule which swung from the belt round her narrow waist: she brought out a pair of spectacles which she perched on the bridge of that lovely nose.

‘I am so sorry, sirs.' Her voice was sweet and low. 'My sight is poor but vanity makes me wear these as little as possible.' Benjamin bowed from his waist. 'Madam, we have come to ask you certain questions about your late husband.'

The woman closed her eyes; she clasped her hands together as if in prayer. That is difficult, sir,' she whispered. ‘I find it so hard.'

She opened her eyes, beautiful, clear pools of light, and Old Shallot saw it. Ever so fleeting! Ever so quick! A look, a cast of the eyes, perhaps a pucker of the mouth. Those little movements you glimpse out of the corner of your eye which tell you that all is not what it appears to be. Agrippa pushed across the chair he had been sitting on and helped her into it, softly murmuring his condolences. The woman looked up, peering over her spectacles at Benjamin, then her gaze slid quickly towards me. I caught it again: a spark of mischief, of hidden laughter. Always remember Shallot's old maxim: A charlatan may fool a wise man but he can never fool another charlatan.' 'Sirs, do you wish something to eat or drink?'

Faced with such beauty, I would have stayed to supper, but Benjamin murmured his thanks. 'It is your husband, madam, we have come to talk about. We wish to cause as little pain as possible.'

Mistress Undershaft bowed her head, sobbing quietly. For a while we just sat in silence.

‘I am sorry, madam,' Benjamin insisted, 'but we come from the King: your husband's death may not have been a simple act of revenge but connected with something much more sinister.'

The woman's head snapped up, a little too quickly. ‘What do you mean, sir?' she stammered.

'Madam, excuse my bluntness, we believe your husband was pushed into a cage at Smithfield and burnt to death not out of revenge, but because of some treasonable activity…'

'Madam.' Benjamin waited for Mistress Undershaft to compose herself. 'Before he died, did your husband act untoward? Did he mention anything? Was he worried about anything?'

'Andrew was a good man,' she replied tearfully. 'He did a dreadful job, though he always maintained that those he hanged or executed fully deserved their punishment. Every Sunday, when he went to Mass at St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower, he always prayed for the souls of those who'd suffered.' 'Precisely so, madam,' Benjamin replied, 'but did he-'

'My husband rarely talked about what he did, Master Daunbey,' she interrupted, a touch of steel in her voice. Unlike others of the Guild, he did not boast about how many he had killed, or how he had made such a person suffer by putting a knot in the wrong place. Nor did he refuse those burnt at Smithfield a bag of gunpowder round their necks to hasten their ends.'