Paul Doherty - The Gallows Murders

I stopped as the people I was talking about came out of the Beauchamp Tower bearing Horehound's corpse, neatly wrapped and hidden by a canvas sheet which was lashed by cords at top and bottom. They took it over to a cart. Mallow climbed into the seat, cracked his whip and, with his three apprentices walking beside, made his way down to the Lion Gate.

Wormwood stopped, shading his eyes against the sun, and called out to us, We are going to bury him in the cemetery of the Crutched Friars. Say a prayer for the poor bugger,' he added.

Benjamin and I nodded and watched the miserable procession continue.

‘I am sure of it,' I whispered. 'One of them is the killer, but God knows who their accomplice is!'

'Mistress Undershaft!' Benjamin replied. We must speak to her again about her mysterious legacy. First, let's study Spurge's map.'

We walked round the Tower. As we did so, I became more heavy-hearted. Kemble was true to his word. Men-at-arms and archers guarded every entrance, water-gate and postern-door marked on the map.

‘You couldn't smuggle a rat in here,' I grumbled. 'Do you believe the underground tunnel is sealed off?'

'Of course,' Benjamin replied. 'If Spurge and Vetch were lying, they'd lose their heads.'

We did the full length of the Tower, coming back to where we started, then walked down to where the builders and masons were working on scaffolding up against a wall. They seemed a cheerful bunch of rogues, covered in dust, swearing and cursing as they scrambled about like monkeys. Benjamin called the master mason down.

'What do you want?' the fellow asked, shaking water from a pannikin over his face and wiping the dust from his wrists and arms.

'How long have you been working here?' Benjamin asked.

'Oh, must be a week now, sir.' He looked up. 'Martin!' he shouted.

A crop-haired, cheery-faced fellow came to the edge of the scaffolding and smiled down at us.

"We've been here a week haven't we?' The master mason shouted.

'Aye, it's about that.' The fellow's rustic accent seemed out of place, warm and friendly.

"Why?' the builder continued. 'Don't say we've got to stay another bloody night here?'

Benjamin shook his head. 'And you've seen nothing untoward?' he asked the master mason.

'Sir, we have come in to do the walls, and the walls we will do. Master Spurge has given us directions. We work from dawn till dusk, then -' he raised his voice – ‘We are supposed to go back to our homes. Last night we found the gates sealed and Sir Edward said none of us could leave and so here we stayed.'

Benjamin thanked him and moved off as the mason, cursing under his breath, climbed the ladder back on to the scaffolding. We returned to the royal quarters, gave Spurge his map back and left the Tower. Kemble had already ordered the main gates to be opened. We went along winding streets to Petty Wales and into the Monkshood tavern.

If Marisa had been Hellbane's doxy, she had soon forgotten him. We found her in a corner, sitting in the lap of a chapman who was plying her with drink. At first the ruffian was going to object, but when my hand fell to the hilt of my sword, he scampered off muttering that we were welcome to her. Marisa was one of those young women with an old face; hair as black as night falling down to her shoulders, a thin white face, a narrow slit for a mouth and the green eyes of a nasty-tempered cat. She wore a stained blue dress with the bodice cut low; it was rather dirty, but revealed all her charms. When Benjamin put a coin on the table, she leaned a little closer and became much friendlier. ‘I very rarely take two at a time.' 'Shut up!' I snarled. 'It's not your body we are after!'

Then what?' she snapped and, before I could intervene, her fingers had grasped the silver coin. ‘I am a good girl.' Her voice rose to a screech in an attempt to gain the attention of the landlord who had been standing watching us. I turned and glared at him: he moved to wipe the top of a beer-barrel as if his very life depended on it.

'Sit down, Marisa,' Benjamin ordered quietly. Another silver coin appeared between his fingers; this time it was held well away from her. 'You knew one of the hangmen at the Tower? A gentleman called Hellbane?'

Marisa's face softened. 'His real name was Crispin,' she whispered. ‘He was a printer. Did you know that? He came from Southampton where he had killed two men. He fled abroad but he said it was better to starve to death in England than do so in some foreign city, so he came back.' 'Did he enjoy his work?' I asked.

'Sometimes.' Marisa crossed her arms and sat back, blinking furiously at the tears welling in her eyes. 'He did love me,' she whispered hoarsely. 'He even said he'd marry me. He talked of earning enough, then we'd leave London and the Tower, travel north, go somewhere where no one would know us. Start up his old trade again.'

'Did he have friends?' Benjamin asked. He leaned across and gently caught her hand. Tell us, Marisa, please. We want to catch his killer.'

She forced a smile. 'I thought a gentleman always brought a lady a drink?'

Benjamin called the landlord across and, at Marisa's request, ordered three cups of white wine.

'And your best!' Marisa screeched. 'None of that bucket-swill! We are going to toast Hellbane's soul!' She turned to Benjamin. 'You asked if Hellbane liked his job, and the truth is no. He hated it. He said when he turned people off the ladder, he always closed his eyes. However, he thought being a hangman was the best protection against the sheriff's warrant. As for friends…? People like Hellbane don't have friends. Sometimes he'd go with that ridiculous guild, but he spent most of his time with me.' 'And the day he was killed?' I asked.

'We were to meet here one evening. He never came. The next morning they fished his body from the Thames. Someone had knocked him on the head but had not bothered to steal a penny from his purse or the rings from his fingers. He'd been put into a sack with weights and tossed into the Thames.' She paused as the landlord brought across the wine which she grasped and drank greedily. 'All I could think was that someone had wanted revenge. What does the Bible say, sir? Eye for eye, tooth for tooth?' 'I don't think so,' Benjamin retorted. 'I think Hellbane was killed because of what he knew.'

My master grasped her hand. 'Marisa, did he ever remark on anything strange happening in the Tower?’

'He hated the place,' she whispered, turning her cup. 'He claimed that, at night, ghosts walked. He heard strange sounds and cries… But no, he didn't mention anything in particular.'

'And he drank with the rest of the hangmen?' Benjamin asked.

'Oh yes, and sometimes they drank deeply. I joined them. The last occasion was the sixth of June, the King's birthday. It's the ancient custom for the constable to host a banquet for the Guild of Hangmen in the royal apartments.' She smiled thinly. 'A macabre affair, Masters. Mallow, Hellbane and the rest, all dressed in their hangmen's costumes, black leather jerkins, belts, swords; they even wore their masks and hoods. I and the other girls were quite frightened.

'And what happened?' I asked, curious at the thought of hangmen sitting at a table, masked and cowled, feasting and drinking.

Well, Sir Edward's a good man and the wine flowed. Afterwards, well, we played Hangmen's Bluff The men hid and their girl friends, we had to search for them.' She sipped from the cup. ‘You can imagine, sirs, the squealing, the kissing, the slapping and tickling! The galleries and corridors were dark, and each of the men masked!' Was Undershaft there? Mallow's lieutenant?' I asked.

'Oh yes, but he was by himself. The others called him a spoilsport so he took part for a while and then went home.' She smiled to herself. We did drink deeply that night.'