The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

It was true. A girdle hung limp from the door. I did not think it would have kept a curious animal away for long.

‘I must have slept, for the next I knew was shouting and growling from outside-’

‘That was us returning the lions to their quarters,’ said one of Edmund’s guards, speaking for the first time. ‘They didn’t want to go in until we showed ’em fire.’

‘-hearing the noise, I set up my own shouting from in here and was found. True, I was clutching a knife, but it was to defend myself against men, against wild animals, against God knows what. They’ll tell you that I willingly surrendered the knife and that the blade was clean.’

The other guard nodded but said nothing.

‘So, Nick, now you see me…’

‘Now I see you, Edmund.’

I didn’t know what else to say. Or, rather, I scarcely knew where to begin. The whole tale sounded like a pack of lies. Had WS’s brother really been summoned by note to the Lion Tower, overcome by unknown assailants and dragged down to the animal level, there to wake with a dead man for company, and – too fearful to make his escape through an arena of lions – had he huddled for safety in a cage overnight? The only bit which was absolutely believable was the last.

I was reluctant to question Edmund in front of Ralph Gill in case I exposed too many holes in his story. In fact it was more holes than story. Yet whatever he was making up or leaving out of his account, it was hard to regard him as a murderer at the moment. Edmund looked hapless, not guilty. His face was smeared with dirt, but there was no blood detectable on him apart from the front of his head and his fingertips (I thought of the stained note, which I still carried).

Fortunately the Keeper of the King’s Lions seemed to have come to the same conclusion and, having talked of murder, he was now anxious to discharge Edmund into my custody. I wondered whether he had played up the whole thing so as to get rid of Edmund. The dead man’s body was an embarrassment to an official who had charge of the whole area. Strangers had penetrated what should be a secure place, wild beasts had not been shut away and had got loose. I had a sudden thought.

‘Mr Gill, is it possible that the wounds on Mr Leman were caused by your animals? The lions? You say they were wandering free last night. It might be that the unfortunate gentleman was attacked in the yard and, mortally wounded, managed to crawl into the adjoining cell.’

‘It might be, it might well be.’

‘There is blood along the floor of the passage as if he might have dragged himself so far.’

Ralph Gill examined the floor and considered this idea. He said: ‘But with such an important individual as Mr Leman, the Justice or the coroner will have to decide, and Mr Shakespeare here will have to give evidence if it comes to it.’

I helped WS’s brother to his feet and he reclaimed his girdle and even his knife, handed over by one of the guards. The blade and haft were, indeed, spotless (but they could have been cleaned after use). Then, accompanied by the head keeper, we passed the little chamber containing the unfortunate Leonard Leman before making our way into the yard, where the air, though heavy with animal odours, was a relief after the stenchy warren. Then up through the labyrinthine passages of the Lion Tower and along the causeway to the outer gate, the one with the sentry-house and the drawbridge. Here Ralph Gill put a hand on my arm to detain me. Edmund, meanwhile, was looking somewhat unsteady on his feet and taking down great draughts of air.

‘Mr Revill, I will speak in confidence. You must see that I am in a delicate position. This is a royal palace and I would not like the king to learn of any, ah, irregularities concerning his lions. Nor would his majesty be happy to hear that the brother of his principal playwright has been caught up in any mischief. Or perhaps it is the queen who would not be happy. You would know better than I do. But a man is dead and must be accounted for, even if it was no more than a misfortune… yes, a terrible misfortune.’

He paused, and I nodded. Taking his cue from me, Gill was evidently working himself into the belief that Leman’s death was an accident.

‘Your friend there has given a partial account of what happened. It would be to all our advantages if he gave to you a more precise account, perhaps leaving aside any talk of assailants and so on. No doubt he drank a little too deeply last night?’

‘I will see what I can do, Mr Gill. But can you answer me one question? Whatever happened here last night, there seems to have been a great deal of coming and going. I thought this place was a castle, a guarded, secure castle.’

Ralph Gill looked uncomfortable. His hands flew to his head to keep his hat in place on his white head, even though there wasn’t much of a breeze where we were standing.

‘Sir William Ward is the aptly named Constable of the Tower and he has responsibility for our security. The inner wards where prisoners are held are truly fast, but an outer gate such as this is rarely closed. I cannot remember when the drawbridge was last raised. We have building work going on at the moment. There is always a deal of coming and going. Every day the public resort to this area to see the beasts.’

All of this seemed a roundabout way of saying that the south-west corner of the Tower was a common thoroughfare. The two soldiers in the sentry-house to our back had not noted our exit any more than they’d done with my earlier arrival under escort. Still, it was none of my business if the place was crawling with night-time assailants or if London was shaken by rebels who took it into their heads to storm the Tower. Instead I assured Ralph Gill once again that I’d do my best to get the full story out of Edmund Shakespeare.

‘Good, good, Mr Revill. I can see you have a shrewd look to you.’

We shook hands. WS had recently called me shrewd before putting his brother in my charge. I would have preferred less of a reputation for shrewdness and less of my share of trouble.

Edmund and I quit the precincts of the Tower. We walked rapidly westwards as if to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the animal den. Neither of us spoke a word until I suggested he clean himself up. By this time we were near a public trough at the Poultry end of Cheapside. Edmund dabbed cautiously at his face and washed his bloody hands in the running water which is supplied by the Great Conduit. The blow on his forehead was turning a shade of blue. It looked as though he had had an encounter with a doorpost.

Only when he looked halfway respectable did we enter a tavern. And only when we had finished a rabbit stew in near silence and started on our bread and cheese, washed down with second helpings of small beer, did I say to William Shakespeare’s brother: ‘Isn’t it time for the truth, Edmund?’

‘First I must thank you, Nick. You have treated me better than I deserve, especially after the other night. I cannot tell you the roasting I would have got from William if he had come in your place. He might have let me rot in the animals’ den.’

‘Believe me, I was tempted. Enough, Edmund. The truth.’

But the story Edmund had to tell wasn’t so different from the account I’d already heard. He had, he insisted, been attacked and overcome soon after entering the precincts of the Lion Tower. He had woken to find himself next to the cell containing the mortal remains of Leonard Leman. Too frightened to go through the yard with its wandering lions, he retreated for safety to the empty cell where he was found, knife in hand, by the morning keepers.

But there was one significant difference. Rather than being summoned to the Tower by some mysterious note – that was a fiction to explain his presence to Ralph Gill, he openly admitted it – Edmund had been in pursuit of someone. Of three people in fact. The bookseller Davy Owen and the dead man, Leonard Leman, together with the dead man’s wife, Alice.