The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Alerted by the noise, the porter was too quick for us and, stepping out of his lodge, he slammed shut the door and stood there, arms folded and a grin on his face. Meantime, more figures had emerged from the house and were approaching Martin and me at a diagonal. We slowed, then halted, uncertain where to go next.

I glanced down at the box cradled in my arms. Made of wood but reinforced with metal at the corners, the box had been damaged by the force with which it had struck the ground. A panel on the top was cracked. The case was large enough to contain, say, a pair of pistols. But it was not pistols that I could glimpse through the splintered wood.

By now we were surrounded by the occupants of Pride House: Mistress Leman, her steward Jack Corner, the gatekeeper and several servants dressed in yellow livery. I noticed that Alice Leman and Corner looked flustered, with their clothes in slight disarray, but I suppose that could have been accounted for by their haste to raise the alarm. I also noticed Alice looking curiously at Martin Barton, as though she half-recognized him. Even so, it’s possible we might have bluffed our way out of the place if it hadn’t been for Davy Owen. He remembered us very well and, with the indignity of being tumbled on his back all too apparent on his face, he drew near.

‘It is you,’ he said. ‘I thought it was you. A pair of rogues, you are. Give me back my property.’

He made to grab the case but I turned away and clutched it tighter. It was a pointless gesture. Martin and I could easily have been overpowered, and the box seized from my hands, but we had not yet reached the moment of physical force. We weren’t exactly intruders – we’d been freely admitted by the gatekeeper – but neither were we welcome guests. Martin did a little bow and said: ‘My condolences, madam, on the death of your husband.’

Alice Leman looked surprised as if she’d already forgotten about her husband. Then she recovered herself and said: ‘Thank you, Mr…?’

‘Martin Barton. Of the Blackfriars Children.’

‘That is where I have seen you.’

‘And I you,’ said Martin, all self-possession now. ‘You and your husband.’

To give the widow credit, she did not indulge in any false tears or long faces. ‘Well, my husband is gone. But I am here. Who are you?’

‘Nicholas Revill, a player with the King’s Men. I too am sorry to hear of your loss. In the Tower, wasn’t it?’

I said this to prompt her to some expression of regret, although all she said was: ‘A sad misfortune but an accident. Those animals!’

For an instant I thought she was referring to men behaving like beasts but, of course, she meant the lions that might have killed Leonard Leman. This was the story that would now be put about. She never asked how we had come by the news, and that in itself was odd. As was the arrival at Pride House of Davy Owen with his box. Or my box at the moment.

Jack Corner the steward coughed to draw attention to himself. He said: ‘My Lady, we do not need to stand here listening to a couple of players.’

‘I am no player but a playwright and poet,’ said Martin, at which Corner wafted his hand as if the distinction was meaningless, while Davy Owen put in: ‘Calls himself a playwright – oh, and a satirist too. He does not like the Welsh.’

‘We know something of the death of your husband,’ I said to Mrs Leman.

She glanced about at the servants standing at a respectful distance before saying: ‘It is hot out here and tempers are getting frayed. We should all go indoors.’

So we did.

We assembled in a large chamber on the upper floor of Pride House. It was a tense, uneasy gathering even after the servants had been dismissed. I was still clutching the wooden box. Davy Owen kept his eyes on it rather than on anything or anyone else, but he did not attempt to wrest it from me. Jack Corner, whose height was made more apparent by a small head, regarded Martin and me with hostility. Alice Leman, meanwhile, seemed divided between curiosity and suspicion.

‘What do you know of my husband’s death, Mr Revill?’

‘Nothing directly, madam. But an associate of ours was present when it happened, and he says that others were there too. He doubts that it was an accident.’

‘Then let him come forward and speak out,’ said the widow. ‘We have nothing to fear.’

We? Presumably she was referring to herself and her steward. Was it known in the household that they were lying together? Certainly there’d been nothing very secret about the cut and thrust in the arbour despite the fact that it was taking place within hours of Leman’s death.

‘Nothing to fear? Not even a charge of murder?’ I said.

Jack Corner took a step forward at that. An angry red spot burned high in each cheek. Mrs Leman put out a hand to restrain him and he halted. In that gesture and response were everything we needed to know: their closeness, her influence over him, his deference to her.

‘Why do you say murder, Mr Revill?’

‘Because I am holding here a box of bones and for some reason it makes me think of violence and sudden death. What are you doing bearing a box of bones, Davy Owen?’

I shook it, and inside the box the bones I’d glimpsed through the splintered panel rattled away. Having made this display, there seemed little point in holding on to the container any longer. It was heavy and, besides, an unpleasant odour was rising from it. I held it out to Owen.

‘This is none of your business,’ said the Welshman, snatching it from me.

‘We came to you in quest of bones, I remember,’ said Martin Barton.

‘You got a dusty answer.’

‘You sent us to Bernardo Scoto.’

I noticed the look that passed between Alice Leman and her steward at that. They obviously knew the man from Mantua. But then of course Edmund Shakespeare had seen Mr and Mrs Leman, together with Owen, going to Scoto’s house before they went on to the Tower animals. What was going on here? I was baffled.

‘To be round with you, Mrs Leman,’ I said, ‘it was you who were seen close to the scene of your husband’s death in the Tower.’

‘I was there, I admit it. My husband was drawn towards the Tower animals. They were a magnet to him. Like our king, he enjoyed watching the strange beasts. I sometimes accompanied him and our steward too. We were there yesterday evening. I grew tired, however, and found the air close and nauseous. So I left my husband to admire the animals by himself and returned home with Master Corner for company. I do not know exactly what happened after I left, but, with Leonard, valour or curiosity must have got the better part of discretion and he wandered too close to the beasts. He was savaged by the lions, was he not?’

This was remarkable. If she was telling the truth and had not been there at the moment of her husband’s death, she could have heard the news only this morning. Yet she spoke in such even tones that she might have been talking about a stranger who had carelessly fallen victim to the lions. But then perhaps she was not very fond of her husband. Perhaps her attentions had long ago shifted in the direction of Jack Corner, who now so far forgot discretion as to put a soothing hand on her arm. Even if Martin and I hadn’t witnessed them at it, we would have known them for lovers. Yet surely lovers, if they had carried out a murder, would put on a show of grief to allay suspicion? That they were not doing so could be construed as proof of innocence. Or indifference. Or brazenness.

‘Is a little sorrow in order, madam?’ I said. ‘I ask only because, not being married myself, I am not sure how these things are carried on between husband and wife.’

‘They are carried on as they are carried on, Mr Revill. Be sure that you will be the first to know when I want to advertise my sorrow.’