The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

Malinferno nervously produced the thigh-bone given to him by Augustus Bromhead, and he held it out for Casteix to examine.

‘Monsieur, can you tell me if you think this bone has any age?’

The savant was at first inclined to dismiss the offered bone with a wave of his imperious hand. Did not this youth know it was impossible to age a bone with any accuracy? But then he decided to take the specimen and delay his observation. Truth to tell, he was an old man whom no one came to consult on scientific matters any more. At least he could coax another visit out of this Malinferno.

‘Hmm. Leave it with me, and I will examine it properly. You can come back tomorrow or the next day, when I have had time to consider. Do you know… where it was exhumed?’

He knew that if the man said Egypt, then he could at least suggest it was old without seeming too ill-informed. But Malinferno was being cagey.

‘I would rather not say just now. Suffice it to say that it has been nowhere near the British Museum. And talking of that institution, I wanted to ask you about the Rosetta Stone…’

His mention of the stone seemed to galvanize the old savant. Suddenly Casteix pushed himself up on his silver-topped cane and hobbled over to the heavy mahogany table in the centre of the room. He brought the ebony cane down with a thwack on the paper that lay on its surface.

‘It was stolen from us, sir. Stolen. But now perhaps some restitution will have to be made.’

There was an edge of triumph in his quavering voice, which confused Malinferno.

‘Why is that, monsieur le professeur ?’

A self-satisfied leer distorted the old man’s face.

‘Do you not read your own newspapers, man?’ It seemed for a moment that he had forgotten his assumptions about Malinferno’s nationality, for he grabbed the newspaper from the table and waved it in his guest’s face. Malinferno recognized it as that days’ edition of The Times , which due to his dalliance with the rat-faced Kitten he had so far failed to peruse. He wondered what the Thunderer had reported within its pages that had so excited the old Frenchman. He was not in ignorance for long, as Casteix took delight in informing him. His face turned an unhealthy purple with the emotion of the moment.

‘The Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte has escaped from his prison on St Helena and will soon be threatening these very isles with invasion.’

‘Augustus! Gus… Gus. Are you there?’

Malinferno rushed up the winding staircase to Bromhead’s study, which was sequestered in the loft of the dusty old house. He was winded by the time he got to the top and leaned on the banisters outside the door to regain his breath. The Frenchman’s startling news had shocked him to the core. The last time Napoleon had escaped his island prison on Elba, he had raised an army of 350,000 and terrified Europe for a hundred days. Leaving Casteix’s house and hurrying through the streets of London, Malinferno could see that the rumours of his second escape were causing equal panic. People were scurrying back and forth looking over their shoulders as if Bonaparte were already in pursuit. In one of the new town squares that he crossed, servants were even boarding up their masters’ fashionable windows, as if invasion was imminent. He passed a butcher’s shop inside which chaos reigned as a group of liveried servants, attempting to buy up all the meat on display for their masters, were carrying out a three-way tug of war on a haunch of pork. Fear of blockaded ports, it seemed, was concentrating the minds of the well-to-do.

Malinferno had intended to return to his lodgings, but he knew that Mrs Stanhope would be in a tizzy about Boney’s escape. He did not have the time to waste reassuring her that all would be well. Especially as he was far from certain himself that disaster was not imminent. He wanted to talk to Bromhead, and tax the old man on what it was best to do. Crossing London Bridge, he had the uneasy feeling that someone was dogging his heels, a feeling he had had ever since leaving Casteix’s residence. But every time he turned around to look, he could see no one following him. He put it down to his own mad fears. There were said to be so many sympathizers of Bonaparte’s cause in the capital that Lord Liverpool’s government had spies ferreting them out. Even the Princess of Wales was said to be an admirer. But then she was an exile from England in much the same way as Boney was.

Instead of going to Creechurch Lane, Malinferno had made his way over London Bridge, down Tooley Street and was now at the Court Yard in Bermondsey. The little antiquarian’s house was in a row of tenements squeezed in between St Mary Magdalen Church and the noxious marshes south of the river. Bromhead would no doubt be oblivious to the news that was spreading like wildfire across London, immersed as he was in his studies. Malinferno not only wanted to gauge his reaction, but needed to talk to Augustus about the bag of old bones. He needed more information, if he was to see Casteix again and not appear an ignoramus. On the basis of the savant’s reaction, he also felt less inclined to mock Bromhead’s opinion that the bones were very old. In fact he was now very curious to discover whose bones Bromhead reckoned they were. Hence the headlong rush up the stairs.

His breath back, Malinferno burst into Bromhead’s dark and gloomy study.

‘Gus, have you heard the news…?’

He paused, more than a little perplexed. The room was in utter darkness. There were no lamps burning, and the shutters on the windows must be closed for it to be so Stygian. Yet Bromhead should have been at home. The little dwarf of a man hardly left his house for fear of being mocked by the street urchins who frequented the rundown area. Malinferno often wondered why he continued to live in such a drab part of London, when he knew the antiquarian was of independent means. He could have afforded one of those new-style houses in Bloomsbury Square where the booksellers and cabinetmakers dwelled. But he seemed to prefer his creaky old residence in Grange Walk, and virtually lived on this upper floor surrounded by his collections of books and maps. So where was he?

As Malinferno’s eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed darkness, he could see that the high stool that was Bromhead’s throne was unoccupied. Nor was the man anywhere else in the room. And then he saw out of the corner of his eye that the heavy shadow below one of the high windows had shifted slightly. He gasped involuntarily and turned back towards the door. But before he could reach it, the shadow converged on the same spot and grabbed his outstretched arm. The hand was much more substantial than a shadow had the right to be. And the grip was vice-like. Malinferno felt as faint as one of his well-to-do female clients at the moment of an unrolling. His legs wobbled, and he tottered forward. Suddenly the hand was supporting his slumping body rather than restraining him. And the shadow spoke.

‘Please. I did not mean to startle you. Only your arrival had me scared too, and for a moment I did not know what to do other than hide in the shadows.’

The stranger led Malinferno out on to the landing, where there was more light. Leaning once again on the handrail, Malinferno took a few deep breaths. He also took the time to take a look at the man who stood beside him. He didn’t look much like a murderer. In fact his face was as pale and drawn as Malinferno assumed his was at that moment. He was a tall, thin man with a stoop that suggested he was rather reserved in company, and that he bent over to conceal his height. The top of his head was completely devoid of hair, though it grew long and dark about his ears. His clothes were not of the latest fashion, and when Malinferno gazed furtively at his hands, which twisted nervously around his sturdy cane, he saw they were stained. He guessed the man was a cabinetmaker, and thought it an odd coincidence that he had been thinking of those who lived in Bloomsbury Square only minutes before. The man suddenly thrust out one of the hands Malinferno had been examining.