The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘My name, sir, is Thomas Dale. I am a co-er-cabinetmaker.’

‘And mine Joe Malinferno. Scientist.’

Malinferno’s hand was taken in the firm and calloused grip of a man who used his hands for his trade, and then shaken vigorously.

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance Mr… Malinferno. Once more I beg your forgiveness for my skulking ways.’ Dale laughed nervously. ‘I thought you were poor Bromhead’s murderer come back to cover up the deed.’

‘Bromhead’s murderer? Is he dead, then? How do you know?’

Dale’s face fell, and his hands twitched ever more vigorously.

‘Oh, I don’t know for sure. But the evidence is there to see. Come, I will show you.’

Malinferno followed Dale back into the room, still a little fearful that his companion might be the murderer, seeking to lay a false trail. Dale rushed over to the windows and flung the shutters back. As light poured back into the room, and Malinferno squinted around, uncertain of what he should be looking at, Dale strode over to Bromhead’s work table.

‘Look here. There are signs of a struggle – precious books scattered on the floor in a way Mr Bromhead would never have done himself.’ He bent down to pick one up. ‘This is a rare copy of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s history of the kings of England. He would never have left it so.’

Dale folded back a creased page lovingly and, closing the book, laid it back on the table. Then he pointed at something far more alarming on the edge of the table.

‘And look here. There are bloodstains.’

Malinferno’s stomach lurched, and for once he was glad he had missed his breakfast. He gritted his teeth and looked more closely at where Dale was pointing. It was true. There was a large area of darkened wood, and evidence that something resembling blood had dripped off the edge of the table and on to the floor. He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Perhaps Augustus cut himself and swept the books away from it before it stained them.’

Grimly Thomas Dale shook his head.

‘No. I smell death here, and I know it well, believe me. I have some experience in these matters.’

Malinferno wondered why a cabinetmaker should know the scent of death. But before he could question the man, Dale was striding around the room clearly looking for something that he could not find.

‘And where are the bones?’

Malinferno held his breath for a moment, wondering if Dale meant the same bones he now possessed. Did the man know Bromhead had passed the bones on to him, and were they valuable? He tried to inject his next question with an air of sincerity.

‘Bones? What bones are these?’

Dale stopped his search, and a look of confusion came over his face. Malinferno could see that Dale had made an error in talking so openly, and was now deciding whether to confide in him. Finally he spoke in low tones that suggested he did not want anyone else to hear.

‘Why, King Arthur’s bones, of course.’

A dark figure passed under one of the newfangled street gaslamps outside Augustus Bromhead’s residence and hovered for a moment. His coachman’s overcoat had the collar pulled up so that, along with the wide-brimmed hat he wore, little could be seen of the man’s face. To be certain of his anonymity, he moved a step or two away from the fizzing lamp and looked up to the windows at the top of the house.

It had been several hours since he had followed Malinferno from the Frenchman’s residence to here, and he was unaware if anyone else was inside the house. He had seen some signs of movement at the upper window, but the angle was too steep from where he stood in the street to be sure. Darkness had fallen, and a lamp had been lit in the house, but no further activity had taken place. Nor had Malinferno exited the building. But the secretive stranger was addicted to his task and had a great deal of patience. Malinferno had greatly interested him now that he had revealed a connection with the Frenchman, Casteix. The lurker drew a notebook from the pocket of his voluminous overcoat and began to make notes.

Malinferno was seated on Bromhead’s stool, pondering on the story he had just been told. The tale had been so long that darkness had fallen outside, and Dale had lit one of Bromhead’s lamps. He had even revealed the ancient and battered wooden chest that sat almost hidden under Bromhead’s large table. It was a squarish box, blackened with age and smooth to the touch as though it had been coated with some sort of resin. Crude metal hasps and hinges completed the sense of its being very old. Dale insisted that the bones had been found inside this very chest, though to Joe it looked so fragile that he couldn’t imagine it holding anything at all. Having told his story, he now paced around the floor of the upstairs rooms, while Joe perched himself on the high stool by the table. He queried again the name of the group of men who met in the antiquarian’s chambers.

‘You call yourselves the Avalon Club?’

A deep flush came over Dale’s face, and he looked down at his boots. It sounded foolish now, but the six who had met every month for the last two years had not thought so. They had been in deadly earnest.

‘Yes. There are a number of us, all interested in the truth about King Arthur. About his life and death. If he truly did die, that is. There are some who say he never died but lies hidden near Snowdon. I am not of that school of thought, and neither is Mr Bromhead. We are both of a practical turn of mind, which is why he has been seeking the king’s bones.’

Malinferno wriggled uncomfortably on Augustus’s high seat. The thought of the bag of bones back in his rooms being those of the legendary Arthur made him uneasy. He had simply stuffed them under his bed to keep them from Mrs Stanhope’s prying eyes as if they were no more than animal bones. Had Bromhead really discovered Arthur’s bones? Is that why he had been so anxious for Joe to agree they were of ancient origin? He decided to return to his lodgings as soon as possible to retrieve them. He slid off the stool, carelessly placing his hand to steady himself on the edge of the table. It was only when he felt the slickness of the surface that he remembered Bromhead’s supposed fate. He looked nervously down at his hand but could discern no stain on it. Was the mark on the table really the antiquarian’s life’s blood as Dale surmised?

The leading light of the Avalon Club suddenly grabbed his arm.

‘If there is anything you know or can find out concerning Mr Bromhead’s whereabouts, or of the bones, I and my colleagues will pay you well.’

Malinferno perked up at the mention of money.

‘I may be able to help you, then. For a price. I should only expect my expenses to be covered, mind you. Though they may well be considerable…’

Dale dug in the pocket of his old jacket and came up with a handful of gold coins. He pressed them eagerly into Malinferno’s palm.

‘I am not without means, having established a steady line of business in these uncertain times. Here are a few sovereigns in advance of full payment. I hope you will help us. Never have Arthur’s bones been as needed as they are now.’

Malinferno frowned.

‘Why now?’

‘Why, because of Bonaparte’s invasion. The prophecy is that Arthur is not dead, but in hiding, only waiting to be called back to life when the nation is in dire need. What crisis can be more extreme than now, with our oldest enemy on the loose again?’

The stranger hiding in the dark watched Malinferno leave the house, carefully put his notebook inside the pocket of his big overcoat and followed him. He noticed that his quarry had a hand in the right pocket of his cutaway coat and appeared to be jingling coins. Malinferno looked extremely cheerful and was almost skipping as he hurried along Tooley Street towards London Bridge. For a moment Malinferno hesitated in front of one of the flash houses that his tail knew was a gin-shop and notorious rookery of thieves. The man surmised that if he went in there he would soon be parted from his money. And in not too pleasant a way either. But it seemed that Malinferno had second thoughts, because he shook his head and walked on. Having crossed the bridge over the Thames, Malinferno passed Billingsgate Market, and Custom House, then turned north. His follower assumed then that he was returning to his lodgings. But Malinferno did not turn west, instead carrying on up Aldgate until he came to Petticoat Lane. Though the street drew its name from the clothing trade that had located itself there a century or more ago, the garment referred to provided a connection with other more colourful establishments in the lane.