The Medieval Murderers - The Lost Prophecies

‘Have I satisfied your curiosity?’ said Gifford, standing up for the first time.

‘No,’ said Abel. ‘But, speaking for myself, I do not wish to pry into these matters any further. Here’s your Black Book and be done with it.’

Gifford’s hands closed around the volume. He thanked Abel and inclined his head slightly. He replaced the wooden panel that he had removed to sneak into our chamber and left the room in more conventional fashion, although he was hampered for an instant by the cord that Abel had wound about the door latch. The end of this scene, like the rest of the encounter, was played out by moonlight. Its eerie glow gave an edge to our discussion of the end of things.

I tried to sleep but was too shaken by the encounter to succeed. There were distant noises elsewhere in the house, the sound of whispers, feet shuffling. I wondered what Gifford was up to. Was there a whole clutch of priests at Combe, creeping about in the woodwork? For all that, I did fall asleep eventually as the sky was beginning to lighten.

If we thought or hoped we’d seen the last of the tutor-priest, we were wrong. Abel and I rose early the next morning and went downstairs, carrying our baggage, bleary-eyed and yawning all the way.

I’d assumed it was too early for the majority of the household, or at least for the family, to be up, so was surprised by the buzz of noise coming from the area of the kitchen. Instead of the to and fro of servants on their way to the dining hall, however, most of them were crowding towards the kitchen as if there were some attraction inside.

‘What is it?’ said Abel to a knot of servants standing in close conference by the door.

‘Body,’ said one.

‘Whose?’

‘Dunno,’ said the same person. He’d obviously got our measure the previous day (we weren’t important).

We might have got no nearer than that except for the appearance of Mr and Mrs Shaw. They were still in their night attire. The crowd around the door parted to admit the householders, so Abel and I squeezed through after them.

The kitchen was large, with brick arches containing the hearths and a separate oven for baking. The place was heavy with the smell of last night’s cooking and the press of people. There were a couple of sinks set into the outer wall, and it was in this area that everyone’s attention was concentrated. One of the flagstones in the floor had been lifted and placed to one side.

Rather than earth or rubble, what lay beneath must have been a conduit of some kind, usual enough in a large kitchen like this. Gully the steward, the most important man there apart from the family, was standing by the hole. He alone out of the household looked spruce and trim. He caught his master’s eye and gestured downwards. He did not speak. I saw Shaw peer over the edge and flinch away. His wife stepped forward and also looked down before drawing back sharply. She clutched at his arm.

Naturally, my curiosity was stirred. Abel and I edged our way towards the cavity in the floor. By now, most of the people in the kitchen had had their fill of the sight and all eyes were on the Shaws to see what they were going to do or say next. I glanced down. I’d been right. About five feet below was a brick-lined drainage channel. Its function was to carry the waste from the kitchen sinks and, judging by the smell, probably the waste from the garderobes in the house as well. It was wide and deep. But that wasn’t what caught my attention.

Clearly visible at the bottom was the bare head, exposed neck and clothed back of a man. He was wedged along the line of the drain, his face hidden, submerged in a couple of inches of water. I knew, by instinct more than direct recognition, that the body was that of the recent visitor to our chamber. It was Henry Gifford, the tutor-priest.

For some reason I experienced a pang of guilt. I exchanged glances with Abel. He too had recognized Gifford and looked as uncomfortable as I felt.

‘Who found him?’ said Mr Shaw, breaking the silence.

‘I did, sir.’

It was one of the cooks, a large white-faced woman. (But her pallor might have been caused by shock.) She stepped forward.

‘Well, Anne?’ said Shaw.

‘When I came in this morning I noticed that the flagstone was out of place, sir. It was pushed to one side a bit. I couldn’t put it back by myself and I called to Adam to help.’

A servant, presumably Adam, now stepped up beside the woman. Words tumbled out of him.

‘She called and I came and we was trying to shove the flagstone back and I saw something wasn’t right and I said to Anne, “Something is wrong”, and we shifted the flag right away from the hole and looked down and saw… what anyone can see lying down in the bottom there. A person, sir. Now the steward comes in-’

‘I heard the stir, Mr Shaw,’ said Gully, stepping forward to join the line of witnesses. There was a pause as if he was going to say more, but he stopped short.

‘How did he die?’ said Shaw. Even at the time, it seemed an odd question or, rather, an odd moment to ask it.

‘Drowned, sir?’ said Gully.

‘Choked by the foul vapours?’ said someone else. Whether the speaker had intended it or not, there was something almost humorous in the remark, and one or two titters broke the tension. Then, as if a dam had been breached, the room was filled with talking.

Abel nudged me. He indicated the flagstone propped against the wall. He whispered in my ear: ‘Do you see, Nick, there are handholds on either side of that thing?’

Abel was right. The sides of the piece of paving stone were fairly regular except for two ragged indentations at opposing points. You wouldn’t have noticed them if the stone was in its place amongst the other rough-hewn flags on the floor. But a strong man, preferably a couple of strong men, would have been able to prise the slab from where it was set in the kitchen floor, using these handholds. This would have been useful if you’d wanted access to the drain to inspect it or to clear a blockage. What was odd was that, if the flagstone was intended to be raised, then the simplest thing would have been to set an iron ring in its upper surface. Much simpler than providing a couple of makeshift grips that looked as though they’d scrape your fingers when you grasped them. Unless, of course, one wanted to conceal the fact that this was a secret method of raising the stone and getting into – or out of – the drainage channel.

It was probably because we’d seen the priest-hole in our bedroom that Abel and I simultaneously realized the significance of the flagstone. Combe House had been adapted to conceal the followers of the old religion, or rather of its priests and ministers. There was most likely a secret network of tunnels, channels and hidey-holes throughout the house. Secret, but, of course, known to everybody at Combe. It could hardly be otherwise. No doubt all of its occupants were adherents to the old religion or sympathizers, at least. I remembered that the steward Gully had talked about the house being ‘out of the world’. It wasn’t only peace and quiet they were looking for but the freedom to persist with the old forms of worship.

William Shaw noticed the direction of my and Abel’s glances. He too looked at the flagstone. He was no fool. He realized what we’d understood.

‘We must get him out,’ said Mr Shaw, raising his voice to quell the babble.

Silence fell, but no one moved. Perhaps they were reluctant to descend into the drain and grapple with the body. Perhaps each person in the kitchen was waiting for someone else to step forward.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Abel. ‘It’s a small entrance and I am slight enough. I was familiar with bodies once. I served in the Dutch wars.’