The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Returning at the end of this long and murderous day to his lodgings in the gatehouse, and after supper in the refectory, Geoffrey noticed that the quill pen remained where he’d placed it at the start of the morning on a block of stone. He wondered who’d complete the work on the wall cavity now. He had said nothing about the details of the death of Brother Ralph, though it transpired in conversation with Prior Dunton that the young monk had the reputation of being ‘odd’.

‘His mind must have been turned by all the deaths we have witnessed here today,’ said Dunton. ‘In a frenzy he threw himself into the waters of the river. Pray heaven that Ralph’s death will be the last.’

‘I think it will be,’ said Geoffrey.

‘We will say a Mass for his soul,’ said the prior, ‘and for those others who have died in Bermondsey today, of course.’

Nor did Chaucer mention the great bird that had passed overhead as Brother Ralph reached the waterline. A gull, probably. What else could it have been on the Thames foreshore? In fact, he mentioned nothing at all at supper in the refectory (there are advantages sometimes to eating in silence). Instead he slipped inside the great church after supper and before the hour of compline. Once again the church was almost empty, the summer evening fading in bright colours beyond the great west window. He went to gaze on the cross behind its grille. The cross was small, barely significant. As Brother Michael had said, its value lay not in itself but in the tale of its discovery.

Geoffrey Chaucer reflected on the two stories, the legend of the miraculous bird which had dropped the object from its beak and the more prosaic account of a band of monks who’d wanted to bring some fame and credit to the priory. Did it matter which was true? Not to him perhaps, but it was important enough to have caused a string of deaths. And now he alone was in possession of the secret. That Brother Ralph had hired Adam to dispose of John Morton, then himself killed the claw-handed man before going on to stifle Simon Morton. And no doubt Ralph would have done the same for Susanna Morton if he hadn’t been intercepted by Geoffrey. He remembered Ralph’s parting words about ‘cleansing waters’. God knows, if you cannot read a man’s face, how can you interpret what goes on in his head? Well, the fast-flowing Thames received everything and everybody cast into it, the pure and the impure, the innocent and the sinful, without distinction.

Geoffrey wondered whether the widow Morton would be without a mate for long. He didn’t think so. She had too many attractions. But he did not intend to stay in Bermondsey Priory to find out. He’d had enough. He’d make his excuses to the prior and leave Bermondsey tomorrow morning and get back to the domestic bustle of the Aldgate gatehouse. Get home for a bit of peace and quiet. Why, he might even be able to do a bit of writing without the distractions of murder.

And as he was retrieving his pen, Geoffrey Chaucer remembered that early that morning before the murders started he’d had an idea for a poem. The subject had slipped his mind now. What was it he intended to write?

April 1663

Bermondsey House was a jagged black mass against the night sky when Captain John Browne arrived for his clandestine meeting with the conspirators. It had rained all day, though the deluge had petered out after dusk, and the air was rich with the scent of damp earth and wet blossom. The house, built on the site of a once-powerful monastery, had fallen on hard times. Its stocky Tudor chimneys listed at odd angles, its roof sagged, and boards replaced the glass in many of its windows. Its grounds were in an equally sorry state. What had been a stately avenue of oaks was now a dismal tunnel of dead wood and ivy; the fish ponds had decayed into treacherous bogs, and the ornamental gardens were a chaotic sea of nettles, brambles and weeds.

Browne shuddered as he rode along the driveway. He was not an impressionable or a sensitive man – the long-suffering crew on his ship Rosebush could attest to that – but there was something eerie and forlorn about the house. When the wind whispered through the trees, Browne thought he could hear voices, and that they were those of long-dead medieval monks, hissing accusations and recriminations. He took a deep breath, pushing such fanciful notions from his mind, and turned his thoughts to the night’s business. What he was about to do was wildly dangerous, but he trusted his friend and fellow sea captain Dick York – and if York said it was important for him to meet the powerful shipping magnate William Hay, then that was good enough for Browne.

He jumped in alarm when an owl hooted nearby, and wished a more respectable time had been chosen for the assignation. Then he grinned at his own foolishness. That was impossible, given the subject that was to be aired – the hours of darkness were the only time for such treacherous transactions. The location was perfect too – this desolate, lonely, half-forgotten place that looked as though it was already full of brooding secrets. Browne considered what he had managed to find out about Bermondsey House before agreeing to the meeting.

William Hay did not own it – that honour went to some wealthy nobleman, who lived elsewhere and who never bothered to visit. Instead, it was rented to the Castell family, members of whom had been tenants for decades. Old Will Castell had been a talented shipwright, and he had originally leased the mansion as a statement of his commercial success. After his death, his fortune passed to his grandson, who promptly lost everything to his penchant for gambling. Creditors now snapped at the younger Castell’s heels, and Bermondsey House was falling into decay for want of basic maintenance. To make ends meet, Castell hired out his home to men like Hay, who paid handsomely for the privilege of conducting devious business away from prying eyes.

And if anyone did ask questions about what went on inside Bermondsey House, then there were always the ghosts to blame. Browne had been told tales involving ancient coroners, ex-Templar Knights, Oxford scholars and even the poet Chaucer, who had delved into dark matters involving murder, theft and deception. People were superstitious about the site and perfectly willing to attribute odd happenings to the shadowy world of spirits and demons.

Yet even so, Browne was uneasy. He had never met Hay or Castell and did not know if they could be trusted, so he had brought two sailors from Rosebush to protect him, should matters turn nasty. He did not trust them, either, if the truth be told. The navy had not been paid since the Restoration of the monarchy three years before, and the only men left in it were those incapable of getting decent work elsewhere. Browne glanced at the two men who jogged along beside his horse. He had chosen his cooper, Ned Walduck, and a big, stupid sailor called Tivill, both surly villains who knew how to fight. He was under no illusions regarding their loyalty to him, though – they had agreed to come only because he had promised them two shillings apiece. Browne had never bothered to make himself a popular captain – he believed that winning the affections of his men was a waste of time – and it was the money that would induce Walduck and Tivill to defend him, should the need arise that night.

He dismounted, tossing his reins to Tivill, and was about to knock on the front door when it was hauled open. The man who stood there was probably in his thirties, but a life of debauchery made him look older. He reeled drunkenly, a mass of courtly ruffles, collars and lace, as he slurred a welcome. Castell, thought Browne in distaste, the man who had squandered his inheritance on vices and pleasure. Behind Castell was an elderly, shabbily dressed crone who was smoking a pipe. At first he assumed she was a servant, but when she shoved her lantern into Castell’s hands and barked an order, Browne realized she must be Margaret, wife of the old shipwright and grandmother of the dissipated creature who tottered and grinned on the doorstep like a halfwit. Browne’s misgivings intensified. Could such folk be trusted? After all, treason was a capital offence. He looked around for evidence that York had arrived, but it was too dark to tell.