The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

He touched a wall, marvelling at the quality of the work that had gone into its making, because although the stones were stained with the filth of ages, their edges were sharp and clear. As soon as his fingers brushed against the stone, a chill enveloped him, deeper and colder than the temperature of the chamber, and he was unable to prevent a shudder. There was something dark and sinister about the cellar, as though it had witnessed more than its share of evil deeds.

He shook himself impatiently – he did not have time for ghosts – and began a systematic search. Old barrels indicated that the undercroft had been used as a wine store at some point, while several desiccated rats suggested that grain or food had probably been kept there too. Marks in the walls and along the ceiling showed where partitions had once stood, dividing the chamber into smaller segments. Now, though, the cellar was just one large vault, full of shadows and eerie pockets where the light of his candle did not penetrate. He began to think of ghosts again, and the tales Hannah had related about old bones and murder. He took a deep breath and pushed such notions from his mind a second time.

He ventured further into the vault. Benches had been placed in the middle of the chamber, where another torch was burning. He was about to leave by way of the main steps when echoing footsteps told him someone was coming – fast. There was just enough time for him to snuff out his candle and dive into the shadows before the man arrived. Chaloner held his breath, certain he was going to be caught and not sure what excuse he could give to explain his presence there.

But the newcomer did not so much as glance in Chaloner’s direction. Wearing a hooded cloak, so nothing could be seen of his face, he hurried to the tunnel end of the chamber and began scratching at the top of the wall. It was not long before a piece of masonry came out in his hands. Chaloner watched him insert something in the resulting gap, replace the brick, and leave as quickly as he had arrived.

When he had gone, Chaloner padded forward to inspect the wall. It was different from the rest of the crypt – it bulged outwards, indicating that the work had been carried out hastily, without the care that had been lavished on the rest of the cellar. Its crumbling mortar said it was ancient, even so. Chaloner removed the stone and retrieved what had been placed there.

It was a letter addressed to Joseph Williamson. Chaloner gazed at it in surprise. Williamson was spymaster-general – the man in charge of the government’s intelligence services. The message was in cipher, which Chaloner could certainly have broken given time, but not in a matter of moments. He considered keeping it, but was afraid its absence might warn someone that something was amiss. Reluctantly, he put it back.

He was about to leave when he heard voices. More people were coming, although they were approaching at a more leisurely pace than the hooded man. Chaloner doubted he would go unnoticed a second time and did not want to be caught snooping quite so early in the game. He assessed his options. He could not leave through the tunnel or by the steps, because he would almost certainly be seen, while the only furniture to hide behind were benches – useless for the purpose. He glanced at the coffin-shaped niches. It was distasteful, but it was better than being caught.

Careful not to disturb the cobwebs that would help to conceal him, he crawled into one of the holes. He was hard pressed to keep himself from exclaiming his shock when he discovered someone else already there – and that the person was dead.

There was not much Chaloner could do, except shove the corpse deeper into the niche and lie hard up against it. He held his breath when the odour of decay wafted around him, concluding that the fellow had been dead for some time.

Three men entered the crypt – yellow-wigged Hay, Preacher Parr and Strutt the purser. The shipping magnate went straight to the wall and removed the loose stone. He shoved the document in his pocket and deftly replaced the brick. He did not so much as glance at what he had retrieved, indicating he had expected to find something there. Chaloner was confused. Had Hay taken the message because he intended to pass it to Spymaster Williamson? Or was he claiming it before the author could expose him? Of course, that assumed the document pertained to the brewing rebellion, and it was possible that it did nothing of the kind.

‘Are you sure we are doing the right thing?’ asked Strutt, clearly unhappy. ‘It feels dangerous, and you know what they do to traitors these days.’

‘We are not traitors,’ said Hay firmly. ‘We are men who want justice and equity – especially in matters relating to commerce. What is wrong with that?’

‘I doubt the law courts will see it in those terms,’ said Strutt miserably. ‘But I am in no position to argue. I was destitute after Browne forced me to resign from the navy and would have been hanged or be in debtors’ prison if you two had not offered me work.’

‘ God provided for you,’ said Parr righteously. ‘Not men. And He will help us fight His holy war against corruption, greed and the devil. And by the devil I mean the government.’

‘Do not include greed in your list of vices,’ said Hay with a wry grin. ‘I want to make a greater profit from my wharves, and some would call that greed, so watch what you condemn.’

‘I am a soldier of God,’ announced the preacher in a way that should have told Hay not to try jesting with him. ‘I shall combat sin wherever I find it – and sinners too.’

‘What is in the letter this time, Hay?’ asked Strutt, hastily changing the subject. Only men with plenty of time on their hands embarked on religious debates with zealots like Parr. ‘Can you read it?’

‘It will be encoded. They always are – and they take me hours to decipher.’

‘We should move that body before the others arrive,’ said Strutt practically. ‘It is beginning to smell – and York’s friend asked too many questions earlier. I do not trust him, and we do not want a peculiar odour encouraging him to pry more deeply into our affairs.’

‘I am sure he did wander off earlier,’ said the preacher, reluctantly dragging his thoughts away from his personal crusade against evil. ‘I cannot prove it – indeed, he did lock himself in from the inside, as he claimed – but I knocked very hard. No one sleeps that soundly.’

‘He is a sea captain,’ explained Hay. Parr regarded him uncomprehendingly, so he elaborated with an impatient sigh. ‘Ships’ cannon destroy a man’s ears if he hears them too often, as happened to Walduck. York is stupid not to have guessed that was why Walduck failed to object to our accusations – he did not hear them until after he was arrested.’

‘And by then it was too late,’ said Strutt rather gleefully.

Chaloner was horrified. Not only had an innocent man been hanged, but one who had been injured in the service of his country. The injustice of it made him all the more determined to learn the truth.

‘Garsfield did not seem hard of hearing to me,’ said Parr doubtfully. Then he shrugged, and a fervent gleam lit his eyes. ‘But I am not really worried about him, because God will ensure all is well. I petitioned Him earlier, and He is unlikely to refuse the demands of one of His most ardent servants. Shall we move the body now? We may not be alone for long, because our members are impatient for news of our achievements and may arrive early.’

Chaloner stiffened as their footsteps tapped towards him. Now what? He doubted he could invent a reason for being there that would be believed, and discovery would mean the end of his plan to unmask the traitors. It occurred to him that he could climb across the body and hide on its other side, but the hole would be too shallow, and he would be seen anyway. Or would he? Earlier, he had noticed that some of the niches were very deep, built to hold sizeable sarcophagi. Perhaps there was a chance that it might be large enough to conceal him.