The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he clambered across the corpse, aiming for the darkness on the other side. Strutt was right about the smell. It was not a pleasant thing to be doing, and Chaloner started to sweat, despite the chill of the vault. He was half-tempted to give up and opt for concocting some story instead, because there was a limit to what a man should be expected to do for his country, and climbing around on corpses was well past it. But then he was across the body, and into the space on its far side. It took only a moment for him to realize he was in luck: the shelf was an especially deep one, and he supposed it had been built to hold more than one coffin.

He slithered to the very back of the recess not a moment too soon, because there was a flash of light and Hay approached with a lamp. Parr pushed aside the cobwebs, and he and Strutt tugged the corpse from its hiding place. Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but the three men were hurrying, eager to finish the distasteful business, and did not bother to inspect the back of the niche once the body was out. Hay produced a blanket, and Parr and Strutt wrapped the corpse in it. As they began to haul their burden out of the crypt, the sheet fell open and Hay’s lantern illuminated the dead man’s face. It was the sailor, Tivill.

His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner followed the three men, wanting to see what they would do with the body. He was grateful that he had not taken the letter from the wall, given that Hay had been expecting to find it – the conspirators were already suspicious of ‘Captain Garsfield’, and Chaloner did not want to give them further cause for alarm. Strutt and Parr carried Tivill up the main stairs and towards the nearest trees, while Hay kept watch. Fortunately for Chaloner, Hay was more concerned about being seen from the windows of Bermondsey House than being followed from the vault, because he did not once glance in the spy’s direction. Thus, even though the moon shone in a cloudless sky, it was absurdly easy for Chaloner to trail the bobbing lamp to the wood and then edge through the trees until he could see and hear what was happening.

But he could have spared himself the effort, because he learned nothing new. Strutt dug a hasty grave, Parr intoned some insincere prayers, and Hay kept watch. Then all three left without another word. When they had gone, Chaloner scraped the loose soil from Tivill’s face. He was not good at determining time of death, but he was sure Tivill had not died in April, when Browne had been murdered and Walduck hanged. Tivill was dead days rather than weeks. So how and when had the sailor met his end? And, more important, why?

A quick inspection revealed a soggy dent at the back of Tivill’s head, consistent with a blow from something heavy, perhaps a stone. So, Chaloner thought, Tivill had been killed in the same way as his captain. But what would Tivill have been doing at Bermondsey House in the first place? Had he come to wreak revenge on the men who had seen his shipmate wrongfully executed? Chaloner immediately discounted the notion of Tivill as an avenging angel – he had not been that sort of man and would not have cared what happened to Walduck. It was more likely that he had come to demand money for his silence – and had been killed when Hay and his associates had been disinclined to oblige.

Chaloner wondered what he should do next. His first inclination was to go straight to White Hall and tell Spymaster Williamson what was happening. Williamson would muster troops and catch the rebels in the very act of fermenting their plot as they gathered in the crypt. Unfortunately, it was a long way from Bermondsey to White Hall, and London Bridge would be closed for the night. By the time he had bribed his way across, located Williamson, convinced the spymaster that Hay’s cabal was worth the expense and effort of raising a militia, the meeting would be over and the plotters dispersed. So Chaloner decided to stay, attend the meeting and see what more he could learn.

He judged he still had about an hour until midnight, so he elected to spend the time constructively. He returned to the cupboard where the gunpowder was stored and helped himself to a barrel. He tugged it down the tunnel to the crypt and placed it in the niche that had held Tivill. Carefully, he broke the seal and scattered a few handfuls in front of the cask, then added a layer of kindling he had filched from the pantry. He hoped his precautions would not be necessary and that he would be able to eavesdrop on the gathering without the need for fireworks. But he had not survived so many years in an occupation fraught with danger by being careless. Satisfied that he had done all he could to even the odds, he made his way back to his room.

Once there, he donned the hooded cloak Margaret had left on the back of the door, ensured there were no telltale cobwebs on his clothes and went to collect York. Unfortunately, the captain had not imbibed nearly enough to be insensible, as Chaloner had hoped. Like many habitual drinkers, that took time – far more time than York had been allotted that night.

‘They are suspicious of us,’ the captain snarled, hauling Chaloner inside his chamber. ‘They know you are not who you say, especially after that business with the up-roll. Thank God Margaret piped up with a brag! We should leave while we can, or Browne will not be the only one with a dented skull.’

‘Did you know that cannon fire had rendered Walduck hard of hearing?’ asked Chaloner, declining to tell him about Tivill’s fate.

York gazed at him. ‘Did it? He never said so. Perhaps that was why he never heard the stone strike Browne. Strutt says he did, and he was further away, so there must have been a very loud crack.’

‘Is there anything else you might have overlooked?’ asked Chaloner a little caustically. York was a navy man and should have known about the effects of persistent gunfire on a sailor’s ears.

York nodded. ‘I did not want to say anything when Hannah was listening, but Walduck hated Browne more than she knows. There was a question about the allocation of some prize money, and Walduck thought he had been cheated. He had not, of course. Browne was not a dishonest man.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, recalling that scrupulousness with money had been one of Browne’s few redeeming qualities. ‘Do you think Walduck’s hatred was enough to lead him to murder?’

York nodded again. ‘But he would have plied his sword, not a stone. And do not forget the two shillings he was promised – that is a lot of money to a man who has not been paid for three years. Even if Walduck did have murder in mind, he would have waited until the coins were in his pocket.’

‘What did Tivill do when Walduck was arrested?’

York stared at him, trying to understand the implications of the question. He failed, so gave up with a shrug. ‘Nothing. Hay took Walduck to the Marshalsea prison, but Walduck later told me he thought they were going to make a report to the coroner and was shocked when he learned he was accused of murder.’

‘So he went willingly to the gaol?’

‘Yes – he made a fuss only when he realized what was really happening, at which point he killed a warden. Meanwhile, Tivill also went to the prison, but Hay said he made himself scarce when the soldiers laid hold of Walduck. I have not seen him since, and he did not give evidence at the trial, although an order was issued for him to appear as a witness. He is probably at sea.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Chaloner, supposing that a voyage would explain why Tivill, like York himself, had only recently returned to the place of Browne’s death. He had secured a berth that took him safely away from London and accusations of helping Walduck commit his crime. Then later, when his fear had abated, he had slipped back to Bermondsey House in the hope of securing some blackmail money.