The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘But Browne was hit by a rock,’ objected York. ‘I saw the fatal wound myself.’

‘Yes, he was hit,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But by someone bringing it down hard across his head, not by a lucky toss. That means he was killed by someone physically close to him. Walduck.’

‘Walduck would have used his sword,’ said York stubbornly. ‘I know he would.’

But Chaloner understood why the cooper had not bloodied his blade. ‘Strutt said a piece of masonry dropped from the roof not long before Browne was killed. It seems to me that Walduck saw it, too, and it gave him what he thought was a clever idea – blaming Browne’s death on an accident.’

York gazed at him. ‘Walduck was dull-witted, but he did possess an innate cunning; such a notion might well have jumped into his mind. That would explain why he did not run away – he thought no one would be able to prove anything. He virtually said as much when I questioned him later.’

Chaloner felt weary. ‘So the case is solved. The right man was hanged after all.’

A crafty look came into York’s eye. ‘Then we should go and tell Hannah-’

Chaloner grabbed his arm as he started to head for the door. ‘Browne’s murder pales into insignificance when compared with what Hay and his cronies are doing. There is gunpowder in a cellar, and you told me yourself that muskets have been shipped to London. We cannot go anywhere until we have learned what they intend to do.’

‘Then you can tell your friends at White Hall tomorrow. This is work for a militia, not us.’

‘Hay will deny our accusations, and he is a wealthy merchant with powerful friends. We need proof of his treason, and we are not leaving until we have it. So far, all we have is what you claim to have heard at his gatherings.’ Chaloner did not add that no spymaster was going to take the word of a captain with a penchant for wine over that of an influential merchant.

York looked as though he was going to argue further, but his mouth snapped shut when footsteps sounded from along the hall. Chaloner grimaced in exasperation when York immediately ducked into an alcove. Such antics were unnecessary, because they were supposed – expected – to be heading for the gathering. He was about to order York out, when Strutt approached. The purser seemed even more ill at ease and agitated than York, and Chaloner wondered yet again whether he was as comfortable with rebellion as he let Hay believe.

‘There you are, Garsfield,’ Strutt said in a voice that shook. ‘I shall show you the way to our meeting place, as this is your first time. You go first. I will follow.’

Chaloner knew instantly that something was amiss. He pretended to acquiesce, then spun around without warning. Strutt leaped in alarm at the sudden movement, and the dagger that had been poised to strike clattered to the floor. Strutt began to back away, moving unknowingly towards the place where York hid. The purser took a breath to shout for help, but York reacted with startling speed. Strutt’s yell turned into a peculiar gasping sound, and when he sank to his knees York’s knife was protruding from his back.

‘That was unnecessary,’ hissed Chaloner angrily. ‘Now what are we going to do? If anyone finds the body before the meeting, they will know exactly who killed him.’

York glared. ‘He was going to stab you! Besides, I am not sorry for ridding the world of that vermin. He caused Browne and the crew of Rosebush all manner of hardship with his dishonesty, and then he accused Browne of being a liar when he objected to the thievery. Strutt was a snake!’

Chaloner opened the door to the nearest secret passage and hauled the purser’s body inside, hoping the corridor was not one Hay and his accomplices would use – at least not until Chaloner had made his report to Spymaster Williamson. With York still voicing his reservations, Chaloner walked quickly down the stairs towards the hall. Then he saw a shadow near the pantry and stopped abruptly, motioning York to be silent.

‘Garsfield will not be coming to the gathering tonight,’ Hay was saying in a low voice to Parr. ‘Strutt is taking care of him and will join us when the matter is resolved.’

The preacher was uneasy. ‘You should have asked me to do it. Strutt is weak and does not listen to the voice of God inside him, telling him what to do.’

‘Garsfield is not expecting a blade between the ribs,’ said Hay wryly. ‘Even Strutt should be able to manage that – regardless of whether God does or does not think it a good idea.’

Parr grimaced at the comment but apparently knew better than to argue. ‘He told me today that you killed Tivill. Did you?’

‘No!’ cried Hay, startled. ‘I dispatched a pair of merchants who threatened to expose us, but that is the extent of my dabbling in such dark affairs. Besides, I would never use a stone. It would make a mess, and wigs as handsome as this one are expensive.’

‘Well, someone made an end of Tivill,’ said Parr. ‘And it was not me, either. It is the traitor in our midst.’

‘Can it be York?’ asked Hay. ‘ He was the one who brought Garsfield into our fold, and – as I told you earlier – my source at the Admiralty tells me there is no captain called Garsfield in the navy.’

‘My instincts tell me York is not sufficiently courageous to take us on,’ said the preacher thoughtfully. ‘It must be someone else – someone who used York to bring Garsfield into our midst. Well, it will not work, because God walks at my side, and He will see this villain dance on the point of my dagger before the night is out.’

‘Good,’ said Hay fiercely. ‘So we are agreed, then? Tonight we will tell our associates that one of them is a traitor to our cause? They will not like it.’

‘We have no choice. It is the only way to flush the vermin out.’

Chaloner and a reluctant York joined the procession of cloaked men who walked silently to the east wing of Bermondsey House and down the steep steps to the cellar. Some of the conspirators carried torches, and it occurred to Chaloner that the hooded figures with the loose garments swinging about their ankles bore an uncanny resemblance to the monks whose foundation had been dissolved more than a century before. They had been processing to their prayers; Bermondsey House’s guests were going to plot the end of His Majesty’s government.

‘You are a fool,’ muttered York in Chaloner’s ear as he navigated the treacherous steps. ‘You heard Hay – he has killed before, and admits it freely. He thinks I am harmless, but you are doomed if he or the preacher see you now.’

Chaloner ignored him, not wanting to discuss the matter where they might be overheard. He took a place near the back of the crypt, York at his side, and watched other men sit on the benches in front of them. Hoods meant it was impossible to see faces, and no one spoke once they were seated. The cellar cast an instant and unsettling chill over the gathering, and York was not the only one trembling.

Hay closed the door when everyone was inside, and Chaloner watched uneasily as he sealed it with a bar. He was taking no chances of anyone coming un-announced and uninvited to the gathering – or of anyone escaping. He was the only one who did not bother with a hooded cloak.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, going to stand at the front of the assembly, near the wall where the encoded letter had been left. ‘You know why we are here, so I shall not waste your time with preliminaries. Does anyone have anything to report?’

‘There is going to be a new tax on wool,’ called a man from the front row. When he raised his head to speak, Chaloner glimpsed a long nose. ‘And there is talk of it being extended to cloth – to reimburse the navy’s unpaid sailors, allegedly.’