Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

Pynchon’s eyes grew heavy. He was sleepy from all he’d eaten and drunk, not to mention his recent bed-wrestling with that spirited wench. Pynchon drained his tankard, lurched to his feet and staggered out of the tavern, helped by his retainers, as he called them.

The linen draper made his way down Bread Street past the grim huddled figures crouching there rattling clacking dishes and whining for alms. Pynchon, as always, ignored them. He found the key to his house, opened the door and stumbled in. His swaggering bullies swept through the building. They reported all was well and retreated into the warm kitchen. Pynchon opened the door to the cellar. One of the guards came up behind him and made sure his master went carefully down the steps into the passageway. Sconce torches were lit. Pynchon reached the strong room, unlocked the door and took the lanthorn the guard had hastily prepared. Pynchon slurred his goodnights then locked and bolted the door from inside. He stood and ensured the heavy lock was turned and all four bolts were pulled firmly across. He staggered across to the table, put the lantern down and sat on a stool. He wrinkled his nose at the slight smell but gazed proudly at the comfortable cot bed, its mattress and bolster stuffed with the softest flock and covered with a gold, red-spangled counterpane. He leaned across and patted the arca, the heavy iron strongbox with its three locks. All was secure here. The cellar was of good brick and hard stone; even the timbers in the ceiling had been hidden under a thick coat of cement. A grille high in the wall let in air. He sniffed and shook his head. Perhaps he should air the room better and get rid of that strange smell. Then the draper rose and undressed, staggered on to the bed and drifted off to sleep. He awoke abruptly at what sounded like a footfall in the far corner, a sound of dripping as if there was a leak. He gazed into the darkness, mouth gaping at what looked like fireflies, one after the other, falling through the darkness. He staggered from the bed, his legs becoming tangled with the blankets. There was a sound like a rushing wind and Pynchon stared in horror at the flames which seemed to leap up from the floor. He grabbed a blanket and rushed to smother the fire. He slipped on the grease-covered floor and struggled wildly to get up even as the first searing flame licked his body. Screaming, Pynchon clambered to his feet. He stumbled towards the door but he had taken the key out and the bolts were drawn fully across. Screeching in pain, Pynchon collapsed to his knees as a sheet of fire engulfed him.

Athelstan joined Cranston in Bread Street as the angelus bell rang its message. The friar had risen early to clear St Erconwald’s and ensure Merrylegs senior was laid to rest according to the rites of the Holy Mother Church. The corpse had been removed to the parish death house suitably draped with black serge. Just after dawn, the women of the family gathered to wash the cadaver with perfumed water. Afterwards they anointed it with a little balsam, placed it in a linen shroud, sheathed it in a fresh deerskin and carefully stowed it in the parish coffin draped in a black pall with a silver cross sewn in the centre. The coffin was solemnly conveyed to rest on trestles in the sanctuary. The requiem Mass was celebrated. The coffin was blessed before being carried out in solemn procession to the far corner of God’s Acre. Athelstan committed the corpse of Merrylegs senior to the ground. ‘Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, in joyful hope of the Resurrection.’ Athelstan performed the rites amidst gusts of incense. He was surprised at how many attended, including Fulchard of Richmond, as well as how serenely matters proceeded. Parish funerals were usually a time of chaos, the wrong grave being dug or, as the last time, Watkin had become so drunk he’d followed the coffin into the ground and had to be hauled out with ropes.

Cranston’s messenger, Tiptoft, had arrived just as they were leaving the cemetery, begging the friar to join Sir John in Bread Street, where ‘Another horrid murder has occurred.’ Athelstan now waited outside Thomas Pynchon’s house as bailiffs cleared the cellar strong room as well as purging the pungent smoke fumes. Athelstan, threading Ave beads through his fingers, stared down this prosperous street. He was always fascinated at the contrasts in human life. Two houses away maids and slatterns were waging their ceaseless war against fleas and bedbugs. On windowsills, tranchers of stale bread, covered with turpentine and birdlime with a lighted tallow candle in the middle, were being laid out to attract and kill such irritants. Chamber pots and jakes jugs were being emptied into the sewer. The different smells of houses, being opened to the day, mingled with those more savoury odours from nearby pie shops and pastry stalls. Athelstan sighed – such commonplace things, yet in Pynchon’s house gruesome murder had been perpetrated.

‘Brother, we can go in now.’ Cranston pulled down the muffler of his cloak and they followed Flaxwith into the house. The place reeked of fire and smoke. Athelstan and Cranston used rags soaked in vinegar to cover nose and mouth as they made their way carefully down to the cellar strong room.

‘Look at it!’ Athelstan gasped. ‘Apart from the furniture, everything is fashioned out of stone. Wooden beams and pillars are hidden under thick layers of cement, yet it would prove no defence for Pynchon. In fact, it became a trap where he was burnt to death.’ Athelstan looked around. The chamber was like a spent furnace. All the contents, except for the great iron arca, had been reduced to crumbling shards or feathery ash which floated through the air, carried by the still-curling tendrils of smoke. The whitewashed walls were blackened as was the crumbling cement over the roof beams. The friar walked back to the door, badly damaged by the fire. He noted the stout lock and heavy bolts. The stench was still intense. Cranston and Flaxwith were coughing so Athelstan insisted they leave, going up into the kitchen where the pathetic remains of the draper were laid out on a canvas sheet. The fire had been merciless. Pynchon was nothing but a blackened, twisted lump of charred flesh and bone. The face was unrecognizable; the bone grey with hardening nodules of fat. Athelstan swiftly recited the last rites, overcoming his feeling of nausea. He anointed what remained of the head, hands and feet with holy oil. He then pulled back the heavy horse blanket to cover the remains and followed Cranston and Flaxwith into the comfortable well-furnished solar.

‘What and how?’ Athelstan abruptly asked, accepting Sir John’s offer of the miraculous wineskin. He took a deep gulp, swilling the rich wine around his mouth to get rid of the taste of smoke and burning.

‘Pynchon,’ Cranston replied, taking back the wineskin, ‘was foreman of the jury which convicted Lady Isolda. He was very proud of what he had done and made no attempt to hide his glee at the verdict he and the others brought in. Once the murders started, he hired guards and moved to this strong room.’

‘They are now very common,’ Flaxwith declared, glancing down to where Samson crouched, tethered to a table leg. The mastiff held a piece of parchment between his jaws, something he always did. ‘All along Cheapside, Poultry and the rest,’ Flaxwith declared, ‘they are buying swords, hiring dogs and, when the revolt comes, they will hide in their strong rooms.’

‘And Pynchon died in his,’ Athelstan declared. ‘So what actually happened?’

‘He returned home last night deep in his cups,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘His guards saw him safely down to the cellar. They heard him lock the door, withdraw the key and pull across the four heavy bolts.’

‘And the grille high in the wall?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Fashioned by a master mason out of a hard rock, or so I am informed. It has square gaps for the air to seep through.’