Paul Doherty - The Book of Fires

‘Let’s examine that.’

Flaxwith led them out into the garden ringed by a red curtain wall. The garden lay frozen and bleak in the vice-like grip of a winter’s morning. Herb plots, flower beds and the patches of grass were all crusted white. The smell of burning hung heavy here. Flaxwith took them over to the grille just above the level of the hard, packed soil. Athelstan crouched down to examine it. The air holes were small, no more than an inch square. Satisfied, Athelstan returned to the strong room. Flaxwith fetched a ladder and Athelstan climbed up to inspect the grille from the inside. He came down shaking his head.

‘How did it all occur?’ Cranston asked. ‘Surely the Ignifer would create noise, I mean, the entire chamber set alight?’

Athelstan stood, fingers to his lips, staring up at the grille before making his way into the darkened far corner beneath it. He closed his eyes and thought of the grille. How could a liquid be poured through it? He opened his eyes and smiled as he recalled a tapster draining a cask of wine by inserting a tube and sucking on the end to draw up the dregs. Or a boy with a set of bellows, and the games he and the other urchins used to play with each other. They would fill the bellows with water then squeeze out a hard spurt through the metal tube on the end.

‘That’s what happened here,’ he declared.

‘What did, Brother?’

‘Oh, there’s only one way the Greek fire entered this room, and that’s through the grille. Think of a set of bellows, Sir John, with a tip which could fit through one of those gaps, its bags full of oil. The Ignifer simply stuck the metal end into a hole in the grille and gently squeezed the oil so it ran down the wall on to the floor. Pynchon made a most grievous mistake. I am sure he boasted about his strong room and so drew attention to it. The Ignifer would climb the garden wall, observe the grille and plan accordingly. He would keep Pynchon under strict observation and await his opportunity. Our linen-draper left his house last night deserted and returned deep in his cups.’ Athelstan indicated with his head. ‘The Ignifer gained entrance to the garden under the cover of night and squeezed in the oil. Pynchon returns, he is tired, drunk, and the far corner of this chamber is shrouded in darkness. He is unaware of what is happening. Perhaps he smells the oil or, if it was odourless, the reek from its container, but that does not alert him. Outside the assassin waits, quietly watching that grille. He sees the glow of lantern-light, hears the lock being turned, the bolts pulled, all the sounds of his drunken victim preparing for the night. The Ignifer then returns to his task: more Greek fire is poured through the grille. Pynchon may have heard it but it’s too late, he is trapped. One or more slender, lighted tapers, small glowing pieces of wax, are pushed through the gaps. Think of a needle with a fire on the end. Pynchon is alerted but the sparks fall. The oil is ignited. Greek fire blazes swiftly and greedily up. Remember the recent attack on us, Sir John, how speedily those flames leapt as if they had a life of their own?’

‘But the smell?’

‘Sir John, this is true Greek fire. I suspect it is both colourless and odourless. Again, after the attack on us, I knelt down to pray for that poor man. I also picked up a shard of the pot the killer had used which was not caught up in the fire. I smelt it. I could detect virtually nothing. As I’ve said, the only odour might come from the container it was kept in. Anyway, Sir John, I suspect that’s what happened to poor Pynchon.’

‘Rumour flies faster than a sparrow,’ Cranston observed. ‘The gossips maintain the fire comes from Hell. God’s judgement on those responsible for sending an innocent woman to her death. Already there are grumblings in the Commons about the justice of this, how the entire case should be reviewed.’

‘No, no, Sir John. This was not the work of an angel or demon.’ Athelstan led the coroner out of the cellar. ‘Trust me, all of this is down to sheer human wickedness.’ He paused. ‘We’ll resolve this as we always do, by careful examination, logic and evidence. To do that we have to talk. We are in the city, so I think it’s time we visited the Minoresses in their convent.’

They left Bread Street, making their way towards the Tower. A freezing cold day though the sun was welcoming enough. They tramped through the icy sludge, keeping a wary eye on what was underfoot as well as the low-hanging signs and the upper casement windows from which chambermaids threw all kinds of filth. A relic-seller, garbed completely in horse skin, his antlered head covered by a scarlet cloth, offered the teeth of Goliath from his tomb in a miraculous cave overlooking the Dead Sea. Cranston told him to shove off, but the macabre sight made Athelstan reflect on the miracle at St Erconwald’s. He ruefully conceded that neither he nor Master Tuddenham had found anything to create even a reasonable doubt. The Ignifer was a different matter, bereft of any proof or evidence. So far that assassin had struck at least four times with deadly effect. Three of his victims were simply caught out in the street, an easy enough task. Athelstan glimpsed a maid carrying a bucket towards him, on a nearby doorpost a lantern still glowed. How swift would it be, the friar asked himself, for the maid to throw the contents of her bucket over someone, grasp the candle from the lantern and hurl it at her victim? Trudging slightly behind the wine-swigging coroner, Athelstan estimated it would take no more time than to recite an Ave or a paternoster. The Ignifer’s first three attacks had counted on surprise but the assault on Pynchon had been more cleverly planned. Apparently the draper had confidently proclaimed how he was securely protected; that had now been exposed as an empty boast. Pynchon lay dead, one further horror following the execution of the Lady Isolda. The Ignifer was proving to be very cunning. He might not strike at all of those involved in Isolda’s condemnation and execution, nevertheless he had created a world of deep dread for anyone who had anything to fear. Athelstan thumbed his Ave beads. He could not enter the soul of the killer. He suspected that like some hungry wolf sloping through the undergrowth, the Ignifer would lie low for a while, let peace descend and strike again. Lifting his head, Athelstan glimpsed a courier hastening through the streets carrying his white wand of office, garbed in the splendid tabard of the House of Lancaster. John of Gaunt, Athelstan reflected, was also deeply involved in Isolda’s burning. Would the Ignifer strike at him? But how and when? In the meantime, the assassin would spread his miasma of fear, a veritable mist provoking all forms of dire threats and menaces.

Athelstan broke from his reverie. Cranston was bellowing at two apprentices from a nearby smithy who were hurling pieces of charcoal at each other. His shouts and the ugly muttering of others drove the sooty-faced imps back into the smithy. They walked on. Athelstan’s attention was caught by an itinerant preacher garbed like St Christopher, or so he proclaimed, as he warned about the ‘foul, bubbling stew of corruption of the city, rich with murderous misdeeds and all forms of wickedness’. Athelstan quietly agreed with the words. He felt uneasy, as if they were being watched and shadowed, though he could not detect anything amiss. They reached St Andrew’s Cornhill, a veritable haven for felons, a dark den of thieves, apple squires, nips and foists. Cranston was immediately recognized. Insults were hurled, followed by clods of icy filth. Cranston drew both sword and dagger and the danger receded. They went up Aldgate towards the imposing entrance to the Minoresses. Just before the great double-barred gate, Cranston plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and pointed to a large life-like statue of the Virgin half-stooped over an empty cradle. Beside the statue hung a bell under its coping, a red tug rope dangled down to lie curled in the empty cradle.