Paul Doherty - Candle Flame

‘If I stand here within the doorway and lean forward,’ Athelstan did so using the pole to bang on the door of Scrope’s former chamber, ‘that was the knocking heard on the morning of Scrope’s murder, though no one was seen in the gallery. Master Thorne,’ Athelstan pointed at the taverner held securely by the crossbow men, ‘you did that. You unlocked this chamber and used it to lure Scrope to his death. You knocked on his door with this pole which you later left when you fled. Scrope first used the eyelet but saw no one. By then you’d swiftly closed the door to this chamber. Scrope walked away. Again the knocking. Scrope, already agitated and holding his vademecum , the pilgrim book on Glastonbury, hastens back. He opens the door and sees you standing here, hidden in the threshold of this chamber with an arbalest primed and ready. You are swifter than he. You loose and the quarrel strikes Scrope here.’ Athelstan tapped himself high in the chest. ‘Scrope staggers back. He is dying but the full shock of the attack has not yet had its effect. Scrope hastily closed the door, locking and bolting it. I later detected faint stains of dried blood on both lock and bolt. Scrope finally slumps to the floor. I cannot say if he meant this or it was just an act of chance, or perhaps divine providence, but Scrope died with the vademecum open on the page which lists the famous lists of Glastonbury. Amongst them, the Spina Sacra .’

‘The Holy Thorn,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A play on our taverner’s name.’

‘I think so but,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the actual details I cannot say. Perhaps Scrope had enjoyed the pun before. I suspect he deliberately opened it on that page during those last few heartbeats of his life.’

‘Impossible!’ Thorne protested. Nonetheless, Athelstan could see the sheer desperation in the taverner’s eyes only deepened by the shrill cries of his wife which rang chillingly through the tavern.

‘If Scrope was struck he would have died instantly …’

‘Come now, Master Thorne,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have served in France and so have I and Sir John. Men, mortally wounded, may continue to act as if nothing had happened. Sometimes this can last as long as it would take to recite ten Aves. Some mortal wounds are instant; others afford a brief respite.’

‘I’ve seen that,’ one of the crossbowmen interjected. ‘I’ve seen it on more than one occasion.’

‘Even men who have lost a hand or arm,’ another added.

‘And so have I,’ Athelstan declared, ‘very recently. Lascelles received a crossbow bolt here, high in the chest. He still continued to walk forward almost unaware of his wound. Only a second crossbow bolt which struck him deep in his head brought him down. Physician Scrope, clutching that document, certainly had enough time to turn a key, draw a bolt and fumble for a page before collapsing. The poor man didn’t realize he was dying, so intent was he on protecting himself against further attack and trying to leave some sign as to whom his assailant had been. Finally,’ Athelstan pointed to the chamber opposite Scrope’s, ‘on the morning in question you had to unlock that: you used it as your murder place then hastily locked it again and,’ he gestured at the nearby stairs, ‘hurried up those, along the gallery above then down to act all busy in the taproom. Only you, Master Taverner, had the means to do that, no one else.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Sir John, we are finished here.’

Cranston closed the doors to both chambers and ordered Thorne to be taken back to the Dark Parlour. Once again they had to pass Mistress Eleanor, who could only stretch out her arms and cry pityingly. Thorne’s deepening agitation was so intense that when they entered the Dark Parlour, Sir John ordered the taverner to be bound, whilst two of the crossbow men, with weapons primed, were ordered to stay with them.

‘Ronseval was killed just as swiftly,’ Athelstan continued, retaking his seat, ‘once you had lured him to his death. Some of this I cannot prove; I admit it is only conjecture, though it’s logical. Ronseval and Hornsey trusted you. I have demonstrated why. Now, on the night of the murders, Hornsey saw something, or guessed something but then fled. No one knows what he told Ronseval but the very fact that Hornsey had been out on the Palisade meant that he had to die and so had his lover. Ronseval, the sensitive but terrified troubadour, was easy prey. He was searching for his lover. You – Thorne – promised to help. You told him to pack all his possessions, slip out of the tavern and meet you along that lonely stretch of the Thames. Ronseval did so, walking causally towards you, only to receive his death wound.’

‘I was elsewhere the night he was killed!’ Thorne yelled.

‘Who informed you he was killed at night?’ Athelstan countered. ‘Where were you that night? You did leave the tavern. I want the times, the places and witnesses.’

Thorne kept his head down. Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Sir John, excuse me. I need to fetch something.’ The friar pointed at the two crossbowmen. ‘Whilst I am gone you are to allow no one into this room except me.’ Cranston grunted; the two guards nodded in agreement. ‘Only me,’ the friar repeated and left. Cranston, mystified, glared at the door then shifted his gaze to Thorne. The coroner was convinced, as would any jury before King’s Bench, that Thorne was guilty of the most malicious murder. He was also a traitor because those he had slain were Crown officials, whilst the treasure had been stolen from the king. If that was the case, Thorne would be condemned to a most terrifying death here at the scene of his crimes. An execution platform would be set up in the Palisade. The Southwark Carnifex, together with his assistants, would carry out all the horrors of the legal punishment for treason. Thorne would be dragged on a hurdle from the Bocardo. He would be stripped, his body carefully painted to indicate where the executioner would plunge his knife. He would be half-hanged before being slit from throat to crotch, his belly opened, his entrails plucked out and burnt before his still-seeing eyes … Cranston’s reverie was broken by an insistent rapping at the door. He gestured at one of the crossbow men to answer it. The soldier pulled down the eyelet, grunted and swung the door open. Cranston glanced up. He immediately wondered why Athelstan had drawn his cowl over his head, then stared in disbelief as the cowl was pushed back to reveal the smiling face of one of the guards outside.

‘What on earth …’ Cranston roared. The crossbowmen were now laughing.

‘Peace, Sir John,’ Athelstan declared as he swept back into the room. Thorne, who had watched all this, just slumped in defeat. Athelstan thanked the guard and once the door closed behind him, retook his seat.

‘I have just demonstrated how Hornsey, a veteran soldier, a cunning man, was killed. He took sanctuary in St Erconwald’s. He thought he would be safe there. Perhaps his close proximity to me was a silent threat to you, Thorne. He sat in the mercy enclave. I retired to my house and the night wore on. Hornsey had no reason to leave and believed he was safe. He hears a knock on the door, leading from the sacristy to God’s Acre. He goes to answer, pulls back the eyelet and sees a Dominican standing there, head down, cowl pulled over, which is understandable as the night was very cold. Hornsey makes a most hideous mistake. He thinks it’s me. He draws the bolt, opens the door and you release the crossbow bolt, which sends him staggering back to collapse in the sacristy. You then flee. I’ve said this before and I will say it again: friars can walk the streets of Southwark in safety,’ Athelstan smiled grimly, ‘and in the dark I suppose we are like cats – one looks very much like another. Nobody would accost you.’