Suddenly there was a drumming of feet on the stairs outside and Mallow burst into the room, his face white as a sheet. For a while he just stood there trembling, then he came forward like a dream-walker.
'Sir Edward,' he muttered, 'you'd best come. All of you!'
Benjamin sprang to his feet and grasped Mallow's hand. 'It's as cold as ice!' he exclaimed. He forced the man to sit down on the chair and thrust the wine cup to his lips. 'Drink, man!' Mallow blinked.
'Come on, drink!' Benjamin fairly poured the wine into the fellow's mouth.
Mallow coughed and shook himself. 'It's Horehound,' he whispered. He stood up, swaying slightly. ‘You must come!'
‘Well never make sense out of him!' Vetch snapped. He grasped Mallow by the jerkin. 'Where is Horehound?'
The cellar,' Mallow muttered. The death cellar in Beauchamp Tower.'
'It's where the execution block and axe are kept,' Vetch explained.
And, leaving Mallow, we all left the room. Outside, on the green, the news of something dreadful had already spread. Soldiers, servants, even masons who were preparing a stretch of the inner wall, were hurrying towards the huge, forbidding Beauchamp Tower. When we reached it, the rest of the executioners were gathered round the door; a royal Serjeant
was trying to hold the people back. The fellow was pallid-faced, slack-jawed, his mouth still stained with vomit. He glimpsed Sir Edward and pointed with his thumb towards the half-open door.
'Sir Edward,' he exclaimed, 'there's a demon in the Tower!'
Kemble led us into the stairwell and down to the basement. Someone had lit the sconce-torches on the wall. The shadows flickered and danced as if ghosts had come to plague us. At the bottom was a small cellar or cavern. In one corner stood a huge block, cut from some massive oak, with an axe in it. I also glimpsed in the poor light a massive, metal-studded door, almost covering the floor.
What's all the fuss about?' I asked.
Benjamin pointed. I grabbed a torch from the wall and stared; on either side of the door a hand stuck out and, at the far end of the door, the top of Horehound's head. I took a step nearer. My boots squelched in the blood and I became aware of a fetid smell. Benjamin remained, but Kemble and his two officers had already gone out to vomit in the small privy chamber.
‘Lord
have mercy!' Benjamin breathed. The poor bastard's been pressed!'
Now I shall spare your sensibilities, but pressing is the most terrible of deaths. It is carried out in three places in London: the yards of Fleet and Newgate prisons, or in the Tower. It’s not a torture but a special punishment reserved for those who refuse to plead either guilty or not guilty. In my long and troubled life I have been in many a scrape but, when taken before the justices, I would never refuse to plead. Once you do that, you have very little chance. Sometimes the press can be heavy boards which are weighted with bricks on top, but the pressing door in the Tower was of a special kind. Small wheels were fixed on the bottom, and a rope fixed to the top. This ran through a pulley system, so it could be lowered gently on to the victim who would lie spread-eagled on the ground. No such delicacy had been shown to Horehound.
Benjamin pointed to the pulley hanging from the ceiling, and explained. Horehound must have been laid out on the ground. The door was tipped and the rope cut till finally it slammed down, reducing his body to a bloody pulp.'
Kemble and his two officers returned, accompanied by Mallow, who looked as if he had drunk the wine jug dry. Toadflax, Snakeroot and Wormwood, under Kemble's direction, slowly lifted the door, pushing it back on its wheels and leaning it against the far wall. On the inside of the door were small arrow points of sharpened steel; these had turned Horehound's body to a tangled, gory mess. Once the corpse was exposed, all stood away: even the hangmen, experienced as they were in death, could not bear the sight. My stomach heaved, though, I'll be honest, at that moment in time, I was more terrified of the Great Beast than the pulpy remains of one of London's hangmen. Benjamin showed no fear but crouched down, ignoring the mess: he carefully examined Horehound's wrists and ankles.
'He wasn't fastened down, was he?' Wormwood came forward.
'No, he wasn't,' Benjamin replied. There are no marks round his wrists or ankles.' He pointed to the iron chain hanging on a wall which would be used to secure a prisoner about to be pressed.
Then how was it done?' Kemble's voice was muffled behind a pomander he held to his nose.
'I don't know' Benjamin replied. 'But Horehound was a man capable of taking care of himself, yes?'
Wormwood nodded. Snakeroot and Toadflax also agreed.
'So how could the killer lie him out on the ground?' Benjamin sounded puzzled. 'Horehound must have made no objection or tried to get away.'
'Perhaps he was already unconscious,' Vetch remarked from where he stood in the doorway. 'A knock on the head or a dagger in the back. His corpse is so torn we cannot tell.'
Benjamin got to his feet and, taking a sconce-torch from the wall, carefully walked round the chamber. He shook his head.
There's nothing here.'
‘Well seal the chamber,' Kemble announced. He took a coin from his purse and tossed it at Wormwood. 'He was your friend. Bury him!'
'He was no friend of mine,' Wormwood snapped. He looked coolly at Sir Edward. 'Don't you know, Master Constable, hangmen don't have friends?'
'Well, he was in your guild!' Kemble snapped.
‘Don't worry, don't worry.' Mallow came forward, hands flailing. 'I’ll take care of poor Horehound.'
We left the Tower. I was grateful to be out, breathing God's fresh air. The guards had driven off the curious onlookers. Benjamin pointed across to the church of St Peter ad Vincula.
‘I have further questions to ask,' he declared. He stared round. 'Of all of you!'
No one objected, and we walked into the church as dutifully as a congregation on a Sunday morning. Benjamin led us into the sanctuary, indicating the stalls on either side. We sat down. If I wasn't so frightened, I would have burst out laughing. There we were, Constable and officers of the Tower, the hangmen of London and Old Shallot, the greatest rogue in Ipswich, sitting in benches facing each other like a hanging jury ready to deliver its verdict.
On any other occasion there would have been vociferous objections, but Horehound's ghastly death had knocked any querulousness on its head.
Benjamin sat in the sanctuary chair. 'Gentlemen.' He began softly, yet his words echoed round that cavernous church. 'Gentlemen, there is villainy here, the likes of which I have not seen before. This morning Master Shallot and I took two thousand pounds in gold to St Paul's Cross. We were guarded and protected by royal soldiers, as well as other agents of the Crown. However, a cry about the sweating sickness and an explosion caused by a small trail of gunpowder, led to that gold being taken.'
Toadflax was about to spring to his feet and declare his innocence; Benjamin shook his head.
'I know. I know,' he continued. 'All the hangmen were in the garrison refectory.' He turned and pointed at Vetch. ‘You, Master Vetch, can vouch for that.'
The constable's lieutenant nodded slowly. "Yes, I can. As I can also vouch for Sir Edward, myself and Master Spurge. We were in the constable's quarters.'
'I accept that,' Benjamin agreed quietly. ‘Later on, the villains who stole the gold had the impudence to send me a letter whilst I was in Cheapside.' He paused to collect his thoughts. 'Now, until our arrival here, the Tower's gates and postern doors were all sealed and barred, so no one could have left to commit such villainy.' He smiled bleakly. 'And there's the rub. I believe there's one rogue in the Tower and another, his accomplice, in the city. Sir Edward.' Benjamin turned to Kemble. We are the only ones to enter the Tower today?’
The constable nodded. 'Once you were in, Master Daunbey, the portcullis was lowered, and the guards have not been relieved of their duties. Even the masons working outside on the scaffolding were forced to sleep in the cellars, or in any nook or cranny they could find. They will not be allowed out until this evening.'
‘Yet Horehound was killed,' Benjamin went on. ‘By whom?' He stared at Mallow and his apprentices.
'As you know, Master Daunbey,' the chief hangman replied, ‘we all supped and dined together at midday.' He scratched his head. ‘But then we went about our different duties.'
'Such as?' Benjamin asked.
'Cleaning our quarters, sleeping off what we had eaten and drunk.'
Wormwood sniggered behind his hand at that.
'And when was Horehound last seen?’
'About an hour before Mallow found him,' Snakeroot declared. 'He'd been drinking, as usual. I saw him staggering across the green.'
‘Had anyone else see him?'
The hangmen all shook their heads and started shouting out where they were and what they were doing.
Benjamin clapped his hands for silence. ‘I don't think you understand the point I’m making.' He got to his feet.
Which is what?’ Mallow shouted.
Today the King's gold was stolen,' Benjamin explained, walking over towards him. 'And, Master Mallow, one of your hangmen died. Don't you see? They are both linked. So, if more demands are made, more of you will die.' His words created a pool of silence in the chapel. Benjamin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I can do little to protect you,' he said, 'so I strongly advise you not to go anywhere alone, either here or in the city.'
'Is there anything else we can do?' Snakeroot snivelled. He looked so frightened that I thought he'd fall into a swoon.
‘Yes,' Benjamin replied. Tell me something about the three hangmen who died.'
‘We know very little,' Mallow whined. ‘Undershaft was my assistant. He was a family man. He kept to himself.'
'And Horehound?'
'He was a tippler, a sot,' Toadflax replied, tossing back the curls on his head.
He
stank, never washed; even the whores used to stay clear of him.'
That's why he was by himself,' Wormwood continued, 'wandering the Tower this afternoon. His breeches stank like a midden: when he was drunk, he lost all control of himself.'
"Henbane was different,' Toadflax offered. ‘He had a woman, a whore; he brought her here into the Tower when we celebrated the King's birthday on the sixth of June.' He closed his eyes, drumming his fists on the stall. 'What was her name? Ah, that's it, Marisa! She's a slattern down at the Monkshood tavern. Looks like a gypsy she does: green eyes and raven-black hair.'
'But you can tell us nothing else?' Benjamin looked to where Kemble and his two officers sat quietly. 'Anything at all?' Benjamin pleaded.
Again there was silence, abruptly broken by the harsh cry of a raven outside.
Chapter 9
Benjamin and I accompanied Kemble and his two officers back to the royal apartments. Spurge, at Benjamin's request, produced his plan of the Tower from a coffer. This was copied on a great roll of vellum which he spread out on the table, using candlesticks to keep it down at each corner. The drawing was very precise, everything clearly marked.
‘I did it myself,' Spurge declared proudly. The ones Sir Edward gave me when I took up office here were highly inaccurate.'
'Not very good at all,' the Constable agreed. He pointed to the small postern-doors indicated on the map. These, for example, were not on it.'
'Nor this.' Vetch pointed to a dotted line drawn through where I knew the royal menagerie stood. This runs under the royal menagerie; part of it is now used as a wolf-pit.'
I glanced quickly at Benjamin but held my peace.
'It's part of the old Roman sewer system,' Spurge explained.
'And, before you ask,' Vetch added, 'early this morning I had the wolves confined. Spurge and I went down there. There are two tunnels: both are bricked off. Not even a mouse could get through.'
'So, you are sure that there are no secret entrances in or out of the Tower?' Benjamin asked.
‘None whatsoever,' Spurge declared. Td put my life on that.'
‘I pointed to the small postern-gates, some overlooking the moat, others the river. 'And this morning all these were guarded?’
They still are,' Kemble replied proudly. 'I, for one, wish to be above suspicion, Master Daunbey. Don't forget, even if someone could leave or enter the Tower secretly, such comings and goings would eventually be noticed.'
Benjamin tapped the map with his hand. 'May we borrow this?'
‘I’d prefer it if you didn't,' Spurge replied. 'In a way, it's as costly as any portrait or tapestry' 'I won't leave the Tower,' Benjamin promised. Spurge reluctantly agreed.
‘Do you wish me to accompany you around the Tower?' Kemble offered.
‘No, Sir Edward, I don't. However, I would be grateful for quarters, a chamber for myself and Shallot.'
Kemble smiled. The most spacious two are in the Wakefield Tower. ‘I’ll have them prepared. Master Daunbey,' he continued, 'can I ask your advice?'
'Of course.'
'If I keep the Tower locked and barred much longer,' Kemble declared, 'people will begin to chatter and the gossip might spread.'
Then you had best open it,' Benjamin answered.
And, taking our leave, we left the royal quarters. Once we were out on the green, well away from any window or door, Benjamin stopped and beat the rolled-up map against his leg.
There must be two villains,' he said. 'One stole the gold in the city and the other killed Horehound. But why kill a drunken hangman?' He continued hoarsely.
I stared at a raven hopping towards me, its cruel yellow beak held out like a lance. I stamped my boot and shooed the bird away. (God forgive me, I can't stand ravens: they are birds of ill-omen. Ah, my little chaplain asks me why? It's the way the bastards look at me with their beady little eyes: as if they are truly disappointed that my head is still on its shoulders and not hanging on some pole where they can peck it to their hearts' delight).