'Sirs, do you wish something to eat or drink?'
Faced with such beauty, I would have stayed to supper, but Benjamin murmured his thanks. 'It is your husband, madam, we have come to talk about. We wish to cause as little pain as possible.'
Mistress Undershaft bowed her head, sobbing quietly. For a while we just sat in silence.
‘I am sorry, madam,' Benjamin insisted, 'but we come from the King: your husband's death may not have been a simple act of revenge but connected with something much more sinister.'
The woman's head snapped up, a little too quickly. ‘What do you mean, sir?' she stammered.
'Madam, excuse my bluntness, we believe your husband was pushed into a cage at Smithfield and burnt to death not out of revenge, but because of some treasonable activity . . .'
Chapter 5
'Madam.' Benjamin waited for Mistress Undershaft to compose herself. 'Before he died, did your husband act untoward? Did he mention anything? Was he worried about anything?'
'Andrew was a good man,' she replied tearfully. 'He did a dreadful job, though he always maintained that those he hanged or executed fully deserved their punishment. Every Sunday, when he went to Mass at St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower, he always prayed for the souls of those who'd suffered.'
'Precisely so, madam,' Benjamin replied, 'but did he—'
'My husband rarely talked about what he did, Master Daunbey,' she interrupted, a touch of steel in her voice. Unlike others of the Guild, he did not boast about how many he had killed, or how he had made such a person suffer by putting a knot in the wrong place. Nor did he refuse those burnt at Smithfield a bag of gunpowder round their necks to hasten their ends.'
(I just sat and shivered to hear this beautiful woman talk so matter-of-factly about her late husband's trade.)
'So you know nothing, madam?'
'Nothing at all.'
'And the night he died?'
'He had been at home a great deal,' Mistress Undershaft replied. 'The Tower was locked and closed. City government had been suspended, the courts had not sat, so he whiled away most of his time digging in the garden or playing with the children.' She pointed to the stool Agrippa was sitting on. 'He had once been apprenticed carpenter. He kept up his old trade whenever he could.'
'And the day he died?' Benjamin insisted.
(Now, my master was a kind man, the essence of courtesy to women, but his grim face and harsh tones showed his suspicions of Madam Undershaft.)
'He stayed in most of the day,' she continued, 'but he became restless. The children were shouting—'
'How many children do you have?' I interrupted.
'Four.' She smiled tearfully at me. "But they are not mine. Master...?'
‘Roger Shallot, madam,' I replied.
She leaned a little closer, her bosom heaving quickly. 'Andrew had been married before,' she explained. 'His wife died about five years ago. I became handfast to him three years later. Anyway,' she continued, glancing quickly at Benjamin's impatient face, 'Andrew left the house. He said he was going to drink at the Gallows tavern.' She plucked at the cuff of her dress. That was all,' she concluded. "Later the next day a bailiff came here and told me what had happened.'
"Madam.' I twisted my face into a most sympathetic grimace. ‘I had the unhappy coincidence of being at Smithfield when your husband's corpse was removed from the cage. I mean to cause you no distress, but it was dreadful’
Again that tearful smile of understanding. 'How do you know it was your husband?’ I added.
She stared at me, dry-eyed: she opened her mouth to speak but thought different.
'Madam’ Benjamin asked, ‘Was there any distinguishing mark?'
'Oh Lord have mercy!' she snapped. 'Of course not, sir! I recognised the sole of the boots and the iron guild chain he always wore round his wrist. But no, I could not take a solemn oath and say that he was my husband. Yet, if it wasn't, then I ask you, sir, where is Andrew Undershaft?'
Tour husband was a wealthy man?' Benjamin asked.
'He was prudent, sir. His will left me this house, all his possessions, as well as some silver he had with Thurgood the goldsmith in Cheapside.' Her voice faltered.
'Madam,' I intervened. The tilers are busy on the roof, the house is freshly painted. Is this all your husband's legacy?'
Mistress Undershaft made to object. ‘We are here on the King's business,' Agrippa declared flatly.
'Andrew was prudent,' she hastily replied. 'He had certain money salted away. However, Thurgood the goldsmith came to visit me two weeks after my husband's death. He said he had received gold and silver from a mysterious donor who wanted to ensure that I lacked for nothing.'
'And who is this kind person?' I asked tartly.
Mistress Undershaft glared at me. ‘I do not really know, sir, nor do I really care. My husband was murdered. Perhaps someone's conscience pricks them and this is their way of soothing it. I am a woman left to her own devices with the care of four young children. If Satan came up from Hell with a bag of silver, I'd take it. So ask Master Thurgood: I know nothing about it.'
Benjamin asked, 'Before the sickness broke out and the Tower was closed and sealed, did your husband ever mention anything untoward happening in the fortress?'
'Such as?'
Benjamin shrugged. 'Anything you can remember, madam.'
'He talked little about his work,' Madam Undershaft replied. 'He did not like the Tower, and Sir Edward Kemble in particular. He found him a harsh disciplinarian who loved the exercise of power. Andrew thought the Tower was a cold, narrow place. Unlike his companions in the Guild, he spent as little time there as possible.'
'Did he know the dead man?' I asked. The clerk of stores, Philip Allardyce?'
'Andrew was there the morning he fell ill,' she replied. 'Allardyce came down to the Gallows tavern to break his fast. He complained of a thick head and pains in his body. My husband later visited him. He took him a small flask of wine but the fellow was already delirious. My husband recognised the symptoms. He never went back to the Tower again. Allardyce died and the Tower was sealed off.'
'Did he ever mention anything about the Princes?' I asked.
The woman's confused look and shake of her head showed she was no student of history.
'Did you know the other hangman who was murdered? Hellbane?' Benjamin quickly asked.
‘I heard rumours,' she replied. 'John Mallow, the chief hangman, sometimes visits me. He brings sweetmeats for the children - yet what can I say, sirs? I can speak for John Mallow: like my husband, he is an honourable man. But the others, with their dreadful names and secret pasts!'
'Secret pasts?
’
I
queried.
'Andrew believed the one who calls himself Toadflax was once a priest in Coventry who turned to black magic. Another, Wormwood, went to the Halls of Cambridge, from where he fled after committing some dreadful crime.'
'And they just told him this?' I asked.
'My husband liked his ale, Master Shallot, and so did they. In every guild they've had their parties and banquets. The last one was on the occasion of the King's birthday, the sixth of June. Apparently Sir Edward Kemble, according to ancient custom, allowed them to use chambers in the royal apartments. The hangmen brought their ladies, or should I say women of the town?'
'You were not there?' I asked innocently.
'Of course not!' she snapped. 'My husband told me about all the goings-on ... when he returned,' she added primly.
‘Your husband was a carpenter?' I asked. ‘He was a literate man? He could write and keep accounts?'
'Oh, of course, sir.' She rose and went across to a chest standing beneath the crucifix. She opened it and brought back a ledger. 'He sometimes sold what he made in the markets. He kept scrupulous accounts.'
I opened the ledger and showed it to Benjamin. He stared at the beautiful copperplate handwriting and smiled.
'Madam,' my master rose and handed the ledger back. 'I thank you for your time in answering our questions honestly. You have nothing further to say?'
'No.'
She darted a smile at me: I quietly wondered whether it would be appropriate for me to visit her by myself.
My master continued. 'Naturally we must make further inquiries of Master Thurgood the goldsmith about this mysterious donor. Perhaps a letter from you?'
Mistress Undershaft nodded and left the room. I wanted to draw Benjamin into hushed conversation, but he shook his head. We waited silently until Mistress Undershaft returned and gave him a square of vellum neatly’ tied with a piece of silk ribbon. We made our farewells and left. We walked across the green and back up the alleyway leading to the Tower.
Half-way along, Benjamin stopped and undid the letter. The writing was not as elegant as her late husband's, yet Mistress Undershaft had a good hand for someone who, perhaps, had not been properly tutored. The letters were boldly formed: she simply informed the goldsmith that he should answer any questions the bearer might ask about her mysterious legacy.
What did you think of her?' Benjamin asked.
'Shrewd,' Agrippa retorted.
'A good actress,' I added. I narrowed my eyes and stared further down the alleyway. 'I don't wish to be cruel, but on the one hand she mourns her husband, yet on the other there is something else. Is it possible that Master Undershaft is not dead? That he killed someone else to take his place and is continuing to send silver to his wife whilst he hides in the city and blackmails the King?
Benjamin nodded. 'It is true we have no proof that her husband was definitely killed. Undershaft was an educated man, skilled with his hands. He might find the art of forgery an easy accomplishment. His wife could well be party to it.' Benjamin tapped the parchment. 'But that still leaves as many questions as it answers. How was the letter delivered by Undershaft if the Tower was sealed?'
'An accomplice?' I asked.
"Possible,' Benjamin replied, 'but how would they communicate?'
'We have still to study Spurge's maps,' I replied. ‘Undershaft could still be alive and the villain of the piece. He might have written that letter before he left the Tower and given it to his accomplice to deliver when the fortress was closed and shuttered. He could then have arranged for the proclamations to be posted after falsifying his own death.'
‘I agree,' Agrippa declared. Whilst the other hangman, Hellbane, could have been murdered because he knew something? Mistress Undershaft is not what she appears to be, I can see that: her grief is not as deep as it should be. No one identified that corpse as her husband's. We also learnt that Master Undershaft had little liking for Sir Edward Kemble. Moreover, if Undershaft is supposed to be dead, then that's the best disguise, if you are sending letters of blackmail against the King and leaving them at Westminster or elsewhere. But who the accomplice is and how they communicate is a mystery. And those seals, Roger, are no forgeries. In truth they once belonged to Edward the Fifth. If your theory is correct, how did Undershaft or his accomplice get their hands on them?' He looked up at the sky. ‘We must go,' he murmured. The King has gone hunting today, as he will tomorrow' He smiled grimly. 'But he expects to see you at supper tonight, Roger. Moreover, we still have business to do with Snakeroot, Wormwood and the rest.'
We walked back into Petty Wales. Agrippa led us directly to the Gallows tavern which, despite its grisly sign, was a clean, spacious ale-house. The taproom inside was high-vaulted. Bunches of herbs hung in baskets from the rafters, shedding the fragrance of a summer day through the ale fumes and rather greasy odours from the kitchen. The landlord apparently took the sign of his tavern very seriously: the place was decorated with blocks of wood from this gibbet or that. On one wall hung a rope which was supposedly used to kill the great imposter Perkin Warbeck. Above the fireplace a wooden box held - so the notice scrawled below proclaimed - part of the skin flayed from Richard Puddlicott who had tried to raid the King's treasury at Westminster Abbey. A cheerful though gruesome place: skulls had been painted on the floorboards, whilst the wooden pillar in the centre of the room was decorated with knives and daubed with red paint so it looked like a whipping post.
Do you know, over the years I have grown fascinated by human nature. Why do people find the most gruesome things in society so interesting? If I stood up in Cheapside and said I owned the skull of a dog, people would just pass by. However, if I said I was the proud owner of the skull of some bloody-handed murderer, who was also a chaplain in this or that church, everyone would gather round to stare: that's one thing I learnt from my relic-selling days. I sold more skulls, reputedly those of Barabbas or Pontius Pilate, than I did anything else!
Ah well, that's human nature and, little did I know it, my arrival at the Gallows tavern was an introduction to the deep, murderous passions which lurk in the human heart. The Guild of Hangmen were there, seated in a corner beneath a crudely drawn painting of a scaffold. I took one look and thought, oh aye nonny no, here goes Old Shallot again! They were all dressed in black, white shirts peeping beneath the leather jerkins and doublets. (I am always wary of people who dress in the most sombre colours, as if they are in love with death.) John Mallow, the chief hangman, was a grisly-looking soul: small and fat with wizened features, a scrawny beard, smiling mouth, with yellow-gapped teeth and eyes like two piss-holes in the snow. He was the most handsome of them all! Mallow, in turn, introduced his four so-called apprentices: Snakeroot, tall and thin with shift eyes and a slack mouth, a man who'd lurk behind the arras or in the shadows and listen to what you said. Horehound was a tippler; he had a fat, greasy face, greasy spiked hair, a body like a ball of fat with no neck or waist. His chin seemed to rest on his chest. Like me, he had a cast in one eye: not the sort of face to wish you well as you were turned off the ladder at Tyburn or Smithfield! Toadflax was different. He was tall, clean-shaven, bronze-faced. His dyed yellow hair framed his face like that of a girl; his eyes were strange. When he looked at you his mind was elsewhere, as if he lived in a dark world all of his own. Wormwood - well, if I had to choose one of them to go on a journey with, I would have selected him. He at least looked human, with sharp-etched features and cool grey eyes. A man who took meticulous care with his appearance. I wondered why such a man was working as a hangman. One thing I did notice (and I nudged Benjamin) was that Wormwood was writing what he claimed to be a sonnet. Although I couldn't make out the words, I could tell from the script that Wormwood was an educated man who could have secured a benefice in any great nobleman's Chancery.