The Gallows Murders (19 page)

"You heard?' she whispered without opening her eyes.

'Aye, Mistress, I did. Is it true? Does your shoulder bear the brand of a whore?'

She nodded, walked back, and slumped into the chair. Her shoulders began to shake as she wept.

'I have told you the truth,' she said between sobs. 'Both Andrew and I came from Lincoln. He was a priest, his woman died, and then he met me. He was kind and generous-hearted. He told me he could not live a life of celibacy. Yes, I was a whore,' she continued softly. 'I was born and raised as a seamstress, but times became hard.' She swallowed, wiping her eyes with her fingers.

That's what the quarrel was about, wasn't it?' Benjamin asked. 'When your husband killed that man in his church?'

‘Yes, it was about me,' she replied. Then Andrew took sanctuary.' She raised her face. ‘You know the law, Master Daunbey: either you surrender yourself to the royal justices, in which case Andrew would have certainly hanged, or you are given forty days to leave the kingdom. The friends and relatives of the man he killed would make sure he never left the city alive. So I organised everything. I didn't love Andrew but, there again, no man had ever stood up for me as he did. I smuggled him and his family out of Lincoln.'

'And the money left at Thurgood's?' I asked. That's yours, isn't it?'

She nodded. 'I was a very good seamstress, Master Shallot, but I was an even better whore. The great and rich of Lincoln sought my favours. I kept my monies hidden. Andrew was proud and refused to touch my money. When he died, I simply drew it out of my secret lace and took it down to Thurgood's. I dressed and acted as a man. I didn't think anyone would show much interest.' She sighed, put the embroidery down on the chair and walked over to make sure the door was closed. She came back and stood over us. 'I could tell the day you first came that you were suspicious that I was not the grieving widow.' She crouched down before me, the skin of her beautiful face tight and glistening with sweat, those beautiful eyes begging and pleading with me. 'God be my witness, I did not love Andrew Undershaft. He was a good man, but he knew what I was. Now he is dead. I don't know why, God rest his soul. However, for the first time in my life, Master Shallot, I am free of the past. I am a woman of good standing in my community. I have a house, I have children, I have my trade as a seamstress and monies with the goldsmith. I can start again .. .' She paused.'... If I am allowed to.'

I stroked her hair, took her hand and made her stand. I kissed her on each cheek.

‘Your secret's safe, Mistress Undershaft.' I tapped her shoulder lightly. There are good physicians in the city. They could hide that for you.'

Benjamin also took her hand, vowing what she had told us would remain a secret. He made her promise that, if she remembered anything untoward, she would tell us.

When we left the house, darkness had fallen. Benjamin linked his arm through mine and we walked back towards the Tower.

'What do you think, Roger?'

'I believe her, Master. But, there again, if she can lie once, she can He a second time.' 'But you don't think that?'

'No, Master, I don't. I still wonder about her husband. Was that really his corpse discovered at Smithfield? Or is he the villain? An ex-priest, a violent man by all accounts.'

Benjamin stopped and leaned against a garden wall, listening to a nightingale which was singing so beautifully in the trees above his head.

'All things are possible, Roger. However, let's remember the three men who have been killed. They are all fairly young, tough, probably violent. They wouldn't give up their lives lightly. Ergo, were they murdered by someone close to them?'

'Not necessarily, Master,' I replied. ‘Undershaft, if it was he, could have been drugged or knocked on the head before he was burnt. Remember, his body was bundled into a cage at the height of the plague. No one would care a whit: Horehound and Hellbane could have gone the same way. I still believe we should ask the sheriff to search for Undershaft. Remember, he was a priest, skilled in matters of the Chancery. The drawing up and sealing of letters would be easy for such a man. But God knows where those blessed seals came from .,.'

'Aye, that's the stumbling block,' Benjamin agreed. Those damn seals.' He came closer. ‘I asked Agrippa about that. He confirmed the King had made a search of all Chanceries. Nothing remains from the reign of a young boy who ruled only for a few months some forty years ago.'

‘Henry will now be dancing up and down in fury, or gnawing on the rushes at Windsor, threatening to have my head on a pole,' I added bitterly.

Benjamin grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. Don't worry, Roger, the game's not over yet.'

Well, it nearly was. My master was far too trusting. We went down another alleyway, intending to enter the Tower by the Lion Gate. It was a quiet night, well away from the taverns and cheap markets of Petty Wales where you can buy or sell anything until the early hours. I was trailing slightly behind Benjamin, kicking at anything in my path, and wondering if I should suggest that we take a journey abroad. After all, we could be in Dover within a day, and in France by the end of the week. I was about to suggest this when a crossbow bolt flew by my face and cracked the plaster in the house alongside. I stopped.

My master pulled me down just as another bolt came whirring through the night air. We crouched like two little schoolboys, staring into the darkness, straining our ears for any sound.

It came from the riverside,' Benjamin whispered.

I could hear the lap of the water and the faint cries of a boatman, but nothing else.

The assassin could be anywhere,' I whispered.

Through the darkness came a whistle, full and merry on the night air, as if some lad was sitting on the quayside, a fishing rod in his hands. I recognised the tune, a lilting song, sung in the London taverns, about a young girl and her love for a great lord. Well, I did what I could. I whistled back. Once again an arrow smacked into the plaster above our heads.

"Who's there?' Benjamin called.

The whistling began again, but this time it was chilling. I could imagine the assassin walking up and down, soft-footed, notching another bolt into the groove. The plaster of the house was white, and that was what he was watching. If we moved, he would see our silhouettes from where he stood with his back to the river, cloaked by the night.

"Whistle again,' Benjamin ordered.

I tried to but my mouth was dry, and all I could do was croak. All the old signs of Shallot's terror were beginning to manifest themselves: a tightening of the stomach, a loosening of the bowels, and this overwhelming urge to run.

'For the love of life, whistle that bloody tune!' Benjamin whispered.

This time, panic lent its aid. I wet my lips, recalled the tune, and whistled it back. I also made the mistake of moving, and a crossbow bolt streaked across my hair. If it had been a barber's knife, I would have lost some of my lustrous locks.

'Now!' Benjamin screamed. 'Charge!'

I had no choice but to follow him and, even as I did, I recognised my master's wisdom. We were now away from the wall and the assassin would have to retreat. We streaked like greyhounds towards the river, shouting and yelling so loudly that even a sentry on the walls of the Tower called out to ask what was the matter. We reached the quayside: to my right I heard the faint patter of retreating footsteps. There was nothing, only a few boats tied to their poles, bobbing in the full evening current. Benjamin stopped and crouched down to ease the cramp in his legs and snatch gulpfuls of air.

Well, well, Roger.'

He didn't have to commiserate with me. I was on my knees retching and coughing. I looked around, a postern-door in the Tower opened, and soldiers ran out towards us, carrying torches, swords drawn.

'Master Daunbey! Master Shallot!'

I glanced up.

Vetch came forward. What's the matter? You were attacked?'

‘No!' I snarled, getting to my feet and helping my master up. ‘We always do this just before we retire to bed!'

Pushing our way through the soldiers, we made our way into the Tower. I was convinced it was time for old Roger to leave. As I settled on to my pallet-bed, I firmly resolved that, the first thing I would do the next morning, would be to persuade my master to join me.

Chapter 10

‘No, Roger, I will not.' Benjamin sat on his bed in our chamber in the Wakefield Tower and shook his head angrily.

We had spent most of the morning sharing a wineskin I had filched from the Tower kitchens, and discussing who the assassin could be. Now tired, our wits dulled, our heads thick, Benjamin and I just sat in our comfortable quarters and wondered what to do next. Benjamin had been so morose, ‘I’d tentatively put it to him that perhaps we should spend a few months beyond the seas.

'Roger,' he exclaimed, 'that would be betrayal of beloved Uncle's trust!'

'Damn him!' I cried. 'Master, in the last few months I have been hounded from Ipswich by the Poppletons, almost poisoned by Quicksilver, nearly died of the sweating sickness, pushed into a wolf-pen, and now someone is shooting arrows at me. Not to mention,' I continued bitterly, 'my desperate run through Windsor Forest which, if the King gets his hands on me, I am doomed to repeat!'

'How far would we get?' Benjamin retorted. ‘Don't you think the same thought has occurred to dearest Uncle? The ports would be watched. We would be arrested and back in the Tower, not as guests, but as prisoners. Moreover, if we journey abroad, how will we live? When could we come back? Moreover,' he added bitterly, 'you know the King's mind. He might start wondering who really is behind these blackmailing letters and demands for gold.' 'He wouldn't blame us!' I cried.

Benjamin glanced at me: I knew he was right. In his present mood, the Great Beast would be only too willing to point the finger.

'Ah well,' I sighed. "What do we do next?'

Benjamin stared round the chamber. We are well looked after,' he remarked. 'Let's wait here and think. Our enemies are bound to make a mistake.'

I reluctantly agreed: after all, Kemble was a perfect host.

Now, you young men who know the Tower might think it was all gloomy, wet, mildewed walls, draughty cells, narrow cold passageways and creaking doors. Oh, there's plenty of that, but our rooms in the Wakefield were spacious, well-lit by windows, all filled with glass and protected by shutters. Tapestries hung on the wall, we had soft beds, tables, chairs, a large aumbry for our clothes, as well as chests and coffers. In many ways it was a home from home, except for the problems which faced us. Cooks and servitors brought us wine and food, and Kemble issued an open invitation to dine with him or in the garrison refectory. However, for the next few days we kept to ourselves. Benjamin paced up and down. He slept, muttered to himself, or studied Thomas More's
History of Richard the Third.

In any other circumstances I would have gone wandering into the city looking for mischief, but I was frightened. Benjamin kept to his studies: he borrowed parchment, quills and inkhorn from the Tower stores, and began to scribble furiously. On the morning of our third day he finished. I came back from my usual walk on the Tower Green, where everyone could see me, to find him sitting on the bed, studying what he had written.

What if,' he began, 'the young Edward the Fifth did survive? Or his younger brother, or both? They kept their seals and now work in the Tower garrison as humble soldiers or servitors?' He took one look at my face and grinned. 'It was just an idea,' he declared. He swung his legs off the bed. This is the problem, Roger. Forty years ago, the two sons of Edward the Fourth, his eldest boy, also named Edward, and Richard Duke of York, were locked up in the Tower by their Uncle Richard. They disappeared. They could have been murdered, or they could have escaped. We know that, for most of Henry the Seventh's reign, the King's peace of mind was plagued by pretenders who claimed to be the lost Princes. Even our present King has had to face conspiracies from the secret Brotherhood of the White Rose.'

Benjamin walked to the window and looked down at the soldiers practising their archery on the Tower Green. 'Now, I think both Princes are probably dead. However, their seals, which should have been broken and defaced, are being used to blackmail Henry. The sequence of events is as follows, correct me if I am wrong. On the sixth of June last, the Guild of Hangmen celebrated the King's birthday in a banquet which turned into an orgy. The hangmen were dressed in their official garb. It's possible that one of them saw something in the Tower which put the whole company at risk. Time passes: the sweating sickness breaks out in London, but the garrison only suffers one casualty, Philip Allardyce, clerk of the stores. He falls ill and is looked after by the crone Ragusa. We know he was ill from the testimony of witnesses. The old woman claimed he died: his sheeted corpse was taken to the death-cart at the Lion Gate, where a bailiff also pronounced him dead.'

'Aye, that road is closed,' I agreed. We know Allardyce was ill and died. He can't possibly be the villain in the city'

The sweating sickness begins to rage,' Benjamin continued. ‘Kemble sealed the Tower as if it was under siege. He and his two principal officers stay here, as do Mallow and his guild. No one is allowed to enter or leave. Then the first blackmailing letter arrives. It was left in Kemble's chamber, so the writer must be someone in the Tower. However, he must also have an accomplice in the city who can issue those proclamations and demand the money be left near St Paul's. We also think the same villain is behind the death of the hangman Andrew Undershaft, whose blackened corpse was found in a cage at Smithfield. Agreed?'

‘Yes, Master.'

'And what else, Roger?'

The sweating sickness passes and the Tower is opened. Another hangman is murdered, knocked on the head and drowned in a sack in the Thames, whilst a further blackmail letter is left on the Abbot's seat at Westminster. We, unhappy two,' I continued bitterly, ‘have the miserable task of taking the gold to where the blackmailer wants it at St Paul's. By subtle trickery, the villain seizes this and also taunts us. Once again we know it could not have been anyone from the Tower as, for most of that particular day, the Tower was locked and sealed. Nevertheless, we come back here, Horehound is horribly murdered. We are none the wiser, except that we know someone in the Tower, and another outside, are working in partnership.' I paused.