The Gallows Murders (24 page)

What happens if it was not Allardyce's corpse taken out? If he'd been alive, the soldiers would have suspected as much when they dragged the corpse down to the Lion Gate.'

'So you are saying that Allardyce was really Sakker? He gains employment in the Tower, simulates the sweating sickness and pretends to die?' Benjamin nodded. ‘I can accept that. Few people would go near him. Moreover, once the body was sheeted, no one would care. But who could smuggle a corpse into the Tower as a substitute?'

Why not ask one of our hangmen?' I replied. 'Aren't they responsible for the corpses of their victims?' Benjamin agreed.

'And so, Master.' I continued, staring at the pot of black dye. 'Sakker is in the Tower, pretending to be Allardyce. I suspect the real Allardyce was the man our villain killed in Maidstone. Later, before the sweating sickness really takes hold in the city, Sakker slips out of the Tower. He is now free to deliver letters to Westminster, or post proclamations at St Paul's and St Mary's, Cheapside. He can lay a trail of gunpowder and seize that gold the King is now so furious at losing. Because we are not looking for him, he can wander the city at his will, baiting and taunting us. When he wishes, now under a new disguise, he slips back into the Tower to kill Horehound and Wormwood as he did Hellbane and Undershaft.'

'But who is his accomplice?' Benjamin asked.

'Ah, Master, there's the rub.' I put the pot down on the floor. 'How do we know he has one? What happens if he is the sole villain?'

'But how can he re-enter the Tower if he's a soldier or member of the garrison?' Benjamin asked. ‘People would remember a stranger. He must have an accomplice.'

I sat and thought for a while, closing my eyes as I remembered the Tower as I had seen it: the soldiers, their women, the children, the officers, old Ragusa, the hangmen.

'Don't forget, Roger, the day we returned to the Tower from St Paul's, everyone had been locked in and could account for their movements when old Horehound was crushed to death in the basement of the Beauchamp Tower. Everyone except—'

'Except the hangmen!' I cried. They had all been drinking that afternoon and gone their separate ways. One of them must be Sakker's accomplice.'

Benjamin wiped his fingers and sat back, rocking on his heels. 'If so, how does Sakker communicate with him?' He chewed his Up. 'And who told Sakker when the real Allardyce was travelling to London so he could be ambushed in Maidstone? One of the officers or hangmen? Any of them could easily find out when the real Allardyce was to be at the Tower—'

'Or there again, Master,' I interrupted, 'once Sakker knew Allardyce was to leave Dover Castle, he'd simply wait there and follow him to Maidstone.'

Benjamin nodded. 'Roger, the web begins to unravel.' He kicked the cracked bowl with his foot and clapped his hands. 'I was sure Sakker was at the root of it all. Our visit here was worth while.'

We hastened downstairs and told the under-sheriff what we had found. He became excited as us and vowed that a swift return to the city was essential. 'If Sakker knows that we are now hunting him and have some idea about his disguise, perhaps we can tighten the net around him,' he exclaimed.

Miranda clapped her hands, eyes shining with delight. She leaned on tiptoe and kissed Benjamin on both cheeks. He blushed and stammered, pointing to me. Of course, I received no kiss; nothing but her brilliant smile.

In the end we did not reach London that day. The sky became overcast; one of those summer black storms swept over the flat Kent countryside. We were forced to take shelter in one of the many great taverns which line the pilgrims' way. We ate and drank well. For a while we forgot Sakker whilst Benjamin regaled the Pelleters with stories of our earlier exploits at the manor outside Ipswich. Even a blind man could have realised that Benjamin and Miranda had fallen deeply in love. They only had eyes for each other, and it was not a friendship which Master Pelleter opposed. Oh, Benjamin was a gentleman. He bade her a gallant goodnight, but only after spending hours with her in the corner of a taproom chattering and whispering. I sat like a ghost at a banquet, engaging Miranda's father in desultory conversation about the city and the effects of the sweating sickness. I did not sleep that night. Instead I tossed and turned on my pallet-bed, not because of the fleas which infested the blankets or the rats which came out to nose at my boots: all I could do was gaze at Benjamin sleeping in his bed like a child, lost in golden dreams about a woman I loved but who barely recognised my existence. Only then did I realise why people murder! How the red fury can cloud the mind, kill the soul, and turn one's being into a single thrust of a dagger. Of all the men I have ever known, Benjamin is the only one I have loved; yet, that night, the thought of murder crossed my mind!

(Ah, I see my little clerk has stopped writing. Ever since I mentioned the name Miranda, he's had a look of puzzlement on his moon-like face. He sits, tapping the quill against his podgy nose, and squirming his fat little rump. He abruptly remembered the picture in my secret chamber, the letters in my coffers, and now he announces it. I can mouth the words for him: ‘But Miranda was your wife, your first wife? I have seen her picture!' Oh, he looks at me, the little man, his head cocked to one side, a look of puzzlement in those blackcurrant eyes of his. 'Explain! Explain!' His squat body throbs with curiosity. Well, the little turd will have to wait. He’ll have to find out how this woman, so beloved of Benjamin, so deeply enamoured of my master, became my wife. But not now. Ah no! As the good book says, there is a time and a place under heaven for everything and my little clerk will just have to wait. Enough about love!)

The next morning we rose early. Our horses, now rested, took us swiftly back into London. As we crossed London Bridge, going on towards Catte Street, Pelleter explained that perhaps his bailiffs and spies may have found out something about Quicksilver, and invited us to join him at the Guildhall. Benjamin accepted. Anything to stay as long as possible with Miranda! They had been talking ever since we left the tavern, and continued to do so as we forced our way through the busy, smelling streets. The traders, taking advantage of the good weather and the disappearance of the sweating sickness, now shouted boisterously, drawing the crowds to throng around their stalls. The city had come back to life: the naps and foists, the rogues, the bawds, the apple-squires thronged the mouths of alleyways or the doors of taverns. The kennels and runnels stank as richly as ever. I gazed around, drinking it all in, and suddenly, in my bones, I knew Quicksilver would be back to float with the rest of the scum of London's underworld. At the Guildhall, Pelleter dismounted and told us to wait. He was gone a few minutes, barely giving me time to attempt a fruitless flirtation with Miranda, before he came trotting back, a burly, thick-set bailiff in tow.

‘We can leave the horses here,' he exclaimed. 'My men have found Quicksilver.'

Oh, I grinned to hear the news! My heart leapt with joy! The blood sang in my body! I even forgot my disappointment over Miranda at the prospect of seeing my old friend and shaking him warmly by the neck! As we hurried through the streets up Aldersgate towards Charterhouse, I imagined what I would do to him. Fingernails or toenails first, I wondered? Now Pelleter had told Miranda to return to their house: of course he might as well have told the breeze. She wasn't disobedient: she just smiled prettily, blinked, and, like many women, acted as if she hadn't heard. Pelleter looked wryly at her, but all he received was a beaming smile - and so she came with us.

As we went, the bailiff told us in hushed tones how the clacking tongues amongst the rogues and villains had described Quicksilver's new haunt: a little house on Beech Lane, between Red Cross and White Cross Street, opposite the Ramsey inn.

‘He's doing a roaring trade by the sound of it,' the fellow muttered. 'Believes he has found a concoction to cure the sweating sickness.'

'Of course,' I nodded. 'Now the bloody thing's gone, he's probably claiming the credit for it. You have not approached him, have you?'

The fellow grinned in a show of cracked yellow teeth. 'Master Shallot, we have more sense than you think. If Quicksilver suspects there's a trap set, he'll be in Dover by dusk.'

I congratulated the man on his wisdom, and slipped a coin into his hand. At last we reached the corner of Beech Lane. It was a clean thoroughfare; the houses on each side were screened by huge copper beeches, their branches spread out, intertwining together to form a natural arch. A sweet-smelling, restful place, where the houses were painted smartly in black and white, mullioned glass filled the bay windows, doors hung straight and the red-tiled roofs gleamed in the sun. The Ramsey inn was a prosperous-looking hostelry, its sign and woodwork freshly daubed. Inside the herb-scented taproom were the sheriff's men, a motley group of rogues busily drinking ale and beer whilst keeping an eye on the house opposite. Pelleter would have cursed them for wasting the city money, but Benjamin intervened. He understood my hatred for my old friend, and offered to pay the men even more if Dr Quicksilver proved to be at home.

Well, we don't know,' one of them replied. ‘He was there last night. This morning a fine, tall lady, her face veiled, came trotting along for an assignation.'

'Probably needed some mercury or cure for the pox!' another exclaimed.

I just stared across the street at the broad, black-painted door.

Well, let's see,' I muttered, and before Benjamin or Pelleter could stop me, I was across the street, hammering on the door. I had my cowl above my head, so if there were any spy-holes, Quicksilver would not see it was me and try to flee over the back fence. I knocked again but there was no reply, so I pulled down the latch and the door swung back on its hinges. My first impression was that old Quicksilver must have made a merry pile: the passageways looked swept and clean, there were pots of herbs upon the table, whilst the hooks screwed into the wall were of pure brass, polished till they shone.

'Dr Quicksilver!' I called, disguising my voice to make me sound like some pompous merchant.

There was no reply. Now at first that did not disconcert me. Perhaps Quicksilver was involved in some assignation, or toasting his new-found wealth by lying in a drunken stupor. There would be no slatterns or servants. A man like Quicksilver does not like anyone around him who might see through his trickery and either blackmail him or proclaim him to be the charlatan he was. I went further along the passageway, past a small parlour. Staring through a crack in the door I could see no sign of life. I entered the kitchen: at first I smiled, I thought I had caught my victim napping.

Quicksilver sat on a chair with his back to me, head on his arm, resting on the kitchen table. I thought he had been drinking, and that the sticky red substance dripping on to the floor came from a spilled goblet of wine. Then my elation gave way to anger. Quicksilver was dead. Someone had come up behind him and slashed his throat from ear to ear. Behind me, Benjamin and Pelleter entered the house. They came crashing into the kitchen even as I pulled Quicksilver's head back by his greasy white hair. His eyes, sunk in their sockets, stared sightlessly up at me; those lips, so skilled in knavery, were now silenced for good. I took one look at the blood splashed on the front of his velvet jerkin and let the head go.

'Dead as a doornail,' I pronounced. 'Perhaps he tricked people once too often,' Pelleter declared.

Benjamin crouched down beside the corpse, studying it carefully.

‘I don't think so.' He glanced up at me. 'Roger, we made a mistake in mentioning Dr Quicksilver in Kemble's chamber at the Tower.'

Of course I objected loudly, pointing out that I was not the only one after the old charlatan's blood. Yet in my heart I knew I had made a dreadful error. Of course, the assassin in Kemble's chamber would not want me to interrogate Quicksilver, and so had taken matters into his own hands. We went out and spoke to Pelleter's bailiffs who had been guarding both the back and front of the house.

'Oh yes,' their leader declared, 'Quicksilver had only one visitor: that was the tall, masked lady. Looked like a widow, she did. She must have been there for about an hour, and then left.'

Benjamin thanked the man, then quietly persuaded Miranda, standing in the passageway, that this was not the best place for her, and perhaps she had best return home. She did so and, as I turned away, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Benjamin tenderly on each cheek. She whispered something to him, and then allowed one of her father's men to escort her back to Catte Street. I stood, seething with fury and jealousy. However, though I am a rogue, I have no malice, and I quickly joined my master, Pelleter and the other officials in a thorough search of Quicksilver's house. Now you know what happens on such occasions: it's every man for himself. Pelleter was honest, but the rest... Well, you can't blame the lads. The city corporation paid them little and so, if it moved, they took it: candlesticks, pill-holders, whatever. I even saw one stuff a bolster-cover up his jerkin. Benjamin turned a blind eye to this, declaring that if Quicksilver conned the poor people, then everything in this house belonged to them. However, he gave strict instructions that any manuscripts or documents were to be brought to the kitchen. We went back there. Benjamin lay the blood-soaked corpse out on the floor and slit the thick, ornate cuff hiding Quicksilver's right wrist. The scar beneath was a broad, dark purple weal.

'It looks like a sword cut,' Benjamin declared.

I glanced at old Quicksilver's face. 'He was an ugly bugger in life,' I observed, 'and now he's dead.' I covered his face with a rag and glanced at my master. 'Do you really think he's Greene?' I asked. 'The man whom Sir Thomas More mentions as being responsible for the Princes' murder?'

‘I think so,' Benjamin replied. 'And that scar proves it. Greene must have been a mere stripling, though ancient in knavery, some forty years ago. He must have had a hand in the death of the Princes.'

Benjamin got to his feet and walked away from the corpse, beckoning me to follow. He closed the door and we sat on the stools. Above us we could hear Pelleter's bailiffs crashing about.