The House of Shadows (35 page)

Flaxwith whispered hoarsely in the coroner’s ear. Athelstan overheard a few words: something had been found in the garden.

‘Let it wait, Sir John.’

Cranston agreed, but ordered Flaxwith to remove the taverner’s corpse. A sheet was hastily brought, the body rolled in it, and taken out into the passageway. Athelstan heard the cries and groans of the servants and maids, now gathering, horrorstruck at what was happening. He rose and closed the door firmly against the noise.

‘Brother Malachi, we come to you. You were attacked in my church by a dagger man. One of the knives used belonged to the Judas Man, but of course, that was just to muddy the water. That poor unfortunate had already gone to God. Master Rolles, a prime mover in all these matters, was your assailant.’ Athelstan pointed at the coroner. ‘When Sir John first described Rolles, he called him a sicarius, “dagger man”; the knights sent him to silence you.’

‘And why should they do that?’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm.

‘You know why.’ Athelstan held the Benedictine’s gaze. ‘Once you had that ring,’ he continued, ‘you realised your brother was dead. On the day of the great robbery you had been absent across the river; for all I know, that may have been arranged by Rolles, Sir Maurice and the other conspirators. You returned and, like the rest, were mystified at what had happened. In the end you reluctantly accepted that your brother was a thief and a fugitive. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. The crusading fleet left the Thames; never once did you see or hear anything to arouse your suspicions, until that ring came into your possession. It was a matter of logic. Who else would have known about that treasure? Who else had the means to carry out the deed? Did you reflect upon Guinevere the Golden, on the possibility that she may not have loved your brother as he loved her? And, of course, the treasure. Have you been to see His Grace, John of Gaunt?’

Malachi gazed coolly back.

‘What was it, Brother?’ Athelstan urged. ‘What made you decide to carry out God’s judgement on these murderers?’

‘Did I?’ Malachi taunted back. He scraped back his chair, smiling to himself. ‘Tell Sir Maurice how I did it, Athelstan.’

‘You decided Chandler should die first,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That fat knight was all a-quiver, still disturbed by the events of the previous night, hot and sweaty and agitated. He wanted to sip at claret and soothe himself in a hot tub. You saw the taverner take it up. You waited until he had gone and then, carrying an identical cup, of claret, tapped on Sir Stephen’s door. The knight, all in a fluster, admitted you. He was in a state of undress, and when he realised that you had come to talk about nothing of significance, he wanted you to go.’

‘But only after Malachi had exchanged one cup for another,’ Cranston replied.

‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘The goblet Malachi brought was heavily laced with poison. How many times do we put a cup down and pick up the wrong one? Chandler didn’t even notice. He let Malachi out, placed his boots to be cleaned, locked and barred the door, climbed into that hot bath and swallowed his own death. The rheums in his nose would dull the taste of poison.’

‘And Sir Laurence Broomhill?’ Cranston asked. ‘You lured him into that cellar, lit the candle at the far end and he stumbled into that repulsive mantrap.’

‘God knows,’ Athelstan added, ‘how you did it. A message that Broomhill was to come alone to learn something? You know all about this tavern, the cellar and what it holds.’

‘I now realise,’ Cranston tapped the table, ‘why we were not summoned when Broomhill was first found. You, Sir Maurice, delayed, you didn’t want us to hear the dangerous babbling of a dying man who might ask Athelstan to shrive him.’

‘You are truly evil men,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You didn’t give a fig for Broomhill’s soul or Chandler’s reputation. If matters were pressed, Chandler could be blamed for the deaths in the hay barn, the result of too much wine and hot lust. After all, he’d touched the corpses and bloodied his hands. You claimed Chandler’s crossbow was missing, I doubt very much if he had one. You were more concerned about your chaplain being your nemesis.’

‘And you accuse me of Davenport’s death?’ Malachi asked.

‘I do!’ Sir Maurice seemed to have recovered his wits. He tried to shake Branson from his reverie, but Sir Reginald turned away like a frightened child. ‘I do!’ Clinton repeated, pushing back his long grey hair. ‘Whatever he says.’ He pointed at Athelstan.

‘Are you confessing, Sir Maurice?’ Cranston asked.

‘I’ll confess to nothing until I have a meeting with His Grace.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Yet no one killed Sir Thomas Davenport. He committed suicide. You, Sir Maurice, lied about him, you tried to depict Davenport as a jovial, merry man, eager for a goblet of wine and the sweet embraces of the fair Rosamund. It was you or Master Rolles who sent for her to divert Sir Thomas. He had lived with his sin for twenty years; every time he came here was a sharp reminder. Indeed, it was the real reason you gathered here every year. Under the pretext of celebrating a past triumph, the conspirators met to reaffirm their loyalty to each other. That’s why Chandler brought his chancery coffer with him. I don’t think any of you feared God or man. Sir Thomas may have been different. He realised that one sin begets another. The murders of Beatrice and Clarice, the Misericord, the Judas Man, and of course when you sent Master Rolles to dispose of Brother Malachi . . . Sir Thomas realised that the conspiracy was crumbling away. The Beast of Sin no longer lurked by the door; it was hunting him. Davenport went out in the garden and, like Sir Stephen Chandler, begged God to forgive him. He asked for pardon but, like Judas Iscariot, guilt consumed him. He sat in that garden and thought of the corpses mouldering there, the other victims, their blood shrieking for God’s vengeance. He could take no more. He returned to his chamber, locked himself in and died in the Roman fashion. He took the candle pricket and thrust it up into his own heart.’

‘How did you know that?’ the Benedictine intervened. ‘I thought you’d lay his death at my door.’

‘No, no, Malachi. You knew what had happened. The knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable had taken careful counsel over the murders of Chandler and Broomhill. If one of them was not responsible, and the Judas Man was elsewhere hunting the Misericord, it must have been another of their number. The logical conclusion was the pious Brother Malachi, so devoted to the memory of his brother. Rolles tried to kill you in St Erconwald’s. You realised that, so you fled this tavern and sheltered with me. Your departure so frightened Davenport, terrifying him out of his wits, that he took his own life.’

‘I danced when I heard the news,’ Malachi jibed.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But suicide is the only logical solution. Sir Thomas was sealed in that chamber. He ate the sweetmeats, drank some wine, then drove the pricket in whilst seated in the chair, which is why the blood splashed out on to his lap. Rolles and Clinton didn’t want me to discover the truth, so they confused matters to make it look like murder. Why not? We hadn’t resolved the killings of Chandler or Broomhill; Davenport’s supposed murder not only removed the suspicion of suicide but tangled matters further. Naturally they could only go so far, as the chamber had been visited by the fair Rosamund, whom I later questioned. You made one mistake, Sir Maurice. When Davenport drove that pricket into his heart, he must have kept his hands clenched on it. His fingers, sticky from the sweetmeat, would have been drenched in blood. You or Rolles wiped both the blood and the sugar off. Sir Thomas went to God with clean hands but a stained soul.’

‘If it had been suicide,’ Cranston spoke up, ‘if we had established that immediately, we would have wondered what could have frightened Sir Thomas Davenport so much that he took his own life.’

‘How did you,’ Athelstan pointed at Malachi, ‘eventually realise what truly happened twenty years ago?’

‘How did I realise?’ the Benedictine mimicked. ‘How does anyone know? Oh, it was the passing of the years, a crumb here, a crumb there. My brother would never have disappeared, not like that.’ He shook his head. ‘Not like smoke on a spring day, and the same goes for Mortimer. He truly loved his sister. I heard reports about Guinevere being seen here or there, but I dismissed them as lies. Then these,’ he gestured around, ‘these reunions, every year. Why were five knights of Kent, powerful Lords of the Soil, so eager to meet up with the likes of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable? Every year they came together, and I began to wonder. It was like the weather, little signs, but you know there’s a change. I used to wander this tavern, that’s how I discovered the mantrap. Like you, Brother Athelstan, I noticed the high-backed cart, the tavern’s many entrances, then the ring was found.’ He smiled dreamily at Athelstan. ‘I showed it to them and they didn’t even recognise it. The only thing I had from my brother; that’s why I gave it to you, in fulfilment of a vow. I wanted it to be kept in a sacred place.’

He leaned over and pulled the small coffer closer to him, gently caressing the top.

‘On the night of the Great Ratting, when those two whores were killed and the Misericord was being hunted, I made my decision. Oh yes, I had been to see His Grace the Regent. I wanted to clarify something. He knew who I was. Perhaps he suspected what I planned. He didn’t call me by my monkish name, but “Master Culpepper”. What passed between us is a matter for you and Sir John to find out. Yes, I did what I did, because I was compelled to. Innocent blood demands justice.’ He scraped back his chair. ‘No, Sir John, I’m not leaving. I want to view my dead.’

Cranston and Athelstan followed him out of the solar. The coroner ordered the two knights to be guarded and shouted at the throng of servants and maids to stay in the tap room. They all retreated fearfully, stepping around the gruesome remains of their former master wrapped in their blood-stained cloth. Followed by Brother Malachi, Cranston and Athelstan went out into the garden, now ruined by the digging of the bailiffs: mounds of hard clay where the lawn had been ripped apart, flower beds and herb patches roughly dug up. To the left of the arbour stretched a long, deep pit. Flaxwith went over and pointed into it. Athelstan gazed down and closed his eyes at the pitiful scene.

‘The corpses must have been stripped,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Not even a burial shroud.’

The skeletons lay like a collection of bones in a charnel house, one tossed on another, all flesh and hair rotted away. Athelstan could see no trace of clothing belt or boot, nothing to distinguish these five people sent to their deaths in such a hideous fashion.

‘I’ll make a full confession.’ Brother Malachi knelt down beside the pit, hands clasped. ‘I know my brother; whatever they have done, I’ll still know my brother.’

He lifted his head, tears spilling down his cheeks, an old man stricken to the heart by what he had seen and heard, no longer any smiles or taunting, just the heart-stopping pain of loss and grief.

‘In a way I thank you, Brother Athelstan. God’s judgement has been done. Don’t worry about me, I won’t flee. I am a priest. I will demand to be handed over to the church courts. Until then I will mourn for my brother.’

Athelstan quickly blessed the pit and stepped away. Cranston ordered Flaxwith and his bailiffs to remove the skeletons and have them coffined.

‘Take them to St Mary-le-Bow,’ he ordered, and gestured at the Benedictine. ‘He may go with you but under strict guard. Brother Athelstan?’

They returned to the solar. Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald had demanded a jug of wine and now sat cradling their goblets. Branson looked as if he was ill, but Sir Maurice was steely-eyed and determined.

‘You and Rolles,’ Athelstan reflected, studying that grim face. ‘You and Rolles must have been the prime movers. You have no pity, no conscience.’

‘I demand my rights.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘Both Sir Reginald and I are knights of the shire. We demand to see His Grace the Regent.’

Athelstan paused as he heard the sound of a horse leaving the stable yard. Going to the door, he asked what had happened, only to discover the head ostler had left on some urgent errand. Athelstan smiled to himself and came back into the room.

‘You have no authority!’ Sir Maurice yelled at Sir John.

‘I have every authority.’ Cranston walked down the room. He gripped Clinton’s shoulder and forced him back in his seat. ‘Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Reginald Branson, I arrest you for high treason, for foul murder, for robbery, for breaking the King’s peace. You are my prisoners and will await the King’s pleasure.’ He prised the goblets from their hands, throwing each to the floor, allowing the metal cups to spill their contents and roll into a corner, then he walked to the door, gesturing for Athelstan to join him. He ushered the friar out and closed the door behind him, shouting for more guards. He ordered two to go into the room and told the others to allow no one in or out. Then he took Athelstan by the shoulder and led him into the great tap room, now deserted.

‘Well, well, little friar. You had scant proof. Clinton and Branson will not confess. They’ll try to pass the blame on to Rolles and others, whilst Brother Malachi will plead Benefit of Clergy. How did you know?’

Athelstan led him across to a table and sat down. ‘Straws in the wind, Sir John, straws in the wind! As Brother Malachi said, it was like watching the weather changing.’

He paused as one of Sir John’s bailiffs brought in both his writing satchel and the small casket he had left in the solar.

‘Think, Sir John,’ he continued, ‘of all these vile deeds being held in a basket. Time passes, the basket begins to rot, one or two strands break free: the ring, the casket, Brother Malachi. I used to wonder whether it was one or more murderers, and I eventually decided it must have been two.’ He used his hands to emphasise his point. ‘On the one hand we have Chandler and Broomhill, murdered secretly. I deduced there was only one assassin at work behind those deaths. But the others, the Misericord, the Judas Man, Beatrice and Clarice, as well as the attack on Brother Malachi, all pointed to a conspiracy. What we had to decide was who was part of that conspiracy? I concluded that all of them were, except Malachi. Davenport’s death, and the way it was twisted to look like some mysterious murder, convinced me. In the end it was merely a question of breaking the conspirators up and presenting them with the evidence I had gathered. And there’s one left. Oh no, Sir John.’ Athelstan got to his feet and smiled as he recalled the head ostler riding so swiftly out of the stable yard. ‘There are in fact three, with one more guilty than the others.’