A Shrine of Murders Page 5

  He stared around once more, making sure no one was watching him. He became alert when the group of merchants fell quiet as one of them pointed through the cathedral gate at someone approaching them. Thopas strolled across Burgate, going behind the merchants, mixing with them so no one noticed his arrival. He had chosen this group because they were a disparate collection, wool traders from London, Rochester and Canterbury. Strangers, so happy and intent on their outing, they would hardly notice a stranger, thinking he, too, was a private visitor. The cathedral gates opened and a pale, thin-faced monk stepped out and talked to the leader of the group, quickly pocketing the small clinking purse offered to him. His skull-like face broke into a gap-toothed smile. He bowed and muttered a welcome, waving them forward. They were led across the lay-folk cemetery, the sub-prior pointing to two of the great towers of the cathedral. They stopped for a stoup of water at the fountain in the middle of the graveyard before going through the south porch of the cathedral. The sub-prior pointed to the statues of three knights above the door.

  ‘The very ones who committed the dreadful murder of Becket,’ he announced.

  ‘Why are they in such a prominent place?’ one of the merchants asked.

  Again the gap-toothed smile from the monk. ‘So no courtier or King,’ he brayed, ‘will ever again lay their hands on a Bishop or the riches of Holy Mother Church.’

  He glared at the pilgrim merchants as if he suspected they had such an insidious design before leading the group into the nave. The murderer slipped quietly behind them. Other pilgrims had been halted because of this special visit and the lofty nave was deserted. The visitors were swept past various other monuments, the monk ignoring the latter with a flutter of his fingers, as if the greatness of any person buried there paled before the significance of Thomas à Becket. Thopas gazed up at the vastness of the building as the monk led them along the nave and up the broad stone steps to the choir. Just before they turned into the Martyr’s transept, they were shown other wonders, such as the statue of Our Lady before which Becket was supposed to have prayed the evening he died. Nearby, on a small altar, the merchants were also shown the sword which the murderers had used to hack off the Archbishop’s head.

  ‘You may kiss this,’ the monk announced.

  The merchants did so, although Thopas made sure his lips never touched the rusting piece of metal.

  After that they were led down to the crypt. The murderer trailed behind his intended victim, relishing the man’s smell and swagger, the rubicund colour of his face and the self-importance he exuded. Soon, Thopas thought, you will be gone and nothing here will save you. For, as Master Chaucer says, ‘I dare well tell, though you walk here, your spirit’s in hell.’ Thopas gazed round the cavernous crypt. It was all nonsense. He used to believe in the shrine, that’s why he had brought his mother here. She, with her frail body, climbling like a dog up the pilgrim steps to pray before the shrine, begging for a cure for the tumour growing within her: for a while it had stopped, but then it abruptly increased.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Thopas started and realised the rest of the group had gone deeper into the crypt. He felt a sense of panic, for he had always plotted never to be noticed, never to stand out. He peered through the gloom and breathed a sigh of relief. The merchant who was addressing him was his victim.

  ‘Nothing,’ Thopas replied, ‘I was just overcome by the magnificence of it all.’

  They rejoined the rest of the group, who were being shown other relics. First, the cleft skull of the Martyr, the forehead left bare so that they could kiss it, the rest covered in thick-plated silver. After that, other relics were displayed: the Archbishop’s hair shirts, girdles and the strips of leather Becket had used to subdue his flesh. They were then taken back to the choir entrance where, on the north side, chest after chest was opened, containing the relics of other saints. The silver-lined boxes were full of skulls, jaw-bones, teeth, hands, fingers and entire arms, which the pilgrims were invited to kiss. Most of the merchants did so but a few drew back in disgust when the monk displayed a relic arm with the flesh still clinging to it.

  The murderer sighed with relief as they were led up to the altar to view the cathedral’s treasures: rich vessels and ornaments. They crossed into St Andrew’s Chapel, which was stuffed full of precious vestments and golden candlesticks, including a pall of silk and a napkin with spots of real blood on its dingy surface.

  ‘These were used,’ the monk announced, ‘to cover the dead Archbishop’s body. Now,’ the monk continued triumphantly, ‘the climax of your visit.’

  He led them up another flight of steps to Becket’s tomb in Trinity Chapel. This was dominated by a figure of the saint gilded and adorned with many jewels. The merchants stood back in awe; even they, with their wealth and coffers full of gold, gazed in a mixture of envy and admiration at the beauty of the statue.

  The sub-prior climbed a ladder and, using a pulley, raised a wooden case which kept the shrine hidden from the vulgar gaze of the masses. Even Thopas, who believed in nothing and had seen the treasures many times before, gasped in admiration. The entire shrine was covered in gold plate and studded with very large rare jewels which caught the light and dazzled the eye. Some of the jewels were bigger than a goose’s egg, the most brilliant being the Regal of France, which shone like a burst of fire. The merchants were allowed to gaze in silent awe at this gorgeous display of wealth before the screen was lowered and they were taken to a nearby sacristry. Here, they knelt in worship as a box covered in black leather was produced and opened to reveal a few fragments of dirty linen.

  ‘These,’ the monk announced, ‘are what our Martyr would use to wipe the perspiration off his face and the runnings from his nose.’

  The merchants just stared speechlessly. A few turned away, slightly revolted. The box was closed and a lay brother entered carrying a tray of wine-cups and plates of wafers.

  Thopas now worked himself forward to the front of the group, the small phial in his left hand, whilst the merchants chattered and dug deep in their purses for coins to put in the collection plate. Making use of the darkened room, Thopas distributed the wine. He made sure he served his victim last and, as he handed the cup over, took advantage of the general hubbub of conversation to drop the poisoned powder into the cup, swirling the wine gently, allowing it to dissolve. Then he stood silent and, for a few seconds, watched his victim drink his death before stepping back into the shadows and fleeing like a ghost from the cathedral.

  At her house in Ottemelle Lane, Kathryn Swinbrooke sat in her small writing-chamber. She was pretending to work whilst the red-faced, sweating Thomasina laboured in the kitchen preparing a meal. Thomasina quietly cursed all men, particularly bog-trotting Irishmen who, she told in a loud whisper to Agnes, would eat them out of house and home before ravishing them in their beds.

  ‘Chance it would be a fine thing,’ Kathryn murmured with a half-smile. She listened to Thomasina’s lurid description, interspersed by Agnes’s noisy gasps, of what Irish mercenaries would do if any hapless maid fell into their brutal, coarse hands.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Thomasina bellowed, knowing full well her voice would carry to her mistress’s writing-chamber, ‘I have heard stories about Edward of York’s mercenaries.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper which Kathryn thought could be heard in the Guildhall. ‘Listen! They take a maid, strip her ever so slowly and lash her hands above her head to a post. They stand around drinking and then they do the most dreadful things.’

  ‘Such as?’ Agnes squeaked hopefully.

  Now Thomasina’s voice fell to a real whisper as she regaled the girl with every juicy tidbit of sexual scandal she had heard in her long and varied life. Kathryn grinned and looked down at the table. Someone had said Thomasina’s mouth was as big as a drain and as filthy, but Kathryn knew her to have a heart of gold. Nevertheless, her nurse’s constant references to Irishmen reminded Kathryn of what had occurred earlier in the day. The mystery behind that meeting; the p
rospect of greater income; the grubby menace of that deserted Guildhall thronged with soldiers. Bourchier’s cunning eyes in his red vein-streaked face; Luberon, nasty as a wasp; Newington, so frightened he looked as if he would faint. And that silent, swaggering soldier with his strange eyes and mocking air of menace.

  Kathryn played with the cap of her ink-horn. Was she frightened of Murtagh? ‘No, no,’ she whispered to the darkness. She thought again. Yes, she was, and in the coldness of her heart she cursed her husband. She had to face the truth Thomasina constantly pushed before her. She was frightened, wary of men, and who could blame her? Alexander Wyville, so gentle, so caring, so assiduous in his courtship. She remembered her wedding night, the sweetness and passion of those early days. Then the truth. Alexander drunk, his face a twisted mask of hatred as he dredged up from his own dark soul the wrongs and injuries done by a cruel step-father. His resentment at the lack of a proper education. His failure to become a truly prosperous merchant. He would stand in their bedchamber, squirting the wineskin into his mouth as he repeated once again his litany of hate.

  At first Kathryn thought it was a passing mood. She had seen her own father become drunk and maudlin, but he would relax and tell jokes about a certain friar. Alexander was different. When he was drunk, he lived in his own dark dungeon. When Kathryn had tried to intervene, the real nightmare had begun, for Alexander came to see her as the living personification of all that he thought he deserved and had lost. He turned violent: a fist to her face, a blow to her stomach; sometimes kicking and lashing her as if he were some alley brawler. In the morning when he was sober he would be contrite, but Kathryn soon realised she had married two, not one man.

  She closed her eyes and tried to listen to Agnes’s shrieks of delicious outrage. She must not think of Alexander. If she did, her father’s face would come back, swimming through her memories. She took a deep breath, leaned against the high-backed chair and tried to think of other matters. Should she change her dress before the Irishman arrived? She felt a tingle of excitement in her stomach. After all, he was the King’s Commissioner, a member of the King’s personal chamber: a trusted squire whom even the cardinal bishop treated with respect. Kathryn smelt the first savoury tang of the meat Thomasina was roasting and shook her head. No, she would give the Irishman a good meal, and that was enough.

  Kathryn stared at the small roll of parchment, picked it up and carefully undid its ribbon of silk. At first she found it difficult to follow the cramped, clerkly hand, for her mind was distracted and Thomasina was still bellowing about the lustful intents of Irish bog-trotters.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Thomasina,’ Kathryn whispered to herself.

  She began reading once again, and despite the official, bureaucratic tone of the clerk, the real menace of what she was facing began to emerge.

  A true and accurate account of the horrible murders committed in the city of Canterbury against pilgrims visiting the Blessed Martyr’s shrine. The first such felony was committed on April 5th. Aylward of Evesham, a weaver, together with other members of that town, visited the shrine to supplicate before the Martyr’s tomb. Aylward was a good man, of yeoman stock, careful and sober in his ways. The mayor and jury of that town had sworn an oath that Aylward was a loyal citizen and faithful subject of the King. He was well-liked and respected and had no enemies or business rivals. The pilgrims from Evesham arrived in Canterbury on Tuesday and visited the shrine late on Wednesday morning. They joined the other pilgrims and nothing untoward was noticed except that Gervase, a companion of the said Aylward, claimed that after they left the cathedral enclosure, they were approached by a water-seller. The fellow was old, with a hood pulled well over his head. He offered the townsfolk of Evesham free stoups of cold water, drawn fresh from a nearby well. The water-seller explained he did this as an act of mercy. The pilgrims, overjoyed at such generosity, were each offered a cup of water from the fellow’s barrel. The water-seller teased Aylward, saying he looked their leader and, to quote the words of the Gospel, ‘The first would be last and the last would be first.’ So Aylward was served after them all. The water-seller disappeared and the pilgrims were going back to their tavern in Westgate when Aylward fell to the ground in a dead swoon and expired shortly afterwards. A local physician, John Talbot, was summoned by the alderman of the ward. He pronounced Aylward dead, God assoil him, and said that his death was due to a potent poison. The pilgrims from Evesham swore no suspicion could fall on any of their group. The Corporation ordered a search for this mysterious water-seller, but no trace of him has been found.

  The second murder occurred two weeks later. Very little evidence exists except that the victim, Osbert Obidiah, a carpenter from a village outside Maidstone, was found dead in an alley-way off Burgate. The blackness of his mouth and tongue loudly proclaimed that he had died of no sudden seizure but that he, too, had been horribly poisoned.

  The third death followed soon afterwards. Ranulf Floriack, a haberdasher and pilgrim from Acton Burnley, was supping with other pilgrims in the Winged Horse Tavern in Pissboil Alley. The pilgrims were of poor means and had ordered cups of watered wine and bowls of onion soup, for which the tavern was famous. Shortly after finishing his bowl, Ranulf was taken violently ill with cramps in his stomach and, despite the consolation and help given by his companions, expired in the stableyard behind the tavern. Again no suspicions fell upon his companions, so questions were asked of the taverner. Apparently Ranulf had been murdered with arsenic, the same potion used against Osbert. A search was made of the tavern; no poisons or potions found there. But the landlord confessed all was not well.

  ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘I hire a number of pot-boys and slatterns during the pilgrim season. My customers are many, often hungry, so my kitchens are busier than any beehive. Apparently, for a few minutes, whilst the pilgrims from Acton Burnley were being served, one of the slatterns noticed a servant working in the tavern whom she had never seen before. He had long, greasy hair, a dirty apron, and she was sure he served the pilgrim group.’

  The girl in question had also been interrogated, but all she could report was glimpsing a servitor, his face blackened with dirt and grease, his hair long and straggly, rather tall, pushing through the group towards the pilgrims. She had not seen him previously, nor since.

  The fourth murder was more recent, a few days ago; in fact, just before the news of the King’s victory at Tewkesbury reached the city. Robert Clerkenwell, a physician from London, had been poisoned in the Checker Board Tavern in Burgate near the stocks. He had been drinking Rhenish wine when suddenly he dropped, as if from a seizure, death being almost instantaneous. Geoffrey Cotterell, a physician . . .

  Kathryn looked up and pulled a face. She knew Cotterell. A busy, nasty man who served the rich and didn’t give a fig for anyone else. Her father always claimed he was a charlatan and quietly mocked Cotterell’s supercilious air and ostentatious dress. Kathryn went back to the manuscript.

  . . . Cotterell [the clerk continued] had been in the ‘vicinity’ [Kathryn took a pen and underlined this]. He examined the dead physician and said the skin was so cold and clammy, he must have been poisoned with a strong infusion of some subtle poison such as foxglove, which would stop the heart and lead to sudden death. Once again the pilgrims were interrogated. A search made of their possessions proved fruitless, and no blame could be attached to them. A perfunctory search of the Checker Board Tavern was also made and, strange upon strange, a scullion similar to the one glimpsed in the Winged Horse had been seen serving the dead physician and his companions.

  The manuscript abruptly ended there. Kathryn read it once again, quietly mouthing the words. She then rose and went into the kitchen, rather concerned because of the silence there. Thomasina and Agnes had gone into the garden and were collecting herbs. Now Agnes was stripping them of their leaves and stems whilst Thomasina was crushing the herbs with a small wooden mortar and pestle. Kathryn leaned against the door lintel and watched them. Agnes, round-eyed, could hardly co
ncentrate on what she was doing but kept staring at Thomasina, perched on the corner of the small garden wall, still regaling the young maid with the sexual habits of Irish mercenaries. Kathryn stretched, quietly vowing she would buy a better chair, perhaps one cushioned and quilted. She took a pewter cup and filled it with water from a pitcher and stood enjoying the smells from the meat slowly roasting over the fire. Absent-mindedly she walked back to her chamber, sipping from the cup. The Irishman would undoubtedly ask questions, but so far, what could she say? The whole business troubled her and touched upon memories . . . something she had either read, or had her father told her? She paused at the entrance to her writing-office. How did that doggerel verse run?

  Becket’s tomb all dirt and crass,

  Radix malorem est Cupiditas.

  Something about the verses stirred her memory. And why did the assassin choose his victim by profession? She remembered the verse.

  A weaver to Canterbury his way did wend,

  And to Heaven his soul I did send.

  Kathryn shook her head and sat down at the table. How would her father have resolved this problem? Here, in this office, she felt his presence draw closer, as if he were standing by the chair, leaning over her.

  ‘Always remember, Kathryn,’ he used to say, ‘we physicians know nothing. If you have a sore throat, I can give you a fusion of honey and herbs. I know it will help, but I cannot explain why. If you break your arm, I can set it into a splint; usually it heals but I can’t explain why. A good physician can only watch, study and draw conclusions. Look at the evidence. A man’s eyes, the state of his nails and hair, the way he sits, the manner of his breathing.’

  Kathryn stared down at the clerk’s memorandum. Perhaps she should apply the same rules to this. She took up a piece of parchment and smoothed it out. So far, what could she say?