The House of Shadows Read online

  ‘And I suppose nobody saw anything?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ exclaimed Sir Maurice, who was leaning against the door. ‘We always stay at the Night in Jerusalem. We have never known such excitement! The Great Ratting, the fight in the tap room, the whores being cut down in the hay barn. Like the old days, Sir Jack.’

  Cranston looked sharply at him.

  ‘I have been standing here watching you,’ the knight explained. ‘I remember Master Rolles from the war years, but now I recall you. You were in Sir Walter Manny’s expedition out of Calais. Do you remember?’

  Cranston smiled and brushed back his mass of grey hair.

  ‘Of course, days of glory, eh? I was freshly knighted. I was handsome then, slim as a whippet, fast as a falling hawk, but I don’t recall you, sir.’

  ‘I was a lowly squire,’ Clinton replied.

  ‘So many different memories,’ Cranston mused.

  He got to his feet, walked over and, crouching down, pulled back the sheet covering the corpses of the two women.

  ‘I knew these two girls,’ he smiled over his shoulder, ‘though not in the carnal sense. I also knew their mother, a very famous whore! A woman of mystery. She was famous throughout Southwark. One night . . .’ Cranston paused, ‘Satan’s tits,’ he whispered, ‘one night she disappeared.’

  Athelstan felt a prickle of cold on his back. The coroner had recalled something significant.

  ‘Guinevere the Golden,’ Cranston murmured.

  His remark brought a gasp of surprise from Brother Malachi, who was sitting beside Athelstan. The Benedictine sprang to his feet, fingers going to his lips, his agitation so obvious Athelstan became alarmed.

  ‘What is it, Brother?’ Cranston re-covered the corpses and got to his feet. The Benedictine looked as if he was about to faint. Athelstan put down his writing satchel.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Malachi scratched his forehead. ‘I don’t really know.’ He glanced quickly at Athelstan. ‘I don’t want to talk here.’

  ‘You can use the solar,’ Rolles offered. ‘I’ll take you there myself.’

  ‘And me?’ the Judas Man asked. ‘Are you finished with me, Sir John?’

  ‘No, I am not finished with you, but you can return to your post. On no account leave Southwark without my permission.’

  ‘The corpses.’ The taverner stopped at the door. ‘They’ll begin to ripen.’

  ‘Flaxwith,’ Cranston roared.

  The bailiff, followed by his two dogs, came hurrying across the yard.

  ‘Have these corpses removed. They are to be taken across the river and buried in the strangers’ plot outside Charterhouse. The Corporation will bear the cost.’

  Athelstan and Cranston left the outhouse with the others and crossed the muck-strewn yard. A faint drizzle had begun to fall, so the passageway into the tavern seemed even more warm and sweet-smelling. They passed the tap room, still being vigorously cleaned after the previous night, and into the more comfortable part of the tavern, the solar, a large chamber which overlooked a well-laid-out garden.

  ‘I grow my own herbs and vegetables,’ Rolles explained. ‘So visitors don’t come at the dead of night,’ he continued sharply, ‘to offer me leeks and shallots for sale.’

  Cranston laughed and patted him on the shoulder. The taverner shrugged this off and pointed to the polished wooden table which ran down the centre of the room.

  Cranston sat at the top, Athelstan on his right, with Malachi and Sir Maurice on his left. Athelstan placed his writing satchel on the floor. What he learned today he would write up later. Brother Malachi still looked pale. The taverner’s offer of a jug of Rhenish wine and a plate of comfits was eagerly accepted by Cranston. Athelstan believed the taverner wished to eavesdrop, so he nudged Sir John under the table. The coroner took the hint and loudly began to praise the solar’s furnishings, pointing at the mantled hearth, where a log fire spluttered, the coloured drapes above the wooden panelling, the glass in the windows. Despite the taverner’s obvious annoyance, the coroner heaped praise upon praise and continued to do so until Rolles had served the wine and the silver dish of marchpane, and left the room. Even then Cranston got to his feet, still talking, opened the door and slammed it firmly shut.

  ‘Well done, Brother, well done.’ He smiled, tapping the side of his nose.

  Malachi’s colour had returned, and he drank greedily at the wine but refused to eat anything. Athelstan wondered what had so alarmed the Benedictine. He was, Athelstan reflected, a youngish man, yet he appeared to have aged. His usual cheeriness had crumpled, the furrows around his mouth were more obvious, his skin was pasty, his eyes tired, his mouth slack.

  ‘Brother Malachi need not tell you. I shall,’ Sir Maurice offered, patting the Benedictine gently on the arm. ‘Twenty years ago the French signed the peace treaty of Bretigny, and the war with France ended, at least for a while. I and my companions . . . well, Sir Jack, you know how it was, young knights with little land and no wealth? We all came from Kent, we’d fought across the Narrow Seas, but none of us had taken any plunder or ransoms. We became mercenaries. The Crusader, Peter of Cyprus, organised an expedition against the Turks in North Africa. He hoped to seize Alexandria and free the trade routes in the Middle Sea.’

  ‘I remember it,’ Cranston nodded. ‘An army assembled in London. The King loaned ships, a squadron, berthed here in the Thames, cogs and merchantmen.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Sir Maurice, I think I know what you are going to talk about. The treasure, the Crusaders’ war chest?’

  ‘The Lombard treasure,’ Sir Maurice agreed. ‘Peter of Cyprus raised a huge loan from the Bardi in Lombard Street. Now the Crusader fleet lay at anchor in the Thames, taking on men and supplies. It became common knowledge that the Lombard treasure was to be taken aboard. It was decided the treasure should be moved by night, and as few people as possible would be told when and how it was to be transported to the flagship, The Glory of Westminster. The leader of the English force, Lord Belvers, a Kentish man, apparently arranged for two of our company, two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer, to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it by barge to the flagship.’ He coughed. ‘We learned all this later.’

  He paused as Brother Malachi lifted a hand.

  ‘My monastic name is Malachi, a famous Celtic saint, but I am Thomas Culpepper by birth. Sir Richard was my brother.’ He sipped his wine. ‘We all came up to London, excited by the prospect of war, glory and plunder. The Pope had promised a plenary indulgence for all those who took the Cross. We called ourselves the Company of the Golden Falcon – that was our emblem – eight of us in all, led by Sir Maurice here, whilst I was their chaplain. We all hoped to achieve great things, to win glory for God and Holy Mother Church. Only afterwards did we discover that two of our company, my brother included, had been chosen for a special task.

  ‘We all lodged here, not so luxuriously as we do now.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Master Rolles had just bought the tavern from his profits. You, Sir John, were not coroner, and there was no priest at St Erconwald’s. Richard was young and vigorous. He loved to dance, he thrilled to the sound of music. While we waited for the army to assemble and the fleet to sail, he and the rest caroused in the fleshpots of London. We stayed here for some time. Richard became infatuated with a whore, a courtesan.’

  ‘Guinevere the Golden?’ Athelstan asked.

  Malachi nodded. ‘He had known her for months. Lord Belvers had often sent him to London on this errand or that. Guinevere became pregnant, twin daughters. Richard suspected . . .’ Malachi’s voice trailed off.

  ‘God in Heaven!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Are you saying those two corpses were your brother’s daughters, your nieces?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Malachi spat the word out. ‘But there again, Guinevere had many admirers; those children could have been anybody’s. Now the Lombard treasure arrived, it was taken from the Tower by barge and apparently handed over to my brother. He was to transport it by boat to the flagship.’ Malachi fe
ll silent.

  ‘But neither the barge nor the Lombard treasure ever reached the flagship,’ Sir Maurice explained.

  ‘Impossible,’ Athelstan said.

  Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Believe me, both the river and the city were searched. Of the boatmen who brought the barge, or the two knights, not a trace was found, nor of the treasure they were transporting. They all vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘I remember this.’ Cranston refilled his wine cup. ‘I was in Calais at the time and returned to London just before Christmas. A thorough search was organised.’

  ‘And nothing was found?’ Athelstan queried.

  ‘Nothing.’ Malachi shook his head. ‘My brother and Edward Mortimer . . . well, it seemed as though they’d never existed. For twenty years I have searched. What is worse is that both were proclaimed as thieves. On the same night the Lombard treasure disappeared, Guinevere the Golden also vanished. Every year we come up to London, every year I make enquiries, but nothing.’

  Athelstan rose to his feet, seemingly fascinated by the tapestry mentioned by Rolles, which hung just within the doorway. Costly and heavy, the stitching was exquisite, its red, green and blue thread streaked with gold. The tapestry described the famous fable, the storming of the Castle of Love. Armed knights, displaying the device of a heart, were preparing to swarm into the castle, their catapults and trebuchets full of roses with which to shower the lady custodians, who were ready to defend themselves with baskets of brilliantly coloured flowers. Athelstan ran his hand down it and found the heavily concealed pocket in the bottom right-hand corner of the tapestry.

  ‘I have seen that device before,’ Sir John called out. ‘In the well-to-do taverns and hostelries of France, a place where favourite customers can, anonymously, leave a letter asking for the services of a courtesan.’ Sir John smacked his lips. ‘Or whatever their heart desires.’

  Athelstan dug his hand deep into the pocket. It was empty. He returned to the table.

  ‘Has any trace of the Lombard treasure ever been found?’

  Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘Everything disappeared. Our two comrades, the treasure, not to mention the whore Guinevere.’

  ‘No, that’s wrong.’ Malachi spoke up. ‘I discovered many years later that the barge had been found in the mud and slime further downriver.’

  ‘How did you discover that?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Two bargemen had been hired; both were married, both left widows, who petitioned the Exchequer for compensation. Of course the barons of the Exchequer replied that the men could still be alive, so the widows’ kinsmen organised a search. You see,’ Malachi spread his hands, ‘the fleet sailed three days after the robbery. We had to leave. So the search for the treasure and the others was left to the City authorities. Only many years later did I hear about the barge.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Sir Maurice murmured.

  Athelstan was about to continue his questioning when there was a knock on the door. Master Rolles entered carrying a tray of herbs, bowls of saffron, mace, nutmeg, cloves and cinnamon. Athelstan breathed in the refreshing smells.

  ‘I’ve brought these to sweeten the room,’ the taverner explained. ‘If you are finished, sirs . . .’

  He paused at a loud hammering and knocking from the gallery above, followed by shouts.

  ‘If you are finished,’ Rolles repeated, choosing to ignore the clamour, ‘I would like to prepare for the midday meal.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Sir John rubbed his stomach. ‘And what are you offering, Master Rolles?’

  ‘Frumenty soup, sprinkled with venison and saffron, Tuscany broth with rabbit and almond milk, garnished with nutmeg and galingale, followed by pike stuffed with lampreys and eels. Pheasant . . .’

  Sir John groaned in pleasure.

  The taverner placed the tray on the table. As he did so, Sir Laurence Broomhill hurried in.

  ‘Sir Maurice, Master Rolles, you must come.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘After we returned from Mass this morning, Sir Stephen asked for a jug of wine and a goblet. He said he wished to bathe . . .’

  ‘I remember.’ Rolles wiped his fingers on a napkin and stuffed it into the belt round his waist. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We cannot rouse him. We’ve knocked and shouted, but there is no reply.’

  ‘The door?’

  ‘It’s bolted and locked.’ Broomhill clawed at his beard. ‘He may have had a seizure.’

  Sir Maurice sprang to his feet and, followed by Brother Malachi and the taverner, hurried from the solar. Cranston and Athelstan glancing sharply at each other quickly followed. They went out along the passageway and up the broad corner staircase. On the gallery above, a throng of people had gathered outside the third door along. Athelstan noticed the muddy boots outside the door placed in a reed basket. He grabbed Rolles’ arm and pointed at these.

  ‘A tap boy was meant to clean them.’

  The taverner pushed Athelstan’s hand away and, shoving a path through the throng, pounded at the door.

  ‘Sir Stephen Chandler,’ he bellowed. ‘I beg you, sir, open up.’

  The clamour brought more servants and grooms up the stairs. Cranston ordered one of these to fetch a bench from the passageway below and asked the knights to step away. At first there was confusion, but under Sir John’s direction, the bench was used as a battering ram, swinging hard against the door until it buckled on its leather hinges, the locks and bolts at the top and bottom snapping back.

  The room inside was warm. Athelstan noticed how the windows were shuttered, and peering round the rest, he glimpsed the pale body sprawled in the iron-hooped bathtub. Cranston, roaring at everyone to stand back, pushed his way through, almost dragging Athelstan with him. Once inside, he kept everyone else back, insisting no one should enter the room or touch anything. Athelstan quickly examined the body. Sir Stephen was beyond all help. The Dominican quickly recited the requiem and, pressing his hand against the dead man’s neck, once again made sure there was no blood beat. He crouched down and murmured the words of absolution in the hope that the soul hadn’t immediately left the body, trying not to concentrate on those half-open, staring dead eyes, the slack jaw, the bloodless lips and liverish face. The water was ice cold. Athelstan glimpsed the small overturned stool and the fallen wine cup which had stained one of the turkey carpets. He plucked a napkin from the lavarium, picked up the cup and carefully sniffed. It had a heavy, unpleasant odour, rank and foul, like rotting weeds, though when he tested the wine in the jug it smelt wholesome.

  ‘God rest him,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘He is dead, murdered, poisoned.’

  Sir Maurice, standing next to Cranston, tried to push forward but the coroner restrained him.

  ‘It can’t be!’ Sir Maurice shouted. ‘Who would poison poor Stephen?’

  ‘I don’t know, but poisoned he is. The jug of wine is wholesome, but the cup is tainted. Was Sir Stephen taking any potions or powders?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘None, none.’ Sir Maurice’s agitation was obvious. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, can’t this room be cleared?’ He gestured at the corpse. ‘Must he be left sprawled like that?’

  ‘A murder has been committed.’ Cranston stood, legs apart, his enormous girth blocking any further entry into the room. ‘A murder has been committed and I am the Lord Coroner. Master Rolles, take your guests away – oh, and send for a physician.’

  Cranston shooed them all back into the gallery, blocking the view by pulling across the unhinged door. Then he turned, mopping his face with the hem of his cloak.

  ‘Athelstan, you’re sure it’s murder?’

  ‘Poison, Sir Jack. I would wager a year’s collection, and by the coldness of the water, he has been dead at least an hour.’

  Whilst they waited for the physician, Cranston and Athelstan surveyed the room. The Dominican noticed the small coffer with its three locks and started to search for the keys. Cranston, however, was much taken with the luxury of the chamber: its glowing tapes
tries, the dark blue gold-fringed hangings around the four-poster bed, and the carved oak and walnut furnishings. Athelstan half listened as Sir John described the scene on one of the tapestries, Excalibur being taken down to the Lady of the Lake.

  ‘Ah, I’ve found them!’ Athelstan moved a candle on the small table beside the bed to reveal a thick silver key ring. He was about to try the keys in the small coffer when there was a tapping and Master Stapleton the physician edged his way round the broken door and came into the room.

  Cranston and Athelstan had done business before with this cadaverous-faced leech: his ever-watery eyes and constantly dripping nose always tempted Athelstan to whisper the words ‘Physician heal thyself, but Master Stapleton had no sense of humour. He came shrouded in his customary food-stained robe, sniffing and spluttering as he stood staring disdainfully down at the corpse. He pressed his hand against the neck, felt the stomach, peered into the mouth and pulled up an eyelid.

  ‘Good morrow, Master Stapleton.’ Cranston leaned down as if trying to catch the physician’s glare. ‘You do know who we are?’

  ‘Of course I do, Sir John; in your case, once seen, never forgotten. Good morrow to you too, Brother Athelstan,’ he declared and poked a finger at the corpse. ‘This man’s dead. My examination will cost you five shillings.’

  He picked up the wine goblet and sniffed at it.

  ‘Oh, he has been poisoned, so that’ll be seven shillings.’

  ‘I know he’s dead,’ Cranston roared. ‘What of?’

  ‘Now, now, Sir John, do not disturb your humours. You know how the black bile of anger warms the blood.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Cranston snapped.

  ‘Very well.’ Stapleton clasped his cloak with both hands, head going back like a judge about to pass sentence. ‘I suspect he died of water hemlock, probably mixed with henbane. I can tell that by the offensive smell, and before you ask, Brother, the wine would hide both taste and smell, at least for a while. Now henbane flowers in late July, so the poison was probably a dried powder, very potent. The cup’s polluted but the wine jug is free of any noxious smell. So,’ Stapleton held out a hand, ‘either he, or someone else, put poison in that cup. He drank and climbed into the bath. Death would follow fairly swiftly. The victim is fat, like you, Sir John; perhaps his heartbeat was not too strong.’