Candle Flame (4 page)

‘They certainly do, little friar, and look at this.’ The coroner, crouching down, had moved a stool. He now held up a gauntlet and a piece of shiny, oiled chainmail. The gauntlet was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship: the velvet coat over the stiffened Cordova leather was finely stitched in gold, with small pearls along the finger furrows. Athelstan took both items over to the squat, evil-smelling tallow candle and examined them carefully. The chainmail was finely wrought. Athelstan suspected it was the best, probably Milanese; the links were fine and shiny with clasps on each corner. The gauntlet was also costly. Athelstan noticed the fingertips were smudged with dry blood. He glanced swiftly at the hands of the four murder victims: the two whores would not wear such items, whilst the gauntlet would certainly not fit the stout-fingered hands of Marsen or Mauclerc.

‘The chainmail,’ Cranston called out, ‘probably served as a wristguard.’

Athelstan summoned Thorne, but the taverner could not recall Marsen or any of his group carrying such items.

‘Both are the property of a knight,’ Thorne declared, scratching his reddish face with stubby fingers. ‘Surely such chainmail, a gauntlet … they might even belong to Beowulf?’

Athelstan turned back to Cranston. ‘Sir John, does Beowulf always leave those verses with his victims?’

‘Yes, Brother, he certainly does, and he is putting the fear of God into all of Gaunt’s servants. Master Thibault’s minions now go everywhere with a well-armed comitatus, be it in the cobbled square of some market town or the darkest greenwood. But how could it happen here?’

Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Not now, Sir John, and not here. We are harvesting the grain of bloody murder. Once the harvest is in we shall grind it and,’ he smiled, ‘never forget, the Mills of God may grind exceedingly slow but they do grind exceedingly small. So.’ Athelstan turned back to the window. There were shutters on both the inside and outside held together by large, sharp hooks which rested in clasps. Athelstan fully closed the shutters, scrutinized the gap and could see how a dagger could be inserted to lift the hooks. The window in between had a wooden frame with a horn covering that worked like a door with hinges and a latch on the inside. Thorne agreed that he had to rip the horn to lift the handle. Athelstan, mystified, could only stare, baffled at how the murderer came in and left. Both Thorne and Mooncalf were resolute in their assertion that the shutters were clasped shut and the window undisturbed. Athelstan walked around, sifting through the tumbled furniture, the blankets and sheets of the two cot beds. He was aware of Cranston lifting the rope matting. The taverner and Mooncalf were now collecting the last of the tankards, goblets and platters in a large iron-rimmed tub. Athelstan climbed the steep ladder, pushing open the trapdoor and carefully pulled himself up on to the top of the tower. A piercing cold wind buffeted him as he staggered across the thick shale to grasp a rusting iron bar which connected the ancient, moss-eaten crenellations. Athelstan took a deep breath as he stared around. To the north glinted the river – he could see the war cogs riding at anchor and a myriad of small boats, barges and wherries. The sky was now brightening but the day promised to remain freezing cold. The friar stared up at the wisps of cloud, then down at the huddle of buildings below. He turned. Somewhere to the south nestled his own church; his parishioners would be stirring. Benedicta, the beautiful dark-eyed woman would be in the church along with Crim the altar boy and Mauger the bell clerk. Athelstan realized he would have to celebrate his Mass late. He was also determined to meet his parish council so they could discuss the events of the recent ‘Love Day’ which had gone disastrously wrong. He heard Cranston call his name and made his way gingerly down. Cranston, Mooncalf and Thorne were examining two crossbow bolts taken from a small pouch. The coroner held them up. The steel barbs were blunted, their flight feathers split.

‘Apparently a trophy,’ Cranston remarked. ‘Mine Host claims that on his journey here Marsen was attacked as he crossed the small footbridge near Leveret Copse, a little to the south. Both bolts missed. Marsen crowed in triumph like a cock on its dunghill.’

‘They are the same.’ Athelstan studied both carefully. ‘Identical, I think, to those used to kill the archers outside. Ah, well, let’s continue.’ Athelstan went out into the bitter cold morning, Cranston and the others trailing behind. The air reeked of the nearby piggeries and trails of smoke from the dying campfire. Athelstan walked to the ladder, still positioned on the handcart. He made sure it was secure and carefully climbed up to the window. He noticed how the ladder hooks fixed securely under the sill. He pulled the shutters open, ignoring Cranston’s call to be careful and studied the woodwork, split horn and the handle to the window. Satisfied, he climbed back down.

‘Sir John, I have seen enough.’ He pointed to the door. ‘My Lord Coroner, Flaxwith, your master bailiff, must arrange for all the corpses to be removed to the death house at the Guildhall. They should be blessed by the chaplain and examined by the best physician that can be hired. The washing tub containing the tankards and the scraps and dregs must be taken down to one of those rat-infested dungeons beneath the Guildhall and spread out. The door is to be locked and guarded by the same Flaxwith, who must inform me about what happens next. Also, make sure the Barbican is sealed and guarded until all that is done. Sir John, you must, as soon as possible, issue an arrest warrant for Hugh of Hornsey, formerly Captain of the Tower archers. He is missing, fled. We have no sight of hide or hair of him. Now, Sir John, we truly should break our fast.’

They made their way across the Palisade, past the stiffening corpses of the two archers and into the tangy warmth of The Candle-Flame. Cranston shouted at Flaxwith and the other bailiffs, toasting themselves in front of the roaring fire in the Dark Parlour, to go out and guard the Barbican. Eleanor, Thorne’s wife, her comely face all concerned, then served Athelstan and the rest in the small, pink-plastered parlour with its gleaming dark-wood table and cushioned stools which led off from the main taproom. The food served was piping hot and delicious: black porray, roo broth and small white freshly baked manchet loaves thickly buttered and sprinkled with garlic, together with stoups of light ale. Sir John, once he had taken out his large horn-spoon and polished it with a napkin, ‘fell on the food’ as he himself observed, ‘like a hawk on a pigeon’. For a while no one spoke as platters were cleared and tankards emptied. Athelstan ate sparingly, complimenting Thorne on both the chamber and the food served. The taverner, crouched over his own dish, simply murmured how he wished to sell The Candle-Flame, adding that the turbulent times were not proving to be the best of seasons to host a tavern. Athelstan nodded understandingly; such sentiments were common amongst the tavern masters of Southwark. He also asked if Sir John’s earlier instruction about the other guests had been served. Mistress Eleanor, standing on the threshold, agreed, saying they had left their chambers but were breaking their fast in the buttery refectory. Athelstan waited until Sir John had finished eating and tapped the table with his horn-spoon. He smiled down the table at Mooncalf, the young ostler had recovered from both his terrors and the biting cold. He now sat sleepy-eyed and red-cheeked next to his master.

‘When did Marsen and his company arrive here?’

‘Four days ago,’ Thorne declared. ‘He sent Hugh of Hornsey ahead of them.’

‘When?’

‘About a week ago. Hornsey insisted that the Barbican be given over entirely to his master.’ Thorne pulled a face. ‘There was no problem with that. They arrived just as the Vespers bell tolled. Marsen acted the arrogant pig; Mauclerc no better. He proclaimed how he had been attacked on the road but God had intervened. He showed me the bolts loosed at him and said that no such danger better threaten him here.’ Thorne sniffed. ‘The Barbican was all prepared thanks to Mooncalf.’ Thorne patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I told him to look after Marsen and his coven and he did, with great patience and good humour.’

‘Why didn’t Marsen cross London Bridge and shelter in the Tower?’ Cranston asked.

‘I suppose they had further business here in Southwark levying their devil tax, including what I owed.’

‘You paid it?’

‘Of course, Sir John. What choice do I, you or indeed anyone have?’

‘Before last night,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did anything happen – any strangers appear, whatever their business?’

‘You mean the Upright Men or their assassin, Beowulf?’ Thorne spread his hands. ‘Brother, this is a very busy tavern, not so much from the guests who stay but any who travel through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’

Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.

‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.

‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with the dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’

‘And where were these whores from?’

‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’

‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’

‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’

‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’

‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.

‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.

‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’

Cranston stared at Athelstan, who just shook his head. ‘We found no such bag in the Barbican, Sir John.’

‘Then the killer must have taken it,’ Mooncalf insisted. ‘I definitely saw it, I definitely heard it.’

‘Apart from the whores, were there any other visitors?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Thorne replied, ‘a black-garbed fellow, hair of the same colour drawn tightly back and tied behind the head, harsh-featured with the unblinking stare of a hawk.’

‘Lascelles,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Master Thibault’s henchman. When did he come?’

‘The night before last. He met Marsen in the Barbican then left. Sir John, I know nothing of their business.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan glanced at Mooncalf.

‘As usual I went to wake them. I found the two archers as you did. I hurried across to the Barbican and hammered on the door.’

‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, boy?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to the miraculous wineskin.

‘Anything at all?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘No. Pedro the cruel,’ Mooncalf grimaced, ‘the tavern boar, was sleeping outside his sty. Sometimes he does that. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I became frightened and hurried back to the tavern to raise the alarm.’

Athelstan turned to Thorne.

‘I came out with the others, all shaken from our sleep. You’ve seen the Barbican, Brother, it is built for defence. Apart from the heavy door the only way through is the window. There is no ladder long enough so I put the one we have on a handcart and climbed up. The outer shutter was still hooked. I inserted a blade and lifted that; the door window was clasped shut. I cut back the horn, put my hand through and lifted the latch. The inner shutter was easier; the hooks came up but,’ he patted his stomach, ‘too much baggage. I came back down and sent Mooncalf up.’

Athelstan glanced at the ostler.

‘Brother, you saw what I did. The upper chamber was warm as the shutters had been closed all night. The brazier still glowed, as well as the chafing dishes.’ Mooncalf screwed up his eyes. ‘All of the candles had burnt out – they were extinguished.’

‘And the trapdoors?’

‘I remember the one to the roof was locked – yes, both were. The trapdoor to the lower chamber was also bolted.’ Mooncalf paused at Cranston’s loud snoring. The fat coroner, warmed and fed, was now relaxing in the comfort. Mooncalf stared at him then back at Athelstan in open-mouthed wonderment.

‘Don’t worry,’ the friar reassured, ‘Sir John can sleep with his eyes open and see when they are closed.’

‘And the truth never escapes me.’ The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips. ‘The main door?’ he asked.

‘Bolted top and bottom, the key turned and still in the lock.’ The ostler’s reply created a profound stillness. Even the distant sounds of the tavern faded. Athelstan stared down at the table top. They were now approaching the true mystery of this murderous maze. Athelstan recalled his youth, working on his father’s farm in the West Country. He and the other children would be clearing the furrows following the massive hogged-maned drays which pulled the sharp-toothed plough. Warm, sun-bright days but out to the west he’d glimpse sombre clouds massing, the heralds of a coming storm. Athelstan closed his eyes as other memories surfaced. He recalled sitting on the brow of a snow-covered hill staring down at the dark line of forestry certain that shadows would creep out of the blackness across the hard-packed snow. So it was here as the mystery unfurled. Athelstan opened his eyes. What was the sinister truth behind this heinous massacre? Nine souls had been ruthlessly despatched along that mystical path stretching to God’s judgement and their eternal destiny. How did it, how
could
it happen? Two able-bodied archers, surprised and summarily executed, and then the real mystery: the same blood-seeking wraith had swirled into the Barbican. The well-armed guard on the ground floor were slaughtered before the demon moved up to murder four others in the upper chamber. Once done, he had apparently pillaged a three-locked coffer without using the keys. Afterwards this killer had left just as mysteriously with the windows still shuttered, the main entrance and the two inside trapdoors all firmly locked.