We left by barge the following morning, just as dawn was breaking. Agrippa walked us down to the quayside, humming some little song under his breath. He helped me to the barge, grasped my hand and pulled me towards him.
‘Next time you meet Herne the Hunter,' he whispered, his eyes bright with merriment, 'do give him my regards.'
I sat down, gaping in surprise as the barge pulled away: Agrippa simply lifted his hand, turned and disappeared into the early morning mist. I'll be honest. I have always wondered whether he was Herne the Hunter. Years later, when old Tom Wolsey had fallen into disgrace because he couldn't get the King a divorce and journeyed south to York to stand trial for treason, I accompanied him. I was there in Leicester Abbey when he fell suddenly sick. (Oh, yes, he was poisoned and, no, it wasn't me.) I knelt by Wolsey's bedside as the death rattle began in his throat, and he confessed all his sins. I squeezed his fat, podgy hand.
Tell me, Tom,' I asked. (By then I was on first-name terms with everyone; even the Great Beast let me call him Hal!) Tell me, Tom,' I said. 'As you hope to meet your Saviour, did Agrippa dress as Herne the Hunter?'
Fat Tom shook his head. 'Impossible,' he whispered. ‘He was with me all that day, closeted on the King's business.'
‘Ah well, maybe Agrippa got one of his bully-boys to dress the part. I never have found out.
We reached St Paul's Wharf just as the city church bells tolled for mid-morning Mass. Benjamin had remained quiet during the journey, but now he stirred himself: gripping the bags of gold, he ran up the quayside steps and stared anxiously around. ‘What's wrong, Master?' I asked, following him quickly.
Benjamin hid the gold beneath his cloak and stared round anxiously. ‘Roger, I feel uneasy!'
I pointed to the halberdiers and archers still on the barge.
They'll be with us,' I declared. 'And the King undoubtedly has others hidden around St Paul's Cross.'
But Benjamin would not be comforted. The royal bodyguard quickly formed a screen around us and we went up towards the towering mass of St Paul's. The city had returned to some form of normality. Traders, hucksters and merchants were busy behind their stalls. Dung-collectors were cleaning the public latrines: they dressed like lazars, covered from head to toe in rags against the foulness and the fetid smells which cloyed the air and caught the throat. There were no signs of any death-carts or red crosses daubed on doors. I glimpsed two cunning men, pickpockets, and idly wondered where Quicksilver was. I still harboured a deep desire to shake him warmly – by the throat! However, as the psalmist says: 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and Benjamin and I were busy.
We turned on to Paternoster Row and went up St Paul's Alley which led straight into the cathedral. As we passed, I studied the famous wall paintings of the Dance of Death: grotesque, macabre skeletons leaping and cavorting as they led hundreds into the great dark pit of Hell. I simply mention it because it has gone now. The Duke of Somerset pulled it down. We went into the cathedral along the nave, Paul's Walk, where men of the city strode, showed themselves, gossiped and did a little business. The choirboys were out in force, looking for anyone silly enough to wear spurs, for they had the right to demand 'spur' money as a fee. At the west end of the nave, about two dozen scribes sat at small tables scribbling letters and legal documents. Benjamin made his escort stop and stared at these industrious scribblers.
‘I wonder,' he whispered, 'if our blackmailer uses them?'
‘No, Master.' I pointed round. 'Just look at the rogues and rapscallions gathered here. Servants for hire, ragged-arsed lawyers looking for clients. If the scribe didn't betray their hirer, these would.'
Benjamin agreed. We went up to the sanctuary dominated by the gorgeously carved and decorated tomb of St Erconwald. A busy-looking cleric, hopping from foot to foot, was waiting for us there. He beckoned us quickly into the sacristy where a liveried thug introduced himself as John Ramasden. A captain of the guard of the King's palace at Whitehall, Ramasden was dressed in chainmail, a heavy warbelt slung round his waist. A hard-faced, lean, mean-eyed, fighting man. He ignored our introductions and came swiftly to the point.
'My orders are simple,' he barked. ‘When the cathedral bell tolls the Angelus, you are to go into St Paul's churchyard, carrying the gold. You are to place the gold on the steps of St Paul's Cross.' 'And then what?' I asked.
Ramasden pushed his face close; his blood-filled eyes reminded me of the King's.
‘I don't give a rat's turd what happens!' he replied: then he grinned. (He had one good tooth in his mouth and his breath was foul.) 'Some villain will try to pick up the sacks. I and my men will seize him and any accomplices, then it's heigh ho down to the Tower. Until then,' he pulled a face, 'we wait!'
And wait we did: the minutes seemed to last for hours. Benjamin, lost in his own thoughts, crouched on a stool, cradling the gold. Every so often he would look at me, shake his head and mutter.
‘But how could it be done? How on earth, Roger, could it be done?’
To be truthful, even my sharp wits were dulled. I jumped as the bells began to toll. Ramasden hustled us out by a side door into the vast expanse of St Paul's churchyard. Now, those of you who have been there, know the area is a small town in itself It stopped being used as a cemetery years ago, and became a shabby market where all the thieves congregated to share their ill-gotten gains. They're protected by some stupid city ordinance which stipulates no lawman or sheriff's officer can enter there in pursuit.
On that particular day, business was brisk. The air stank with a variety of smells: sweaty bodies, stale food being cooked over open fires, perfumes from the whores, whilst our ears were dinned by the clack of tongues and shouts of traders. A few people looked askance at Ramasden. However, he was wearing the royal livery, so no one dared accost him as we threaded our way past the battered stalls to where St Paul's Cross soared high above the graveyard. Now the cross was where heralds came to report news of great victories; the birth of a prince; to announce the sentencing of some great noble, or to give a lurid description of his death by disembowelling on Tower Hill. Around the cross were the bookstalls and pamphleteers whose clerks would sit and listen to such information and, within hours, be writing some broadsheet to sell in the streets outside. Above us the bell kept tolling as I anxiously searched the crowd, seeking a face I could recognise. At last, the chimes began. Benjamin and I counted aloud. Ten, eleven!'
And then, like the knell of death, the final one. Benjamin quickly moved forward and placed the gold on the steps of the cross. I was wondering how long it would stay: with every rogue in London milling about, any sack left unattended would disappear in a twinkling of an eye. I watched one sharp-eyed caitiff come from behind a stall and edge towards the sack. I started as a woman screamed. The sweating sickness! The sweating sickness!'
Her screams were drowned by a deafening explosion, as if someone had fired a cannon. Everyone scattered. Benjamin and I dropped our guard and, when we looked back, the bags were gone. I ran to the cross, up the steps and gazed over the crowd. Of course, everybody was running: either terrified that an infected person was near, eager to get away from the explosion, or determined either to guard their possessions or plunder someone else's. The scene was total chaos. Men and women fighting each other, stalls knocked over, knives being drawn, bottles hurled, children crying, women screaming, men cursing and shoving at each other. I glimpsed Ramasden, his sword drawn, beating people away from the cross.
The sacks have gone, Roger!' Benjamin shouted. And God knows who took them!' "But how?' I screamed back.
Benjamin sat on the bottom step, head in hands. It seemed to be the only thing to do, so I joined him.
‘I never thought of that.' Benjamin raised his head, staring at the chaos around him. 'What are all Londoners frightened of, Roger? The sweating sickness and fire.' He got to his feet. ‘We are wasting our time here!'
He went across and spoke to Ramasden, then beckoned to me to follow him back into the cathedral which was also deserted. ‘I am not a prophet,' my master remarked, squatting at the base of the pillar. "But I wager a tun of wine, Roger, that Ramasden comes and tells us there is no one ill of the sweating sickness, whilst the explosion came from a trail of gunpowder carefully laid in some enclosed space.'
Benjamin was correct. Ramasden followed us into the cathedral, swearing and cursing fit to burst.
The bastards!' he screamed, walking up and down in front of us. The misbegotten turds!'
'Are you talking about your men?' I asked. 'Who allowed the villain to escape?’
Ramasden ceased his pacing. He came over and kicked me on the sole of my boot.
'No, sir, I am not. I'm talking of the stupid drunk, sweating like a pig, who fell into a swoon just inside the churchyard. A silly woman believed a beggar who examined the man and said he was infected.' 'And the explosion?' Benjamin asked.
'A trail of powder,' Ramasden replied. ‘I.aid in a gulley which ran into one of the derelict tombs.' He shook his head. 'Nothing but a magnificent fart.' He hawked and spat on the church floor. "Didn't you see him?' Ramasden stared accusingly at us. He squatted down and poked me in the chest. ‘How do I know you didn't take it yourself?' If you poke me again…!' I shouted.
'If you poke me again,' Benjamin repeated, ‘I’ll see you in the Tower, sir!' My master got to his feet, dragging me with him, and stared coolly at Ramasden. The gold has been taken by a subtle device and the rogue will be long gone. I shall report as much to my uncle the Cardinal.'
Ramasden stepped back, muttering apologies. Benjamin ignored him. He plucked at my sleeve and almost hurried me out of the cathedral, down past Paternoster Row to a small tavern built alongside Blackfriars Wall. "Now's not the time for eating and drinking!' I moaned. There is little more we can do’ Benjamin replied.
‘We could search for that beggar who raised the alarm, or make inquiries about who laid the gunpowder.'
Benjamin smiled. Hoger, do you think anyone in St Paul's churchyard saw what happened and, if they did, would any of those wolvesheads tell us the truth? We could spend hours making fools of ourselves.'
"But it must be someone from the Tower,' I said. 'Gunpowder is stored there.'
'Aye,' Benjamin sighed. "But it can also be bought, stolen, or even made. What we have to do, Roger, is discover whether Kemble, Vetch, Spurge, Mallow, or any one of those hangmen, were absent from the Tower this morning.' 'And if they are not?’
Then, dear Roger, we are truly in a pig's mess. Uncle will be furious. The King's rage…'
He paused as a servant brought us a tankard of ale and a platter of stew and vegetables. The King's rage can only be imagined!'
I dropped my horn spoon and gripped my belly. Once the news reached Windsor, the Great Beast would be bellowing. Herne the Hunter had publicly promised that I would bring the King safely through his present troubles. Now he was two thousand pounds poorer and the rumours of this blackmail were spreading further. I picked up my horn spoon again. Then it's back to the Tower, Master.'
'Oh no. We first have to check on Mistress Under-shaft's new-found wealth.'
I ate morosely. After we had finished, I followed Benjamin along the busy, crowded streets, up through the dirt and mess of Newgate and down into Cheapside. An apprentice boy pointed out Thurgood the goldsmith's shop. We found him in his counting-house; a thick-necked, fleshy-faced man, with eyes which could assess your wealth in a few seconds. He took one look at us and returned to his ledger, so Benjamin whispered in his ear and Thurgood sprang up like a jack-in-a-box, all servile and eager to please.
'Oh, yes, yes.' The words came out in a hiss of pleasure. "Mistress Undershaft.' He moved the manuscripts from his table, pulled out a calf-bound ledger and opened it. 'Just after her husband's sad demise.' The goldsmith's eyelids fluttered in what he thought was a look of condolence. 'A beneficiary deposited a hundred pounds in gold in her name.'
Benjamin whistled under his breath. 'But that's a fortune!' The goldsmith spread his hands. 'Such bequests are not unknown.' 'When was it made?' I asked.
Thurgood leafed through the ledger and pointed to an entry; the date was about a week after her husband's death. It showed the amount deposited under Thurgood's seal.
'And before you ask, good masters, the person wished to hide his identity. He was cloaked, cowled and masked. The transaction was very swift: the gold was in good coin.'
'Didn't it concern you who he was?' Benjamin asked. 'And wasn't a receipt sought?'
'Master Daunbey, Master Daunbey.' The fellow smiled like a schoolmaster facing a thick-headed pupil. ‘I am a goldsmith; such transactions are common.'
'How would the beneficiary know you passed the gold on?' I asked crossly.
'Because I issued a tally receipt,' Thurgood snarled. All it gave was the date, the amount received, and who was to receive it. I then informed Mistress Undershaft.' He drew his head back as if I stank. 'If I'd failed to carry out the request,' he snapped, 'I'd be no more than a felon – and that, sir, I am not!' He threw the ledger back on the table. 'I can tell you no more.'
Benjamin and I left his shop and walked into Cheapside. A young girl ran up, dressed shabbily, her face blackened with dirt. A little boy, probably her brother, grasped one hand; her other hand held a small inflated bladder. She stopped in front of Benjamin, put the bladder down, and pushed a scrap of parchment into my master's palm. Then, before he could stop her, she grabbed her young companion and the inflated bladder and disappeared into the crowd. The parchment was screwed up tightly. My master unfolded it and we both stared at the message inscribed in elegant pen strokes:
'On behalf of my noble master, Edward King of England, Scotland, France, etc. I accept, as his due, the two thousand pounds returned to its rightful owner, signed Francis Lovell, Viscount Titchmarsh. Given at the Tower this twenty-eighth day of August'. "Who, in heaven's name, is Lovell?' I asked. Benjamin stared down at the message.
'Haven't you heard the doggerel rhyme, Roger? "The cat, the rat and Lovell the dog rule all England under the hog". The hog or boar was Richard the Third's emblem. He had three henchmen: Ratcliffe, Catesby and Sir Francis Lovell. The first two died at Bosworth in 1485, but Lovell escaped the battle and supported later Yorkist plots against Henry the Seventh. He invaded England in 1487 and fought at the battle of East Stoke in Nottinghamshire: afterwards he disappeared.' Benjamin shook his head. It can't be him, surely? If he was still alive, Lovell would be ancient.'
They are mocking us,' I exclaimed. "Master, they are mocking us.'
Benjamin just shook his head and walked off into the crowds. Muttering and cursing under my breath, I followed. Now and again I turned round to see if anyone was watching us. If I had caught the bastard who had sent that message, I would have dirked him on the spot, but there was no one. We hurried down to Queenshithe and hired a wherry to take us up-river to the Tower. We found the fortress heavily guarded, drawbridge up, portcullis down. It took a great deal of screaming and shouting at a guard who peered out at us from the Lion Gatehouse before Kemble appeared and gave us permission to enter.
The drawbridge fell in a rumble of chains, the portcullis creaked up like the jagged teeth of some dragon. Benjamin became even more disconcerted.
‘It cannot be anyone in the Tower, Roger,' he muttered. 'Beloved Uncle gave orders that, on this particular day, no officer or member of the Tower garrison should enter the city.'
'So, the villain who collected that money and sent that impudent message…?'
Benjamin shrugged. ‘We have to accept it, Roger: whoever he or she is, they do not live in the Tower.'
Kemble was waiting for us beyond the gateway. He took one look at Benjamin's face and shook his head mournfully. 'The gold was taken!' ‘Yes, it was stolen!' Benjamin snapped.
Sighing heavily, Kemble took us up into his chamber in the royal quarters where Vetch and Spurge were also waiting. They had apparently been spending their time feasting; the ragged remains of a pheasant lay on a platter. Kemble was sobersided, but Vetch and Spurge looked flushed and bright-eyed.
'So they can't arrest us,' Vetch muttered, once we'd announced what had happened. He got up and shakily filled two goblets, brought them back to the table and pushed them towards us.
'Someone will hang for all this,' Spurge squeaked. He looked slyly at me. 'And it won't be us.' ‘What happened?' Kemble asked. Benjamin told him in quick, clipped tones. The constable leaned back in his chair, whispering under his breath and shaking his head. 'And you have no suspicions?' he asked.
Two villains are at work here,' Benjamin explained. 'One in the Tower and another outside. However, I have not any evidence to point the finger of accusation.' ‘Did anyone leave the Tower?' I asked.
Kemble shook his head. ‘You saw for yourself Master Shallot, all doorways were barred and bolted. Men patrol the ramparts and towers, two soldiers guard each postern-gate.' 'And the hangmen?' I asked.
They are in their quarters. Every hour, on the hour, at least until noon, Vetch went round and checked.' My master sipped at the wine cup. ‘What do you think, Master Daunbey?' Vetch asked.
'I am wondering where the rogue is who took the two thousand pounds' worth of gold,' Benjamin replied. 'And will he be satisfied with that or strike again?' He put his cup down on the table. 'Sir Edward, how long have you been constable of the Tower?' 'About two years this Michaelmas,' Kemble replied.
'And you have heard no legends or stories about the Princes?'
The constable shook his head. ‘I have told you, as I have told others, their fate is a complete mystery.' ‘But you know the story of Tyrrell?' Benjamin insisted.
Aye, he was alleged to have been involved in smothering the Princes, but the King's father made a careful search. No remains were ever found.'
Suddenly there was a drumming of feet on the stairs outside and Mallow burst into the room, his face white as a sheet. For a while he just stood there trembling, then he came forward like a dream-walker. 'Sir Edward,' he muttered, 'you'd best come. All of you!'
Benjamin sprang to his feet and grasped Mallow's hand. 'It's as cold as ice!' he exclaimed. He forced the man to sit down on the chair and thrust the wine cup to his lips. 'Drink, man!' Mallow blinked.
'Come on, drink!' Benjamin fairly poured the wine into the fellow's mouth.
Mallow coughed and shook himself. 'It's Horehound,' he whispered. He stood up, swaying slightly. ‘You must come!'
‘Well never make sense out of him!' Vetch snapped. He grasped Mallow by the jerkin. 'Where is Horehound?'
The cellar,' Mallow muttered. The death cellar in Beauchamp Tower.'
'It's where the execution block and axe are kept,' Vetch explained.
And, leaving Mallow, we all left the room. Outside, on the green, the news of something dreadful had already spread. Soldiers, servants, even masons who were preparing a stretch of the inner wall, were hurrying towards the huge, forbidding Beauchamp Tower. When we reached it, the rest of the executioners were gathered round the door; a royal Serjeant was trying to hold the people back. The fellow was pallid-faced, slack-jawed, his mouth still stained with vomit. He glimpsed Sir Edward and pointed with his thumb towards the half-open door.
'Sir Edward,' he exclaimed, 'there's a demon in the Tower!'
Kemble led us into the stairwell and down to the basement. Someone had lit the sconce-torches on the wall. The shadows flickered and danced as if ghosts had come to plague us. At the bottom was a small cellar or cavern. In one corner stood a huge block, cut from some massive oak, with an axe in it. I also glimpsed in the poor light a massive, metal-studded door, almost covering the floor. What's all the fuss about?' I asked. Benjamin pointed. I grabbed a torch from the wall and stared; on either side of the door a hand stuck out and, at the far end of the door, the top of Horehound's head. I took a step nearer. My boots squelched in the blood and I became aware of a fetid smell. Benjamin remained, but Kemble and his two officers had already gone out to vomit in the small privy chamber.
‘Lord have mercy!' Benjamin breathed. The poor bastard's been pressed!'
Now I shall spare your sensibilities, but pressing is the most terrible of deaths. It is carried out in three places in London: the yards of Fleet and Newgate prisons, or in the Tower. It’s not a torture but a special punishment reserved for those who refuse to plead either guilty or not guilty. In my long and troubled life I have been in many a scrape but, when taken before the justices, I would never refuse to plead. Once you do that, you have very little chance. Sometimes the press can be heavy boards which are weighted with bricks on top, but the pressing door in the Tower was of a special kind. Small wheels were fixed on the bottom, and a rope fixed to the top. This ran through a pulley system, so it could be lowered gently on to the victim who would lie spread-eagled on the ground. No such delicacy had been shown to Horehound.
Benjamin pointed to the pulley hanging from the ceiling, and explained. Horehound must have been laid out on the ground. The door was tipped and the rope cut till finally it slammed down, reducing his body to a bloody pulp.'
Kemble and his two officers returned, accompanied by Mallow, who looked as if he had drunk the wine jug dry. Toadflax, Snakeroot and Wormwood, under Kemble's direction, slowly lifted the door, pushing it back on its wheels and leaning it against the far wall. On the inside of the door were small arrow points of sharpened steel; these had turned Horehound's body to a tangled, gory mess. Once the corpse was exposed, all stood away: even the hangmen, experienced as they were in death, could not bear the sight. My stomach heaved, though, I'll be honest, at that moment in time, I was more terrified of the Great Beast than the pulpy remains of one of London's hangmen. Benjamin showed no fear but crouched down, ignoring the mess: he carefully examined Horehound's wrists and ankles.
'He wasn't fastened down, was he?' Wormwood came forward.
'No, he wasn't,' Benjamin replied. There are no marks round his wrists or ankles.' He pointed to the iron chain hanging on a wall which would be used to secure a prisoner about to be pressed.
Then how was it done?' Kemble's voice was muffled behind a pomander he held to his nose.
'I don't know' Benjamin replied. 'But Horehound was a man capable of taking care of himself, yes?'
Wormwood nodded. Snakeroot and Toadflax also agreed.
'So how could the killer lie him out on the ground?' Benjamin sounded puzzled. 'Horehound must have made no objection or tried to get away.'
'Perhaps he was already unconscious,' Vetch remarked from where he stood in the doorway. 'A knock on the head or a dagger in the back. His corpse is so torn we cannot tell.'
Benjamin got to his feet and, taking a sconce-torch from the wall, carefully walked round the chamber. He shook his head. There's nothing here.'
‘Well seal the chamber,' Kemble announced. He took a coin from his purse and tossed it at Wormwood. 'He was your friend. Bury him!'
'He was no friend of mine,' Wormwood snapped. He looked coolly at Sir Edward. 'Don't you know, Master Constable, hangmen don't have friends?' 'Well, he was in your guild!' Kemble snapped.
‘Don't worry, don't worry.' Mallow came forward, hands flailing. 'I’ll take care of poor Horehound.'
We left the Tower. I was grateful to be out, breathing God's fresh air. The guards had driven off the curious onlookers. Benjamin pointed across to the church of St Peter ad Vincula.
‘I have further questions to ask,' he declared. He stared round. 'Of all of you!'
No one objected, and we walked into the church as dutifully as a congregation on a Sunday morning. Benjamin led us into the sanctuary, indicating the stalls on either side. We sat down. If I wasn't so frightened, I would have burst out laughing. There we were, Constable and officers of the Tower, the hangmen of London and Old Shallot, the greatest rogue in Ipswich, sitting in benches facing each other like a hanging jury ready to deliver its verdict.
On any other occasion there would have been vociferous objections, but Horehound's ghastly death had knocked any querulousness on its head.
Benjamin sat in the sanctuary chair. 'Gentlemen.' He began softly, yet his words echoed round that cavernous church. 'Gentlemen, there is villainy here, the likes of which I have not seen before. This morning Master Shallot and I took two thousand pounds in gold to St Paul's Cross. We were guarded and protected by royal soldiers, as well as other agents of the Crown. However, a cry about the sweating sickness and an explosion caused by a small trail of gunpowder, led to that gold being taken.'
Toadflax was about to spring to his feet and declare his innocence; Benjamin shook his head.
'I know. I know,' he continued. 'All the hangmen were in the garrison refectory.' He turned and pointed at Vetch. ‘You, Master Vetch, can vouch for that.'
The constable's lieutenant nodded slowly. "Yes, I can. As I can also vouch for Sir Edward, myself and Master Spurge. We were in the constable's quarters.'
'I accept that,' Benjamin agreed quietly. ‘Later on, the villains who stole the gold had the impudence to send me a letter whilst I was in Cheapside.' He paused to collect his thoughts. 'Now, until our arrival here, the Tower's gates and postern doors were all sealed and barred, so no one could have left to commit such villainy.' He smiled bleakly. 'And there's the rub. I believe there's one rogue in the Tower and another, his accomplice, in the city. Sir Edward.' Benjamin turned to Kemble. We are the only ones to enter the Tower today?’
The constable nodded. 'Once you were in, Master Daunbey, the portcullis was lowered, and the guards have not been relieved of their duties. Even the masons working outside on the scaffolding were forced to sleep in the cellars, or in any nook or cranny they could find. They will not be allowed out until this evening.'
‘Yet Horehound was killed,' Benjamin went on. ‘By whom?' He stared at Mallow and his apprentices.
'As you know, Master Daunbey,' the chief hangman replied, ‘we all supped and dined together at midday.' He scratched his head. ‘But then we went about our different duties.' 'Such as?' Benjamin asked.
'Cleaning our quarters, sleeping off what we had eaten and drunk.' Wormwood sniggered behind his hand at that. 'And when was Horehound last seen?’
'About an hour before Mallow found him,' Snakeroot declared. 'He'd been drinking, as usual. I saw him staggering across the green.' ‘Had anyone else see him?'
The hangmen all shook their heads and started shouting out where they were and what they were doing.
Benjamin clapped his hands for silence. ‘I don't think you understand the point I’m making.' He got to his feet. Which is what?’ Mallow shouted.
Today the King's gold was stolen,' Benjamin explained, walking over towards him. 'And, Master Mallow, one of your hangmen died. Don't you see? They are both linked. So, if more demands are made, more of you will die.' His words created a pool of silence in the chapel. Benjamin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I can do little to protect you,' he said, 'so I strongly advise you not to go anywhere alone, either here or in the city.'
'Is there anything else we can do?' Snakeroot snivelled. He looked so frightened that I thought he'd fall into a swoon.
‘Yes,' Benjamin replied. Tell me something about the three hangmen who died.'
‘We know very little,' Mallow whined. ‘Undershaft was my assistant. He was a family man. He kept to himself.' 'And Horehound?'
'He was a tippler, a sot,' Toadflax replied, tossing back the curls on his head. He stank, never washed; even the whores used to stay clear of him.'
That's why he was by himself,' Wormwood continued, 'wandering the Tower this afternoon. His breeches stank like a midden: when he was drunk, he lost all control of himself.'
"Henbane was different,' Toadflax offered. ‘He had a woman, a whore; he brought her here into the Tower when we celebrated the King's birthday on the sixth of June.' He closed his eyes, drumming his fists on the stall. 'What was her name? Ah, that's it, Marisa! She's a slattern down at the Monkshood tavern. Looks like a gypsy she does: green eyes and raven-black hair.'
'But you can tell us nothing else?' Benjamin looked to where Kemble and his two officers sat quietly. 'Anything at all?' Benjamin pleaded.
Again there was silence, abruptly broken by the harsh cry of a raven outside.