We returned to the Flickering Lamp not in the best of humours. Benjamin sent a constable to the Guildhall about the murders at the cookshop. He then became lost in his own thoughts, sitting at the table in his chamber talking to himself, writing out comments in that strange cipher he always used. I hung around the taproom looking for any villainy which might emerge. Yet, I'll be honest, I began to wonder if it was time Benjamin and I bolted like rabbits for France or Spain, well clear of Henry's wrath. I drank and ate a little too much. I became mournful about Castor and Lucy and decided to write a poem about both of them. Boscombe tried to rally my spirits, recalling my escapades the previous evening with the Bawdy folk. But I wasn't in the mood. Doctor Agrippa visited us. He was closeted with Benjamin and then left as mysteriously as he had arrived. Towards dusk I decided to take the air. I was in the alleyway outside the tavern when a beggar boy caught my finger. He was a thin-faced little waif, with eyes almost as large as his face under greasy, spiked hair.
'Come, come…' the poor, little bugger stuttered. 'The man is waiting for…' He closed his eyes. 'I have forgotten,' he moaned, 'the rest of the message 'Message?' I asked. 'Yes' he replied. 'But come…'
Like the fool I was, I followed him up the street. The little boy led me through a side door of the Church of the Crutched Friars. It was deserted, and the sound of my boots rang hollow through the nave. Someone had lit candles before the statue of the Virgin. I remembered Lord Charon and my spine began to tingle so I stopped the boy and crouched down. 'Who sent you?' I asked. 'Come,' the child repeated. 'Your friend is waiting.'
He led me across, out through the corpse door at the other side of the church and into the overgrown cemetery towards the charnel house. This was the Ossuary or, if you aren't too well educated, the Bone House. When the graveyard becomes too full, bodies are dug up and the bones simply slung into this long, open shed. The boy took me to a gravestone near the Ossuary and told me to sit down. I did so and drew my dagger, which I gripped beneath my cloak. When I looked round, the boy had gone. Now there's something about old Shallot: on the one hand I am the most cowardly of cowards but, on the other, I hate to show it. I didn't want to go running back to the tavern with my knees knocking so instead I sat and quivered like a jelly. My imagination was stirred by the shrieks of some bloody owl until my nerve broke. I turned and screamed into the darkness for the bird to piss off. Only then did I see it. Across the graveyard was a huge plinth, some tomb built by a London merchant who wanted to be remembered but who was probably forgotten before his corpse grew cold in his grave. The huge, rectangular stone slab was covered in moss and lichen. Now, candles arranged along it glowed eerily through the darkness.
'Who's there?' I called. I stood up and walked slowly across. 'Who's there?' I repeated. I drew closer. I stopped and blinked, believing my mind or eyes were playing tricks on me. In the candlelight a face, framed by long, straggly hair, peered at me, two hands on either side of the tomb, as if someone was hiding behind it and peering above it. I realised what I was looking at. Someone had severed the head of the scrivener I had met in St Paul's Cathedral. Both the head and hands of Richard Notley had been cut from his body and placed on the tomb, garishly illuminated by the lighted candles like some macabre child's game on Samain Eve. Oh horrors! Oh bloody murder! For a while I stood rooted to the spot. I could do nothing but stare at that ghastly head, the half-open eyes and blood-encrusted lips, with the hands on either side. I gave a scream which must have frightened even that bloody owl before I fled like a greyhound across the graveyard. I tripped on a grave and fell flat on my face. I got up. For a while I was lost. I screamed for the boy or to find the door to the church. In the darkness around me, someone gave a low and chilling laugh. I turned round, screaming abuse as I walked backwards. My elbow caught something. I darted around and, with a sob of satisfaction, threw myself into the church, slamming the door behind me. I ran towards the other side door but then the candles in front of the Lady statue were abruptly extinguished. I reached the door; it was locked, the bolts pushed fast across.
Oh Lord, then the whistling began. A most chilling though mundane sound, like a labourer going about his work: a man immersed in his task and happy to do it. The whistling drew nearer. Sobbing and crying, I fled back through the darkness towards the corpse door. A crossbow quarrel zipped by my head, smacking into the wall of the church. I stumbled over a bench, bruising my shins and legs. The whistling began again. I heard another click and a crossbow quarrel cut the air above me. Imagine poor Shallot! Weep for old Roger! For his legs shaking like leaves in a storm; for his belly rolling like a drum; for the tears which scalded his eyes; for the sheer, bone-wrenching terror which sent me crashing around that church like a pea in a barrel. And, all the time, came that dreadful whistling. I flitted around in the dark like a bat, the assassin following me. Oh, that's what I hate about killers – although, at the same time, it has been my salvation on many occasion – assassins enjoy their work. They like to see their victims suffer and recognise their power, accept they are going to die. It's true, isn't it? Those murders that take place in a family, the product of strong drink or hot blood, are quick and sudden like a brawl in a tavern over a dice or a wench. However, the born killer, the man who lives on human blood, wants his victim to know that death is about to stretch out its cold, hard hand! All I can say is, thank God! For, if they play such a game, it at least gives you a chance for the good Lord or his Holy Father, or some angel of light to intervene. On that night they did. As I hid behind the high altar there was sudden pounding on the corpse door. Angry voices were raised. I crouched, promising the good Lord everything he wanted: a life of fasting, of chastity, of bread and water. I heard the bolts of the side door being drawn. The assassin, fearful of being trapped himself, slipped out into the night. I ran across to the corpse door and drew back the bolts: outside, holding a sconce torch, were two venerable, but very aggrieved, friars.
'What's going on here?' one of them shouted. 'This is a house of God, not some tavern! Why are the doors locked? Compline bell hasn't sounded!' 'I was trapped,' I replied. 'Trapped? Who trapped you?'
I was too terrified to explain. I emptied the contents of my purse into their hands, stumbled back through the church, out into the lane and back up to the Flickering Lamp. I ignored Boscombe's curious gaze but pounded on my master's door. He threw it open and I almost collapsed into his arms. After two cups of claret and a meat pie, I felt better and told my master what had happened. He was too kind to upbraid me for my foolishness in going alone but listened very carefully.
'The Slaughterer has struck.' He pulled the shutters across the window and drew the bar down. 'The Slaughterer is sending us a message.' 'But why kill Notley?'
'Oh, the scrivener was punished. People like ourselves, Roger, should know nothing about the Slaughterer or how to hire him. He obviously suspected that we might return with some soldiers, and that Master Notley might have been asked to visit the Tower and forced to confess all he did now about this terrible assassin. So Notley had to die and the Slaughterer used his corpse to send us a grisly message. Now, Roger-' Benjamin pulled his stool closer. 'I have been studying everything that has happened since my arrival in London. You have told me a little about your own adventures. However, this time I want you to go back to the beginning. Tell me everything with whatever detail you can recall. Take your time.'
I lay back on the bed and told my master all I could remember from the moment he left our manor to his fortuitous arrival at Newgate prison. Now and again Benjamin would stop and question me about some point and then I'd continue. Sometimes he'd ask me to stop whilst he wrote something down on a piece of parchment. I must have spoken for at least an hour. 'Why is all this so important?' I concluded.
'Pies,' Benjamin enigmatically replied. 'It's all about pies.' He wouldn't say any more. I became cross but Benjamin had already returned to his papers, muttering under his breath. Now, full of wine and safe from the terrors, I drifted into sleep and spent the next day in bed, grieving over Lucy and wondering what revenge I could inflict on the Poppletons. Now and again my little brain (Excuse me a while -1 see my chaplain sniggering. A sharp rap across his knuckles brings him back into order so I can return to the turmoil of my youth) would come up with some brilliant scheme of vengeance, before returning to our present troubles.
Now, the more I thought of Malevel the more convinced I became that, if Castor could have talked, we would have now known why the cellar was so important. Benjamin kept well away from me all day, being more busy in the taproom. Late that evening he shook me awake from my slumbers. 'Get up, Roger! Up now! Arm yourself!'
His face was grim. I noticed he had his leather wrist guards on and his war-belt strapped around his waist, sword and dagger hung in the Italian style. He had his guarded look, the same expression that had threatened violent retribution if I approached the marvellous Miranda. 'Where are we going?' I asked, pulling my boots on. 'We are going for supper,' Benjamin replied. I glanced at the hour candle burning in its glass on a shelf. 'Boscombe will not be pleased, the ovens will be out…'
'I don't give a fig what Boscombe thinks!' Benjamin retorted. 'It will happen on the turn of a card.' He smiled wryly. 'Or, in this case, a knock on the door.'
We went down to the taproom. Boscombe grumbled but brought across two tankards of ale and a platter of cold meat, onions and apples neatly sliced. The pot boys and scullions had long left. The taproom was empty. Boscombe busied himself about, humming under his breath. A watchman stopped in the lane outside.
'It's eleven o'clock and all is well! Pray for your souls that they stay out of Hell!' Benjamin stopped, a piece of food halfway to his mouth. There was a loud rapping on the door. 'Answer that, Shallot,' Boscombe called. 'Master Boscombe, we are eating,' Benjamin replied.
Cursing and muttering under his breath, the taverner went to the door and pulled it open. I heard someone say something and Boscombe's exclamation.
'What? Impossible! I…!' His voice took on a nervous stammer. 'I don't know what you're talking about!'
I pricked up my ears because I am sure I caught mention of the names Berkeley and Notley. The change in Benjamin was startling. He stood up and drew his sword. I watched, open-mouthed, as Boscombe closed the door: drawing the bolts across, he turned slowly. He saw my master's drawn sword and smiled. 'Oh, Master Benjamin, what's the matter?'
'You know full well,' my master replied. 'The constable just knocked on the door and told you a strange story: how he met two men outside the church of Crutched Friars who gave their names as Berkeley and Notley, and said they had an appointment with you to discuss certain matters.'
Boscombe took a step forward, his genial smile faded, his eyes watchful. I noticed he was standing differently now, on the balls of his feet, like a man ready to run or leap.
'And I heard your reply,' my master said softly. 'You used the word "impossible". You were caught on the hop, were you not, Master Boscombe? Why is it impossible to meet two men who, in theory, you shouldn't know at all? Both men are dead. Notley's corpse hasn't even been discovered. Roger knows because he has seen his severed head. You know because you killed him. You are Jakob von Archetel, nicknamed the Schlachter.' Boscombe drew a bit closer.
'Earlier this evening,' my master continued, 'I took the constable into my confidence. I asked him to deliver that message tonight, just after the watchman had proclaimed the eleventh hour.'
'My name is Andrew Boscombe,' the taverner replied. 'I hail from the West Country.'
'The real Andrew Boscombe probably did,' Benjamin replied. 'But you are no more English than poor old Castor. I've listened to your tongue quite carefully. Now and again I can catch the rolling "R", the guttural "G". You are a Hainaulter – probably from around the town of Dordrecht. Once you were not only a subject of the Emperor Charles V but a high-ranking official, engaged in his secret business as a Noctale. About fifteen years ago you fled to England. You are a consummate actor, a born mimic. You probably did live in the West country for a while but, later, used your wealth to travel to London and buy this tavern. To all intents and purposes, Andrew Boscombe, the honest, jovial taverner, the man who loves a jest, play-acting and mummery. But, when the candles are extinguished, when the darkness comes, you are the Slaughterer, London's most skilful and subtle assassin. You are responsible for the deaths of many: Notley, Berkeley, those two poor cooks Oswald and Imelda. Above all, sir, you are responsible for those deaths at Malevel though how you did it and who you worked with is still a mystery.' Boscombe moved to a stool.
'Master Daunbey, you have me wrong. This is preposterous. I am what I claim to be. A taverner, your servant's close friend. Tell him, Roger.'
I stared at him narrow-eyed. Benjamin's allegations seemed fantastic yet I recalled my master's close interrogation of what had happened since I had arrived in London: Boscombe’s initial refusal to lodge me and then his abrupt change of mind. The way Lord Charon had seized and interrogated me. Boscombe's ability to disguise himself and then…
(Ah, excuse me, my little clerk is murmuring about coincidences. So what? Ask yourself, is anything in life planned? It may have started with coincidence, oh yes, but once I was in Boscombe's power, he had worked to keep me there.)
My suspicions deepened as I remembered how Boscombe had claimed to have made a trip to the West Country whilst we had been at Malevel. My change of mood must have been obvious.
Boscombe's lips curled. 'We have all night,' he said soothingly, 'to discuss these matters!'
Benjamin, his sword in hand, stepped back and sat down on the stool. 'I could have had you arrested,' he replied. 'Taken to the Tower for interrogation. However, men like you don't break, do they, Boscombe? Something untoward would happen: you might even escape, and there again, my evidence is not as strong as I would like.'
Boscombe pulled the stool closer, his eyes sliding to his war-belt hanging on a hook in the wall. I drew my own poignard.
'Let's hear your story.' Boscombe waggled a finger. 'And, if it's good, I'll put my hands behind my back and you can cart me off to Newgate.'
'You are an assassin,' Benjamin declared. 'A Hainaulter. My servant, Roger, came here to sell relics. Now, not all of life is planned and plotted; sometimes Fickle Fortune spins her wheel and kingdoms are won and lost on a single blow. If Prince Arthur hadn't caught a cold in the marshes of Wales, he would now be king and Henry would simply be a royal prince…'
'Or who would think,' Boscombe sneered, 'that a butcher's son would become Cardinal and First Minister of the Realm?'
'Ah, you catch my drift,' Benjamin replied, ignoring the taunt at Dearest Uncle. 'At first you saw Roger as a trickster, but when you discovered that Shallot worked for me and I for the Cardinal you gave him a comfortable berth here. You were intrigued. You couldn't accept he was working by himself, and thought there was some secret, subtle trickery. Nevertheless, he was dangerous to have about. You had ties with the Lord Charon, not close, but a sharing of information, so when you were laying your plans to seize the Orb, you asked Lord Charon a favour. Roger was seized, frightened and beaten and this provided you with a golden opportunity. You knew Sir Hubert Berkeley was involved in arranging for the Orb of Charlemagne to be handed over to the Imperial envoys. Accordingly, Roger, down on his luck, was provided with new clothes and sent along to St Paul's; at the same time you let it be known to Sir Hubert that my manservant was looking for employment in London. Berkeley was working on a secret assignment for the King, and was persuaded Roger would be the best person to offer him protection. How did you arrange it, Boscombe? Send Berkeley a message, saying it came from me?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Remember, Roger, Berkeley seemed to know you'd be in St Paul's.'
I nodded, my eyes never leaving Boscombe. The taverner just stared at Benjamin. Never once did he look at me: his cold, calculating gaze was for Benjamin and Benjamin alone. The hair on the nape of my neck curled, this man was intent on our murder. I could only sit and blink as I recalled Berkeley's words on hiring me. I also realised how Lord Charon had found me so quickly. 'Roger's imprisonment was an unforeseen occurrence,' Benjamin continued. 'However, he was released from Newgate and came back here. How could you leave such a tender friend in his adversity? You offered us both chambers, even taking in poor Castor; anything to keep us under close scrutiny.' Benjamin paused, tapping the tip of his sword on the paving stones. 'And then we come to the business at Malevel! God knows how it was done. Boscombe the taverner supposedly left for the West Country; but in reality you adopted your secret profession: the Schlachter, the Slaughterer! Somehow or other -' Benjamin jabbed a finger at him '- you were responsible for the deaths of those men. You stole the Orb and left.'
'Oh come, Master Benjamin,' Boscombe scoffed. 'And how did I do that? Just walk up to the manor, knock on the front door and fifteen burly men offered their throats to be cut?' 'Who told you there were fifteen?' Benjamin asked. Boscombe's sneer faded.
'As for how you did it… Well, Master Boscombe, when I came here two things struck me as odd. First, here's a taverner who is also a master of disguise. You revel in it. Secondly, I had seen you before: something about your features struck a chord in my memory. On the day that the massacre was discovered, when Kempe and others were milling about Malevel Manor, I am sure I glimpsed your face. To be sure, it was hidden by some disguise, but there was something familiar.' 'Mistaken identity!' Boscombe sneered.
'Perhaps,' Benjamin replied. 'However, we now come to another matter: Berkeley's murder. You lured the goldsmith out into that lonely copse north of the Tower. The Orb you had stolen from Malevel was a forgery: Henley the professional relic-seller had told you so when he met you in that tavern. He must have been surprised to see the Orb of Charlemagne given to him for scrutiny but his surprise turned to laughter when he realised it was a fake.' 'Henley?' Boscombe retorted. 'I don't know any Henley!'
'Oh, you not only knew him but killed him,' Benjamin retorted. 'And then, full of fury, you and your accomplice – and you do have an accomplice, don't you? – lured the hapless goldsmith to that lonely glade where you tortured him. Asking the same question, time and time again: where was the real Orb?'
'Very interesting.' Boscombe got up and moved towards the wine vats. 'Thirsty work, Master Daunbey, do you wish some wine? My good friend, Roger?'
We both refused. Benjamin now stood up, his sword out, but Boscombe coolly filled his goblet and returned to his stool. I noticed he moved it a few inches nearer the wall. He toasted us both silently but there was something in his eyes that convinced me my master was right. Boscombe was the Slaughterer and he was only biding his time.
'You eavesdropped,' Benjamin continued, 'on our conversations. When Roger expressed a desire to meet the Lord Charon you happily obliged. Now, the Lord of London's underworld should have been pleased that Roger was ready to offer him the Orb of Charlemagne but he wasn't. Why? Because he already had it. Roger was, therefore, an unnecessary nuisance and had to be despatched. He would have been, if it hadn't been for that dog. The rest you know: except that Cerberus, Charon's lieutenant, on the brink of death, gave Roger information on how to contact the Slaughterer.' Benjamin paused, watching Boscombe sip his drink. 'Only then did you become afraid. Perhaps the net was closing in? Notley was stupid, a possible threat, so you killed him and used his corpse to frighten Roger before you attacked him in the Church of the Crutched Friars. However, being disturbed, you fled and, once out into the darkened lane, became again Boscombe the genial taverner, the purveyor of wine and pies.'
"The pies!' I exclaimed. 'Of course, master, the pies!' I half rose from my stool. 'You bought pies from Imelda and Oswald – I have eaten them here myself – that's how you could get into their shop so easily.'
'I noticed the same,' Benjamin declared. 'And after Oswald and Imelda were killed, I realised someone had entered their house who knew them well. Friendly, genial Boscombe coming round to place another order. However, once you were in the house you became the Slaughterer: a dagger thrust here and another there, and an entire family was wiped out. Then you stole their accounts. Why, Boscombe? Was there something which had to be left hidden? Or, in their conversation with you, had they let drop that they'd seen something wrong at Malevel Manor? I don't know how you killed those soldiers but, for some reason, you spent a great deal of time cleaning that kitchen, scrubbing down the traunchers, washing out the blackjacks. Why, Boscombe?' Benjamin advanced towards him. 'More importantly, who did you work for? Who hired you? How did you get in and out of Malevel so easily?' Boscombe shook his head and stared into his wine cup.
'Master Daunbey, this is a merry tale for a dark evening. Yet, it's nothing more than old wives muttering round the fire and gossiping. Go through this tavern, search my private chamber, you'll find nothing untoward.'
'Oh, I agree.' Benjamin declared. 'Much suspected, nothing proved. Indeed, it all rests on coincidence: if Roger had not met the relic-seller and then come here; if we had not hired chambers at the Flickering Lamp after our return from Malevel.' He smiled thinly. 'But God is good. Perhaps he grew tired of your bloody-handed ways and Roger is his vengeance.' 'I'll say nothing!' Boscombe yelled.
'You could be taken to the Tower,' I retorted. 'Spread out on the rack like Cerberus was whilst royal messengers are sent to the West Country, to discover all they can about Andrew Boscombe.'
The taverner stared at me round-eyed. 'Is that so, Roger? Now tell me, what do you think I'll do? Saunter into the barge, sit in the Tower and tell all to Fat Henry's questioners? Oh yes.' He clapped his hands together. 'Have mercy on me for I am a traitor and an assassin. I stole the Orb of Charlemagne. I sold it to the Lord Charon.' He paused and grinned. 'I shouldn't have said that, should I? I'm not supposed to know that, dearie, dearie me!'
One second Boscombe was shaking his head, the next the wine cup went flying at Benjamin's head. Boscombe sprang across the room, snatching his sword and dagger from his war-belt. He came back, moving sideways like a dancer.
'I'm not going to the Tower!' he hissed. 'And you are never leaving this tavern! Both of you will die and I've got all night to dispose of your corpses.'
He came skipping forward, sword and dagger whirling. My master, skilled at fencing, blocked his blows. Boscombe stood back. Again they closed. It was obvious that Boscombe was no taverner: the way he moved, slightly sideways trying to draw out my master's sword and expose his body for a killing thrust of the dagger, showed him to be a professional, a skilled swordsman. The deadly dance continued; the slap of boots against the stone floor; the screeching clash of steel; and the grunts and groans of both combatants. My master was at a disadvantage, he did not know the room like Boscombe did. Twice he nearly slipped. Each time Boscombe closed for the kill. I tried to intervene but Benjamin waved me away. Boscombe stood back grinning, chest heaving. 'Oh, you fops!' he breathed. 'Ever the gentleman.'
His sword and dagger went down as he studied my master. Now Benjamin may have been a fop, a gentleman, but old Roger was not. As Boscombe shuffled forward, I did what I was good at. I threw my dagger with all my force and caught him low in the neck, the point rupturing soft flesh and nerve. The blood spouted out like wine from a broached cask. Boscombe dropped his sword, hands clawing at the hilt of my dagger, his face contorted in pain. He stepped back, turning as if he wished to flee to the door. He collapsed, his life blood pouring out through nose and mouth as well as the jagged wound in his throat. I went to turn him over but Benjamin grasped me. 'Let him die!'
For what seemed an age Boscombe's body jerked and moved on the floor. He tried to turn over, move sideways before his body gave a final shudder. Benjamin kicked at his boots. 'It's a pity, as a prisoner he might have talked.' 'Aye,' I replied. 'And as an assassin he might have killed you.'
I turned him over. Boscombe's eyes stared sightlessly up into mine.
'This was no time for the rules of the duel,' I exclaimed, pulling my dagger out and wiping it on Boscombe's jerkin. 'If he had killed you, what chance would I have had?' I stood up, resheathing my dagger. 'I'm glad the bastard's dead!' Benjamin grasped my shoulder and turned me round.
'I would like to protest, Roger,' he declared. 'I would like to say it was swordsman against swordsman but I'm glad for what you did: I thank you for that.'
Benjamin dropped his own sword and dagger on a table. He then went round the tavern securing the windows and doors.
'Intriguing,' he remarked. 'Did you notice, Roger? In all the taverns I know, either here or on the Scottish march, the scullions, maids and tapsters sleep on the kitchen floor. Boscombe, however, lived alone and, since we arrived here, no other customers have hired a chamber. The tavern was a mere front,' he continued. 'A fitting disguise for a man who earned his gold by cutting throats. So now, let's see what proof we can find.'
We scoured that tavern from the garret to the cellar but Boscombe was like all the professional killers I have met. A very tidy man, neat and precise. Not a stick was out of place, nothing seemed untoward. At last we broke into his own chamber but, there again there seemed to be nothing remarkable – a sword, a dagger, tavern accounts, some silver and gold in a small chest -until we searched the large aumbry or cupboard which stood beside the bed. It contained more clothes than a simple taverner should have owned. Robes, cloaks, broad-brimmed hats, satin breeches, jerkins of different textures and colours, boots and shoes, wigs and hair-pieces. On the floor at the back was a small chest full of face paints, the sort mummers and players use to daub their faces when making a presentation. 'His disguises,' Benjamin remarked. 'But what else?'
On a shelf was a sheaf of documents, all associated with the tavern, though we did find bills bearing the marks of Oswald and Imelda for pies and other pastries sold to the Flickering Lamp. We then searched the bed and at last Benjamin's suspicions were proved correct. Behind the chest, at the foot of the small four-poster, was a secret cupboard, noticeable only to someone making a thorough search. Inside were a few personal items: a letter in French, the ink faded; a lock of hair, neatly waxed to the bottom. 'Some lady love,' Benjamin remarked.
He pulled out the rest: a receipt from a goldsmith in Nottingham; a gilt-edged dagger and a small box containing about four or five phials. Benjamin sniffed at these and pulled a face. 'Poisons!' he declared.
Finally he pulled out a large flask with a stopper on. Benjamin undid this. He told me to bring a cup from the bedside table and poured a little in. For a while he sniffed at it, then laughed softly. 'What is it?' I asked. 'Valerian' he replied. 'He had trouble sleeping!' I exclaimed.
'I don't think so,' Benjamin replied, putting the stopper back in. 'Men like Boscombe have no conscience. They sleep like a babe, as did those poor soldiers at Malevel Manor.'