The Relic Murders (27 page)

'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.'

Chapter 13

Benjamin refused to say any more, becoming more concerned about Boscombe's corpse.

'It's important,' my master insisted, 'that no one at court learns that he has been killed.'

We went back to the taproom, took the cadaver and put it in a cellar behind some vats. After that we packed our belongings and collected our horses from the nearby stable.

'Where to, master?' I asked. 'Eltham? Westminster?'

'No,' Benjamin replied. 'Malevel. We need to be there.'

We rode through the night. Benjamin showed the guards at the city gates his special pass and we were allowed through. The first streaks of dawn were lighting the sky as we approached Malevel Manor: in the half-light, its shadowy shape reminded me of some animal crouched, ready to spring. Kempe's men were still on guard at the gatehouse. Benjamin told them to stay at their posts and look after our horses whilst we were at the manor. We opened the front door and went in. An eerie place, black as Hell! The air was stale, yet something else filled my senses. A reek of evil, of wickedness. I wondered if the ghosts of Lady Isabella and the fifteen soldiers slaughtered there watched and waited for justice to be done. Dirt from the cellar still lay heaped on the gallery floor. Dust covered the tables and chairs in the

kitchen. For a while Benjamin wandered around: up and down stairs, along galleries. I could hear him as he went, floorboards creaking, the house groaning as if it resented our presence. I sat in the kitchen trying to control my own fears and reflecting on my master's confrontation with Boscombe. Everything had now started to fit into place yet it still didn't explain the mystery surrounding the Orb, or how the dreadful murders at Malevel had been carried out. Benjamin came back.

'What now, master?' I
asked. 'And why didn't you tell me about Boscombe?' I challenged.

'Roger, Roger.' Benjamin patted me reassuringly on the shoulder. 'I didn't really know myself. Only after the attack on you in the church did my suspicions harden into certainty. You see, whilst you were gone, I grew concerned. I went looking for Boscombe, only to find that he himself was nowhere in the tavern.'

'But he must have been working with someone else?' 'Yes, yes, he was
...'

(Well, Benjamin actually did voice his suspicions and now my secretary, that little marmoset, that ticklebrain of a quill-pusher, that smelly pudding-bag, is jumping up and down. 'Tell me! Tell me!' he cries. I rap him across the knuckles with my new ash cane. A gentle tap to remind him of his duties. I can't tell him now! The Queen would object: she wants my memoirs to be written as events unfolded. I mean, here is my little puddle-brain of a chaplain; who runs to London to watch Coriolanus and Faust: he'd certainly object if someone came on the stage at the beginning of Act Three^and said, 'Well, that's it! The play has ended, this is what happened!' Ah, the little pudding-bag nods wisely. I have his attention again.)

Benjamin became busy. I just sat rather surprised by what he had told me. However, once my master was immersed in a task, he was deaf to any questioning. Letters were written to Sir Thomas Kempe, Doctor Agrippa, Lord Theodosius and Master Cornelius. Kempe's ruffians at the gatehouse were given a penny each and despatched to deliver them. I went to a small ale-house nearby and bought some provisions: when I returned, Benjamin had cleaned the kitchen, wiping away the dust from the table and chairs.

Kempe was the first to swagger in, accompanied by Agrippa and his lovely bullyboys. The sun had risen and it was good to have the sound of voices shattering the eerie silence of Malevel. Kempe swaggered into the kitchen.

'Well, Daunbey?' He tossed his hat on the table and took a chair at the far end. 'You have a solution to this mystery?'

'Of a sorts, Sir Thomas. But, first, Doctor Agrippa.'

The warlock looked up expectantly. He sat on the stool to Kempe's right, his face wreathed in a smile like some benevolent parson greeting one of his parishioners.

'Benjamin,' he declared, his eyes now blue, dancing with merriment. 'I can sense the end of a hunt! So you'll not be sailing on the
PeppercornT

'Perhaps not,' I snapped. I glanced at Sir Thomas. 'But others might.'

'Now, now!' Agrippa stretched out one black-gloved hand, admiring the ring on one of his fingers.

(A little affectation. Agrippa sometimes pushed a blood-red ruby ring over one of his gloved fingers. One of his henchmen once told me that it was a magical ring that housed a demon. I think that was a lie. Agrippa may have had his strange ways but he was as fallible as the rest of us.)

'I have a favour to ask you,' Benjamin declared. 'Your lovely lads outside .
..
?'

'Ah yes, my little boys.'

Agrippa said it in such a way that I wondered about the true relationship between him and some of the rather girlish-looking young men who made up his retinue.

(Oh, don't get me wrong, appearances can be deceptive: as Will put it in the 'Merchant of Venice': 'The world is still deceived with ornament'. Agrippa's men were killers, one and all, professional assassins.)

'I would like to borrow them,' Benjamin said.

'To do what?'

'A little game. A military exercise.'

Agrippa agreed and called his henchmen into the hall.

'Which of you?' Benjamin asked, studying their grinning faces. 'Can move as silently as a shadow? Stick a dagger into a man's back without him even hearing you come?'

A young man, his hair falling in lovelocks down to his shoulders, minced forward looking rather bashful. He had a thin face, clean-shaven, with bright red lips but his eyes were dead.

'I have been known to do that,' he offered. He grinned over his shoulder at his comrades.

'Then all of you,' Benjamin declared, 'apart from this young man, scatter throughout the house. Take a seat in each room. And you? Your name?'

'Robert,' 'Lovelocks' replied.

'Ah yes, Robert. Once this is done, see how near you can get to each of your comrades without being discovered.'

'And don't steal anything!' I shouted. 'I know you lot. A cozening gang, light-fingered
...
!'

'As if we would!' they all chorused back.

'Do as Shallot says!' Agrippa snapped. 'No, no, Sir Thomas.' Agrippa pressed Kempe back in his chair. 'Now is not the time to protest. Let us see what happens?'

The game began. Agrippa's men dispersed. Benjamin told Robert to count to one hundred but the fellow could only go to twenty before he became confused so I had to count for him and then he went hunting. Now 'Lovelocks' could move like a cat but the game soon ended. A shout from a chamber further down the gallery showed he had been apprehended. Benjamin called him and the rest back into the kitchen.