The hanging tree, p.20
The Hanging Tree, page 20
Cranston hurried away, breathing heavily as he climbed the steep steps. Athelstan heard him go and knelt back down again beside the corpse. He could not anoint Crossley; after all, his soul had long gone.
‘Or has it?’ Athelstan murmured to the darkness. ‘Is it still here, desperate for justice?’ Athelstan closed his eyes and recited the ‘De Profundis’. Once he had finished, the friar got to his feet and pointed to the steps at least nine yards from where Crossley lay. ‘You came down here,’ he whispered to himself, ‘booted and cloaked, ready to go, but your killer crept up behind you, softly, like the Angel of Death he was. He carried a weapon, a small crossbow. Now he would find it very difficult to conceal this as he came through the tavern. So …’ Athelstan walked slowly back. To his left and right were shelves, roughly hewn planks fastened to the wall. All sorts of items lay there. Athelstan returned to the corpse and stared down at it. ‘Was your killer waiting for you here or did he follow you down? He certainly let you walk on and then he released that bolt. But,’ Athelstan rubbed his face as he murmured a swift prayer for divine help, ‘your killer must have reassured you, so much so you turned your back on him, and that’s when he struck. The bolt is embedded deep so he must have drawn close.’ Athelstan continued to reflect, trying to keep his eyes from closing as he pondered the possibilities. He shook himself awake as Cranston made his noisy descent down into the cellar.
‘Well, my Lord Coroner?’
‘Nothing, my friend. The clerks were not allowed to carry weapons, except for the dagger in their belt. Nothing more. So why, Brother, why this interest?’
‘Why this interest, Sir John? Well, I believe I have solved one mystery and I am on the verge of resolving a second. So, let us be gone. We need to sleep, to reflect and then return to the hunt.’
Athelstan sat in the luxurious, exquisitely furnished chantry chapel in St Erconwald’s. This was his pride and joy, hidden behind its beautifully carved trellis screen and carpeted with dark blue turkey rugs. The very air sweetened by the fragrance from the pure beeswax candles specially supplied by the best chandler in Cheapside. The chapel was dedicated to the patron saint of the parish. Athelstan had used generous donations from the young King, Gaunt, Thibault and Cranston to buy the very best, be it the polished oaken furniture, the gold tasselled cushions, the snow-white altar cloths, or the gold and silver sacred vessels. The chapel was warmed by three capped braziers. Athelstan had pulled these close because the nave of the church was truly freezing, with wisps of mist moving like clouds through the air. Athelstan strained his ears but the church lay eerily silent. The friar had locked himself in as he was always wary. Athelstan fully accepted that being the secretarius of the Lord High Coroner was an extremely dangerous task. It was a matter of logic. If Athelstan drew up an indictment against any felon, any secret murderer, then it usually held fast. Consequently, the only way to prevent that indictment from being laid was to kill its creator. Time and again Athelstan had encountered assassins determined to kill him, and the present troubles proved this. The Carbonari, who held sway with those powerful Italian bankers, had made the ruthless decision to remove him from Southwark under the pretence of friendship. When they failed, they turned to murder.
Athelstan sat back in his chair and reviewed the last two days. He had returned across London Bridge following the lantern men, Cosmas and Damien, whom Cranston had insisted on hiring. Both dwarfs, chattering like squirrels on a branch, had seen him safely home. The friar had hastily checked both his house and the stable but all was well. Bonaventure was toasting himself before the banked fire, whilst Philomel lounged in his stable. Athelstan had come across to the church to pray as well as to marshal his flitting thoughts. He was certain he now had keys to unlock the mysteries confronting him, but how was he to do it? The friar crossed himself and quietly intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, his favourite hymn to the Holy Spirit. He reached the enchanting verse ‘if you take your grace away, nothing good in me will stay’. Athelstan glanced up. ‘True, true,’ he whispered. ‘On our darkness,’ he continued, ‘pour thy dew …’ Athelstan put his face in his hands and fervently prayed for guidance. In the end, Athelstan did not sleep well that night. In the morning, after he’d celebrated a sparsely attended dawn Mass, he returned to his studies. He immersed himself in all the information he had garnered, well into the next day when Cranston abruptly appeared, sweeping like a storm into the parish. Athelstan met him in the chantry chapel; sitting on the wall bench with Cranston slouched behind him.
‘I came,’ the coroner declared, ‘because I have heard from Kyrie. The Ludovico is preparing for sea. My spies report there is little haste but gradual preparations. Moreover,’ Cranston nudged Athelstan, ‘your questioning of Kyrie was most useful. The admiral’s spies have repeated quite sound rumours that the Ludovico might not simply leave the Thames and turn south for south-west but veer sharply north by north-east.’
‘In other words,’ Athelstan observed, ‘the Ludovico is not going to slip through the Narrow Seas but sail up the east coast of England. It’s time, Jack, time we moved! That ship is the key to one of the mysteries we face!’
‘True true, my little mariner. So what is to be done?’
‘Sir John, here is my indictment.’ Athelstan began to talk. He informed the coroner slowly and measuredly about the conclusions he had reached and the evidence he had collected and studied. He made close reference to what Ignacio had told him and all he had learned at The Hanging Tree. Cranston heard him out, whistling under his breath or whispering some startled question. The hour candle burned, its flame moving from one red ring to another, but Athelstan pressed on. Once he had finished, taking a generous sip from the coroner’s miraculous wineskin, Athelstan sat in silence. He stared fixedly at the chantry chapel’s trellis screen. He then crossed himself and turned to the coroner.
‘So, my friend,’ he murmured, pulling himself up on the wall bench, ‘I have told you what I have discovered. I have also described how we can trap and punish all the perpetrators. The murder of the hangmen must wait a while. Time passes, those responsible for the robbery at Westminster must be dealt with first.’
‘And you want Thibault brought in?’
‘Of course, Sir John, we need him for so many things. True, Thibault is treacherous, he may have had his own plans for the treasure, but that is in the past. Sir John, we must act and do so quickly. You must inform Thibault. Search him out and tell him to get the people we need and the arrangements to be made. As I have told you, you can free the clerks. Inform them that they are innocent, though we need one last meeting with Master Beaumont.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘Come, Sir John, we have work to do. Tomorrow morning I shall celebrate my dawn Mass and join you in the Tower.
PART SEVEN
‘My own sin is greed.’
‘Master Henry Beaumont, I do impeach thee of high treason against our Sovereign Lord. Master Henry Beaumont, I do impeach thee of murder. Master Henry Beaumont, I do impeach thee of robbery …’ Cranston’s powerful voice, the sombre words he uttered, echoed like a death knell around the cavernous questioning chamber deep beneath the great White Tower. Cranston’s words rolled out like the ominous beat of a tambour. The coroner stood behind a table, reading from the script Athelstan had prepared. The friar now sat on Cranston’s right, staring at Beaumont, whilst on Cranston’s left, Master Thibault just glared hatefully at his treacherous clerk.
Beaumont himself sat on the other side of the broad, bench-like table, gaping open mouthed, eyes all fearful, his face an ashen grey. Athelstan, however, was not convinced. Beaumont was a killer, an assassin, a ruthless soul who hid behind a number of masks, be it the loyal official or, as now, the timid chancery servant. Athelstan had to remind himself that Beaumont was a mailed clerk who had fought in the King’s Array and had seen his fair share of bloodshed. Athelstan always felt a twinge of compassion for those he indicted. Sometimes they deserved mercy, Beaumont certainly did not. This man was responsible for a whole host of murders. He truly was an Angel of Death, dealing out destruction on every side. He deserved to die. Whitby and the other souls demanded that. God needed to have words with Beaumont. Cranston finished what he had to say and sat down.
‘You sir,’ Athelstan began, pointing at Beaumont, ‘are on trial for your life.’ Athelstan fell silent at a hideous yell, which pierced the dark dank gallery outside, only to be echoed by further blood-chilling cries and agonized shrieks. Beaumont went to speak but Thibault slammed the top of the table time and time again.
‘That,’ Athelstan declared when the shrieks faded, ‘is the sound of two of Conteza’s men. They will not be missed – well, not until it’s too late. They are petty officials who, Conteza might suspect, have deserted his retinue to stay and revel in this great city. The truth is we have kidnapped them because they are dagger men. They took part in the assault on us at the treasure chamber. They attacked me again in my own parish and, of course, they were members of that murderous pack who stormed into The Hanging Tree and executed poor Whitby. He was chosen specially, wasn’t he? Because he witnessed the one great mistake you made. You rang that bell three times at the foot of the tower steps. However, you never paused or questioned why Despencer failed to reply. A dire mistake. After all, that’s why the bell system was implemented, wasn’t it? But, of course, Despencer could not respond: you had murdered him. In those first hours after the robbery, you were free enough to despatch a message to Conteza and your fellow conspirators, warning them about your mistake and Whitby’s comment. Those two gentlemen, now screaming their hearts out in that torture chamber, have confessed as much.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Beaumont yelled.
‘Oh you will.’ Athelstan beat his breast in mock contrition. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, my fault my fault. At first, I approached what happened on that stairwell from the wrong perspective. A silly mistake, let me explain. You rang the bell, Despencer failed to reply. Whitby remarked how their plainchant, a reference to the usual horarium or daily routine, had been sorely disrupted that morning. At first, I thought he was referring to Despencer’s failure to reply. However, as I said earlier, that was not the truth. Whitby, Crossley, and eventually myself, realized Whitby was actually referring to the way you, Master Beaumont, ignored what had happened. You rang the bell, there was no reply. There was no comment from you, no response. You simply pressed on, acting as if you knew full well that Despencer would never, could never reply. Whitby made that comment before he entered the treasure chamber, before he saw the hideous carnage. He was sharp-witted with a keen mind. Whitby was the first to pick up on your dreadful mistake.’ Athelstan pointed at the accused. ‘Of course, you might ask why Whitby did not confront you?’
‘Obvious thing to do?’
‘No, no, Master Beaumont. You were the trusted Magister, a royal chancery clerk. Whitby would be surprised, deeply so; he needed time to reflect before asking very disturbing questions – which explains your haste, as well as that of your fellow conspirators, to silence him for good.’
‘This is ridiculous.’ Beaumont stammered. ‘How could I?’ He fell silent as fresh screams echoed through the room. ‘I thought I was to be freed, summoned here to be informed of that.’
‘Oh no,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Master Thibault, if we could visit that chamber?’
Gaunt’s henchman sprang to his feet. He would have lunged at Beaumont but Cranston swiftly intervened, so Thibault just flailed a hand in the air. The Master of Secrets swept around the table, throwing open the iron-studded door leading into a dimly lit gallery, where the walls and floor glistened with grease and dirt. Puddles of filth and blood reflected the flickering flames from the sconce torches. The air reeked rancid, whilst the horrid sounds from the torture chamber rang out like some hellish music. They all followed Thibault down to an enclave at the far end of the gallery. Thibault pushed open the door and led them in. The room was a square box with an earth-beaten floor, its rough-hewn walls covered in filth. Against one of these, at the far end, hung two prisoners by their wrists from manacles driven into the stones above their heads. Both prisoners were naked except for a loincloth, though that provided little dignity as both men’s hair and beard were drenched in blood, with rivulets running down their chest and legs. Albinus and Wolfrich supervised the torture, issuing orders to three executioners, garbed in thick leather aprons with grotesque masks over their faces: these prowled like wolves before their two hapless victims. Albinus turned and lifted his slender, white willow-wand; the end of the rod was cruelly splintered and stained with globules of blood.
‘We have learnt more,’ Albinus shouted, ‘about the Ludovico.’
‘Good good,’ Thibault retorted. ‘We simply came to view what was happening. So let us return.’ Thibault shoved Beaumont in the chest. Again, Cranston intervened, and all four returned to the chamber guarded by Flaxwith and his bailiffs. Once they had retaken their seats, Athelstan just sat staring at the prisoner. He was totally convinced of Beaumont’s guilt. Cold logic alone dictated this royal clerk had been responsible for the murders and the theft. Athelstan felt he could demonstrate this before any justice of Oyer et Terminer, or before the royal judges on King’s Bench at Westminster. Indeed, the sheer simplicity of the crime had at first confused both him and Cranston. Now this simplicity was analysed, it would be easy to convict but that was not all. Beaumont had been caught, accused, and would be convicted but problems remained. The treasure was still missing and, just as importantly, Beaumont’s fellow conspirators were scrambling around scot-free, ready to flee the trap. He needed to break Beaumont yet, at the same time, win him over, and that might prove most difficult. Beaumont, like all Cain’s offspring, was arrogant. He truly believed he would walk unharmed and wealthy from this kingdom. He still might, because Athelstan was prepared to use him as a lure. The silence in the chamber was abruptly shattered by more pitiful cries and groans.
‘Listen and listen well, Master Beaumont,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘That is your fate. You can avoid it. No!’ Athelstan held a hand up at Beaumont. ‘For the moment, remain silent. You must hear the indictment and then you can respond. But I advise you, do so carefully, prudently, for not only does your life depend upon it, but also the manner in which you might leave this life. You stand accused of dreadful crimes so you deserve a dreadful death. Now listen.’ Athelstan tapped the sheets of vellum before him. ‘You were Magister of the Clerks of the Light. On that fateful evening, before the murders, you finished your last honest day’s work. You left the treasure chamber in good order. Despencer and his clerks were safely ensconced. Your companions heard the door at the top of the steps be locked. You and they went down the staircase. Of course, you went last, refitting the trip cords along every eighth step. You reached the stairwell; your companions were tired, cold and weary, eager for good food and warmth. What happened next is what happens every night after they have finished their work at the treasury, and why should that night be any different? But it was.’ Athelstan abruptly rose and walked to the door. He opened it, called in Flaxwith and closed the door behind him, rattling the key in the lock. Athelstan had practised this before the meeting began and he was certain that the stratagem would work. ‘Master Flaxwith.’ The bemused bailiff clerk turned.
Brother Athelstan?’
‘Master Flaxwith, what have I just done?’
‘Why, Brother, you just called me in here.’
‘And so I did. What then?’
‘You closed the door and locked it.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is not locked!’ Athelstan pulled hard on the door and it opened, Athelstan snatching the piece of thickened parchment he had secretly used to wedge the door closed. ‘That,’ Athelstan held up the wedge, ‘made it seem like the door was locked.’
‘But you turned the key.’
‘No Master Flaxwith, I fiddled with the key. I rattled it in the lock but I didn’t fully turn it. I pushed the door to and, as I did, inserted the wedge. I then rattled the keys as if I was locking it. Doors are closed and locked throughout the day, we rarely give it a second thought or glance. This is what happened on that fateful evening in the shadowy, cold stairwell of Flambard’s Tower. The Clerks of the Light, your comrades, Beaumont, were eager for home. They saw and heard the door being closed, the key being inserted in the locks, then they were gone in a matter of heartbeats.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Master Beaumont, do you remember Culpeper, the little snooper? And indeed he was! Culpeper was a peritus, an expert, in getting into places supposedly locked. Amongst other business assigned to him, Culpeper was asked to study the robbery, or rather the place where it occurred. He visited the treasure chamber at Westminster and came to a similar conclusion,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘to the one I eventually reached. Culpeper wrote down his conclusion “porta prima, porta solo prima” which, as you know, translates “the first door, it can only be the first door”. Culpeper’s conclusion was that someone somehow managed to get through that first locked door. He was correct. So, to return to my indictment. Flambard’s Tower settles down, Despencer and his clerks are busy within, whilst you, Master Beaumont, are equally busy without. Your comrades have left. You have surrendered the keys, then you returned to Flambard’s Tower garbed in black from head to toe. You slink through the night. Albinus and Wolfrich do not pose any real challenge. They come regularly every three hours. Like everyone else, they are tired, cold, and believe everything is secure enough. They perform their guard in a perfunctory manner. You know when they will come and when they will leave so you continue with your plot. After all, you have so many things to do. You slip into the crypt or cellar of Flambard’s Tower. You’d probably laid out there what you needed, especially a large strong hempen sack, sturdy enough to hold the deluge of gold coins you are about to cascade from the treasury.’
