The hanging tree, p.8
The Hanging Tree, page 8
‘He was a locksmith?’
‘More than that, Father, a true Key-Master.’
‘We have heard stories about the great robbery at Westminster,’ the hangman declared, ‘of clerks being slaughtered, treasure stolen? Even about bags of spent charcoal being left as a mocking farewell?’
Athelstan smiled at this most skilled of artists. The hangman had a God-given talent, a lesson to Athelstan never to judge the man’s soul by the hangman’s troubled past and eerie looks. The executioner now sat combing his long, straw-coloured hair with his fingers, his snow-white peaked face cleanly shaven, which emphasized even more his blood-red lips.
‘Father, you are staring at me?’
‘My apologies, I am letting my mind drift. Yes, you’re correct, bags of charcoal were left by the robbers.’
‘How is it that such detail is now well known?’ Benedicta asked.
‘Oh, that’s the deliberate intention of Master Thibault. He has proclaimed what happened in the hope – vain, I think – that someone will come forward to provide information and so receive a reward.’
‘Thibault would probably torture anyone who did,’ Crispin retorted, ‘then hang them out of hand.’
Athelstan laughingly agreed before asking Crispin to continue telling them what he knew about Clement.
‘Your kinsman was no parishioner here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Perhaps I may have glimpsed him when he came across on a visit.’
‘True, Father, Clement owned a narrow tenement in New Fish Yard.’
‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan declared. ‘That’s near Bridge Street, so it must be within walking distance of The Hanging Tree.’
‘You know that?’ Crispin asked.
‘Well, everyone knows The Hanging Tree,’ Benedicta retorted.
‘Yes they do, and Sir John and I have business there but, for the moment, Crispin, let’s hear what you have to say.’ The friar mockingly beat his breast. ‘And I’ll try not to interrupt.’
‘Clement lived in New Fish Yard; however, years earlier, he had a splendid mansion in Cheapside. He was a wealthy, well-placed member of the Guild. And then disaster struck, swift as an arrow from a bow.’ Crispin paused, staring into the tankard he clenched. ‘Strange,’ he continued. ‘These stories about the great robbery at Westminster. Father, you do realize it was our Clement who fashioned the locks and keys for the two fortified doors in the treasury? Oh yes.’ Crispin nodded at Athelstan’s quickening interest. ‘Clement the Key-Master was responsible for them. They were to be a work of art, the legacy of a great craftsman.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ The friar waved a hand. ‘And so, the threads are becoming even more entwined. Tell me, when did this all happen?’
‘Some eight years ago, just before the old King’s death. Anyway, at the time, Clement had sworn a great oath that all casts, workings, drawings – indeed anything and everything connected with those locks and keys – were to be utterly destroyed. If you wish, Father, make enquiries; it’s a common enough practice in the construction of a fortified area.’
‘I am sure it is, so what happened?’
‘Clement made a very foolish mistake. He kept the schedule of documents for the royal works: drawings, sketches, as well as bits and pieces associated with the locks and keys. Someone secretly accused him of trying to fashion extra keys. They must have laid this information before the Secret Chancery. Clement’s house, shop and foundry were raided by royal serjeants led by Master Thibault. They seized the schedule, and anything associated with the fashioning of the keys and locks. Clement was threatened with being arraigned before King’s Bench on a charge of treason and other dreadful felonies. However, the proof was not sufficient, the truth hard to establish, whilst Clement’s good character and excellent service saved him from any physical punishment.’
‘And what did Clement plead?’
‘Father, he simply maintained he had made a dreadful mistake. He certainly had,’ Crispin added fiercely, ‘and he paid for it. He was dismissed from the Guild, exiled from its councils, and rejected by both prince and prelate. Nobody wanted to do business with him. He was reduced to begging for work. In a word, Clement’s life was utterly ruined.’
‘Good Lord,’ the hangman breathed, ‘poor man!’
‘Poor man indeed!’ Crispin continued heatedly. ‘Matters went from bad to worse. Clement’s wife Anna contracted a bloody flux and died of a wasting disease. Clement suffered the same.’ Crispin rubbed his stomach. ‘Some malignant humour of the belly. Tragedy too for his own beloved son, Columba. He married Isabella Fleming, the only daughter of Simon Fleming, City Hangman and Master of the Guild of Hangmen, as well as being Mine Host of The Hanging Tree tavern on Bridge Street. The marriage was not the happiest, it had its problems, and then disaster struck again; Columba simply disappeared.’
‘When?’
‘About three years ago.’
‘Why?’
‘Father, we don’t know. A sturdy young man, devoted to his father, Columba just disappeared. Vanished like mist on a summer’s morning.’
‘And his effects?’
‘Oh, some of these were missing, but it appeared that Columba had apparently packed a fardel and left for pastures new. Oh, by the way, Father,’ Crispin scratched the side of his head, ‘I have yet to search Clement’s clothing, but I did visit his tenement across the river. I found nothing of note. Clement certainly died a poor man.’
‘But what was the reason for his son’s disappearance?’ Benedicta asked.
‘Surely some reason was given? Or even later the true cause established?’ Athelstan intervened.
‘That’s possible, Father. Clement always believed that Thibault’s raid of his house and workplace was due to information secretly being laid against him in the Court of the Secret Chancery. At first Crispin thought it might be a rival who had betrayed him. However, when Columba disappeared, Clement began to wonder if it was his son.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Father, Columba was a merry soul who, on occasion, liked nothing more than revelling in the taproom of The Hanging Tree. Perhaps he said something he shouldn’t have, let slip information about his father’s work and, unwittingly, revealed what Thibault’s minions later discovered. Whatever, Columba disappeared with a few paltry possessions. He made no farewell and has made no attempt to return. Nor did he communicate with his beloved father. No real reason was ever given for his disappearance. Clement was heartbroken, a mere shadow of his former self, until a few weeks ago. Clement started to visit me again. He used to in years gone by, but the tragedies he suffered drove a wedge between Clement and all those who cared for him. By then Clement was certainly ill, but I glimpsed a fresh determination. He declared he had reflected on his litany of troubles and reached certain conclusions.’ Crispin supped greedily from his tankard.
Athelstan repressed an abrupt chill of fear. Deep in his heart, he sensed he had reached another gateway into the meadows of murder. Was Crispin hinting that some evil, long and lasting, had devastated Clement, his family, indeed his entire world?
‘I tried to talk to him.’ Crispin put the tankard down. ‘But Clement’s mind was like dice tumbling in a cup. He would say things but not explain. Hint but never make clear.’
‘Such as?’
‘Clement began to believe something dreadful had happened to his son. How someone, he didn’t say who, had deeply blighted his life and of all those he loved. Moreover, in the last few weeks when he was talking about Columba, he would make the same mysterious remark. How his son would never have left without “The Walsingham”.’
‘“The Walsingham”?’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What did Columba have to do with that great shrine to the Virgin Mary?’
‘Columba nourished a deep devotion to Our Lady of Walsingham, but I could never make Clement explain his remark. Instead, Clement maintained he needed to speak to someone he could trust. Some priest who would hear his confession and listen to what he had discovered. I pointed out that London was full of priests who would shrive him at the mercy pew, but Clement just shook his head. To be honest, Father, Clement was a city dweller where churches stand at every corner. I never thought of you till I met Clement one night at The Hanging Tree.’
‘He went there often?’
‘Recently very often. You see Isabella, his daughter-in-law, had received a decree giving her freedom to remarry, which she duly did to Robert Penon, who now manages her father’s tavern. They cared for Clement, said he was always welcome there.’
‘And Clement’s search for a priest?’
‘One night I was talking about the parish, and I suddenly thought of you.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Athelstan teased.
‘Father, you have enough troubles. In truth, I was praising you. Clement became interested. He had visited St Erconwald’s before, though he had very little to do with our church. Once I had mentioned you, I brought him here so he could see you. I urged him to meet you. At first he was reluctant, but eventually he agreed. However, he insisted on making the journey by himself. Of course, I offered to help but he was adamant. He insisted on coming here alone as he did yesterday. I had no choice but to leave him to it.’
‘He arrived just after you left, Father.’ Benedicta replied to Athelstan’s questioning look.
‘Tell me again,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It is very important. As far as we know, you were the last person Clement spoke to before he was murdered. So, tell me again and include every detail!’
‘Clement said that he needed to see you urgently on a most important matter. I said he could stay elsewhere, be it at The Piebald or with me at the priest’s house. I pointed out that the church was to be locked. He seemed gentle enough, Father, a good man. I’d glimpsed him before with Crispin. Ah well. He was determined to stay in the church, so I let him. I felt he might need to pray or meditate. I gave him some ale and scones. I then explained that I was locking the church but, if he had to leave, the postern in the main door opened outwards. However, once through, and it had shut behind him, he would not be able to re-enter. Clement seemed distracted, but he appeared happy enough with what I told him.’
‘And he said nothing about the reason for his visit?’
‘Only to see you.’
‘And Blodwyn?’
‘Oh Father, he crept into the parish like a spider, sometime around the Gabriel bell. He had eluded his pursuers, darting into God’s Acre and disturbing me in your house. He claimed sanctuary, adding that he was being pursued by the market beadles. From what I can gather, Blodwyn regards such pursuits as an occupational hazard.’
‘True,’ the hangman intervened. ‘Blodwyn is a notorious felon, nothing serious. He just roams both the City and Southwark, garbed in his ragged scarlet jerkin, ripe and ready for mischief. I know a little about him. Blodwyn is sometimes hired as part of the hangman’s escort. He sits in the death cart and helps secure prisoners until they are turned off the ladder.’
‘I brought him in here,’ Benedicta declared. ‘I threw one of Philomel’s blankets around him, took him back through God’s Acre, opened the postern in the main door and thrust him through. I think he had a wineskin with him and some of the bread he had stolen. I just regarded him for what he was – totally hapless.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured absent-mindedly, staring down at the table top. He reflected how, in the pursuit of an assassin across the meadows of murder, the twisting paths of other mysterious deaths often crossed the very one he was hastening down. The same was true here. Clement the Key-Master had fashioned those locks and keys, the ones he had examined in Flambard’s Tower. Was there a connection here? Had Clement, either then or now, been involved in some plot to plunder the treasury? Or had he just made a stupid mistake and paid a terrible price? In addition, who had betrayed him and given the information to the Secret Chancery? Were there other keys? Yet that would be almost impossible.
‘Lord save us,’ he breathed. ‘Well Benedicta, is there anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘And so we come to the murder.’ Athelstan abruptly rose and grabbed his cloak slung across his chancery chair. ‘Come,’ he urged. ‘Let us play our own murderous masque.’ His companions, startled by their priest, hurriedly rose and followed him out of the house and down to the church. Once inside, Athelstan locked the corpse door and asked the hangman to check that all the other doors were locked. He then gathered his parishioners around the pillar where Clement’s corpse had been found.
‘Let us pretend.’ Athelstan’s voice echoed hollowly through the nave, a place of flitting shadows broken only by the dancing pools of light from the tapers and candles glowing in the Lady Chapel. For a moment, Athelstan wondered if Clement’s spirit still hovered close. Some theologians argued that after death souls became deeply disturbed, especially if they had been abruptly thrust into the dark. So anxious, so frightened, they hovered close to the place of their death. Was Clement here, watching from behind the veil? And would he remain close until the confusion dissipated and his assassin was brought to judgement?
‘Father, you brought us here.’
‘My apologies to all,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Now look, Crispin, you pretend to be Blodwyn, go into the sanctuary enclave.’ The friar grinned. ‘Though I cannot give you a bulging wineskin to drown your sorrows like the one carried by our unexpected guest.’ Crispin nodded and walked away, up the sanctuary steps, through the rood screen and into the darkness around the high altar.
‘Benedicta, you simply watch what happens. Giles,’ Athelstan turned to the hangman, ‘you are the assassin and I’m your victim so, I’ll stand facing the pillar. Right, let us begin.’
Benedicta walked away. Athelstan turned his back. He was about to say he was ready when the garrotte string looped over his head, drawing tight around his throat. Athelstan panicked, lashing out, before the cord slackened. Athelstan, gasping for breath, just slumped down to rest against the pillar. He stared unbelievingly at the hangman squatting before him.
‘So swift,’ Athelstan gasped. ‘I never heard, saw or felt anything till that cord …’
‘Quick and quiet, Father. Once that noose is tightened, there’s really very little chance. A few heartbeats and you’ll soon be a member of the heavenly choir.’
‘I understand that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But why not the knife or the crossbow?’
‘A bolt from an arbalest could miss or fail to kill. A dagger thrust is not so certain. There’s always the danger of the blade slipping or its point hitting something hard, a medal or a belt buckle. No,’ the hangman’s snow-white face creased into an icy smile, ‘the garrotte is swift, no more than a few gasping breaths. I can do this easy.’ He added, ‘But not the knife, the sickening thrust …’
‘Very well.’ Athelstan clambered to his feet. ‘Our assassin has killed Clement; why, we don’t know. Nevertheless, the deed is done and he must flee. But how could he, from a locked church?’
‘The postern in the main door?’
‘No, Benedicta, that would take him out onto the concourse. He could easily be seen. Many of our parishioners assemble there; people are constantly crossing to and fro, at least until the Compline bell. Then there’s the bailiffs who pursued Blodwyn; a character we must return to. And so,’ Athelstan joined his hands as if in prayer, ‘murder is committed, the perpetrator escapes. But how? I can provide one solution. Benedicta, you returned to the church and discovered the corpse? Please,’ he smiled, ‘repeat exactly what you did yesterday when you came in here to find poor Clement.’
Benedicta hurried off, leaving the church through the Devil’s door. A short while later she returned through the corpse door, flinging it open and hurrying across to where Athelstan and the hangman stood. She paused, all breathless, and pointed to the base of the pillar.
‘Clement was lying there.’
‘So, as soon as you entered the church, you crossed immediately to here.’
‘Yes Father, I did.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Why should you hurry through a darkening church?’ Athelstan closed his eyes, opened them and smiled. ‘Very, very clever,’ he declared. ‘You came hurrying across because of the lighted tallow candle, yes? The church was cloaked in darkness, so you were curious about a glow of light where, in fact, there shouldn’t have been one.’
‘That’s true, Father. I opened the door. I came in and glimpsed the dancing light. Of course, I was curious at a single tallow candle burning next to a pillar.’
‘Yes, my dear Benedicta, that’s logical. Our killer must have taken that candle from the sacristy and,’ Athelstan emphasized his words, ‘if he went there, Blodwyn must have glimpsed him. Or he Blodwyn …’ Athelstan led them up the sanctuary steps and across into the sacristy. He then turned and went out again. Crispin, peering around the altar, clambered to his feet.
‘I understand what you are doing, Father,’ he called out. ‘There’s a very good chance Blodwyn and the killer met.’
‘Could Blodwyn be the killer?’ the hangman asked. ‘I mean, he is a man associated with death. He knows something about nooses and knots. He could fashion a garrotte and use it as skilfully as anyone else.’
‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Blodwyn fled here seeking sanctuary.’
‘He may have stolen the bread simply as a pretext for entering St Erconwald’s and slaughtering Clement.’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘My friend,’ he declared, ‘why should Blodwyn kill Clement?’
‘Still a possibility,’ the hangman retorted. ‘After all, Blodwyn has fled. Why?’
Athelstan nodded in agreement. ‘Giles, you are correct: it’s a possibility, but let’s continue. What we do know is that the assassin played a clever trick. Once he had murdered Clement, the assassin hid in the darkness, waiting for Benedicta to return. We all concede that when you opened the door, Benedicta, you were going to hurry over to discover why a light is glowing near that pillar. You leave the door off the latch and the assassin simply slips out into the dark.’
