Authors: Paul Doherty
‘He’s struck again, Brother. Lady Anne, as you can hear, is deeply distressed. Let me show you.’ Cranston led Athelstan out along the hollow stone-paved passageway, through the kitchen, buttery and scullery into the great rear garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs were busy there. The air was thick with smoke billowing out of a stone-built building which reminded Athelstan of the nave of a primitive church. It stood in the centre of the garden. In its prime it must have been pleasing to the eye but now its shutters, blackened and tattered, hung from their scorched leather hinges, whilst the door had buckled and crumbled under the heat.
Athelstan went inside the long, barn-like structure. All internal woodwork had been burnt to a feathery blackness, leaving smoke-blackened walls open to the sky. Clouds of ash and smoke still curled and swirled. Covering his mouth with the scented cloth Flaxwith gave him, Athelstan walked up the long chamber. He stared around, pressing the pomander firmly against his face. However, the smoke was too thick to stay, so he returned to the parlour. Athelstan sat down on the stool, gratefully accepting a mouthful of rich Bordeaux from Cranston’s miraculous wineskin.
‘What happened, Sir John?’ he asked, handing the wineskin back. ‘What was that building?’
‘A hermitage, a refuge built by Lady Anne’s late husband. A number of apothecaries have them, where they can safely concoct their remedies and elixirs. According to all the evidence, Turgot went in there to do the same last night. As usual he shuttered and bolted both windows and the door.’
‘Why? What did he fear?’
‘Like Lady Anne’s late husband he worked late at night. Lady Anne was most concerned about the Ignifer and other acts of violence against members of her household – but more of that later. Turgot was in there last night. Nobody gave it a second thought until a scullion heard the roaring flames. He roused the household. They went out but there was nothing they could do. By then the entire building seemed to be bulging with the heat, shutters and door buckling out, most of the red tile roof collapsing, flames shooting up.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘They let the fire burn. Once the conflagration had died they tried to enter. All that is left of Turgot are his blackened bones and the steel and iron from his warbelt.’ Cranston paused as Lady Anne’s steward, Picquart, bustled into the parlour.
‘Lady Anne cannot see anyone,’ he declared, laying a tray of food and pots of ale on the small table. ‘One tragedy follows another.’ He sighed. ‘I was the last to see Turgot alive, you know? Oh, yes,’ he babbled on, ‘the curfew bell was tolling. I went out to the Keep, that’s what the building is called, always has been, built by Lady Anne’s late husband when he was a bachelor in hot pursuit of the beautiful Lady Anne Lasido. A strong building, rather primitive inside but there were braziers to keep it warm and some rugs on the floor. Turgot was an apprentice here, a good one. I always thought he was the son Lady Anne yearned for …’
‘What happened,’ Athelstan asked sharply, ‘with Turgot last night?’
‘Nothing. I knocked on the door. He unlocked and unbolted it, I remember that. He looked content enough. I made signs asking him if he needed anything to eat or drink. He assured me, in his own unique way, that he did not. I remember he held a pot of lavender in his hand. He was mixing this with something else and he invited me to smell it. I did. I bade him goodnight and returned to the house.’
‘So Turgot was in the Keep mixing potions and powders?’
‘Yes. As I have said, he was very good at it. Lady Anne was most respected by the Guild.’
‘Did anything untoward happen?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Lady Anne, after the tragedy occurred, was distraught, but she told us that she believed someone was in the garden last night. She was in her chamber when she heard sounds but she didn’t give it a second thought. Well, until that happened.’
‘So,’ Athelstan replied slowly, ‘the household retires for the night. Turgot is working in the Keep. The first signs of the tragedy are the flames roaring and the roof collapsing, yes?’
Picquart nodded in agreement.
‘All you could do was watch,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Turgot was inside?’
‘We found his remains, God assoil him. They were pathetic, nothing but blackened bones. They’ve now been sheeted. Lady Anne will see to the burial. She has also visited the devastation. She kept repeating that Turgot used the Keep to distil herbal concoctions. He liked to work alone. He would only open the door to admit someone he knew and trusted.’
‘Were the door and window shutters locked fast?’
‘I think so, Sir John. They buckled and sprang loose under the blazing heat.’
‘So,’ Athelstan supped at his ale, ‘Turgot was working late. Someone may have entered the garden, scaling the curtain wall. He raps on the door. Turgot would challenge this but lets him in. Once he has gained entry, the intruder, the Ignifer if that’s who it is, strikes Turgot down, casts the fire and hurriedly leaves. But whatever you say, Master Picquart, if that is the case the door must have been left open by the assassin as he left.’ Athelstan rose. ‘Let us return to the Keep.’
Athelstan walked out of the house and into the garden. Flaxwith and his bailiffs still patrolled there, searching the ground around the Keep, but he could he tell from their expressions that they had discovered nothing. As usual, Flaxwith’s mastiff, Samson, was sniffing about. Athelstan noticed the mastiff had a fairly large piece of parchment between its jaws which must have floated out of a window or door. He gently prised this loose and put it in the pocket of his robe. He heard Cranston and Picquart talking behind him and turned.
‘Master steward,’ he asked, ‘earlier you mentioned one trouble following another. What did you mean?’
‘I was just questioning him about that,’ the coroner replied.
‘Well?’ Athelstan asked. The fat-faced, gimlet-eyed steward shrugged.
‘Brother Athelstan, I am not too sure if it is of relevance here but Lady Anne’s household has already suffered a grievous loss. One of her retainers, Wickham the ostler, left the house two nights ago. He was slain in a violent street robbery only a few streets away, his corpse thrown into a laystall.’ Picquart shook his head. ‘Poor Wickham – a simple-minded young man, totally devoted to Lady Anne and her horses.’
‘So a member of the household was slain two nights ago. A possible intruder in the garden last night and now the murder of Turgot and the burning of the Keep.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Are they all connected?’
‘Violent street robberies,’ Cranston remarked mournfully, ‘are increasing. The ostler’s death might be the Ignifer’s doing.’
‘No.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Our assassin likes to burn. Moreover, the ostler had no involvement in Lady Isolda’s arrest and execution and neither did Turgot.’
‘Of course not,’ Picquart snapped, ‘though Turgot supported Lady Anne through that mournful time.’
Athelstan thanked him. He could make little sense of what he had seen and heard. Had Turgot and the Keep been destroyed by Greek fire from within? Had the Ignifer coaxed his way in, struck Turgot down and set both the corpse and Keep alight? Or, as with Sir John, did the assassin prise open a window or door and cast in one of those damnable clay pots followed by a flame? Yet if that was the case, Turgot would have noticed and hastened to protect himself. Athelstan took a deep breath. According to the evidence the most probable explanation was that the Ignifer had persuaded Turgot to admit him. He then struck and fled, which must mean that either the door or one of the windows had been left open, whatever Picquart claimed.
Athelstan turned and walked across the garden. Dawn had broken and the strengthening light made it easier to see. Inside the Keep the air had turned fresher, the smoke thinning but the entire chamber and all within it had been truly devastated. Athelstan picked up a stick and sifted amongst the ashes. He unearthed scraps of scorched leather and stiffened blackened ash. The dust swirled up to make him cough and splutter. Athelstan wiped his hands. There was nothing here for him. He left and decided to walk the garden to cleanse his throat and breathe in the morning air. He followed the pebbled path which twisted between herbers, flowerbeds, shrubs and bushes, flower arbours with turfed seats, neatly cropped grass plots and raised soil beds all glistening white and frozen hard, waiting for spring. At the very centre of the garden, on a gorgeous red and gold plinth, stood a statue of St Anne with the Virgin Mary as a young girl standing beside her. The soil around the skilfully sculptured statue and exquisitely painted plinth was rich, black and recently turned. The winter rosebush, planted just before the statue, was in full flower despite the harsh weather. Athelstan crossed himself, put his hand in his robe searching for a set of Ave beads and felt the piece of parchment he had rescued from Samson’s jaws. Curious, he held it up to the light: the carefully calligraphed writing proclaimed a verse from the scriptures: ‘Worthy is the lamb who was slain to receive power, riches, glory and blessing.’ Athelstan peered closer. He stared and gaped, catching his breath as his heart skipped a beat. He sat on a turf seat before the statue, reading that scrap of parchment time and again. Had it been dropped by the Ignifer? Samson had apparently picked it up from outside. Athelstan stared at the winter rosebush. He rose, walked across and crouched down. Stretching out his hand, he touched the six-sided cross, like that of a Hospitaller, carved on the plinth, the symbol used whenever a church or statue was formally consecrated. He returned to his seat, staring at both the winter rosebush and the statue as he swiftly constructed one hypothesis after another. He sifted through all the possibilities until he reached the most compelling, which transformed into a strong probability. To prove it, Athelstan recalled different individuals, their conversations and whereabouts at certain times. The friar, hunched in his cloak, brooded deeply, lost in thought, impervious to the cold and Cranston shouting. Eventually the coroner had to come and shake him by the shoulder.
‘Athelstan, for the sake of Satan’s tits, little friar, you are freezing to death.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan gripped his chancery satchel tighter, ‘I need your assistance to let me think There are certain tasks to be done.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s time we left. We will give our condolences and adjourn to Blackfriars. Our
refectorium
, Brother Wilfred, brews a tangy ale. They say it’s the best in London, whilst our cook, Brother Geoffrey, creates a meat stew pie second to none.’
‘Brother, you have bought me body and soul!’
‘Sir John, be my guest. Whilst you eat I will be busy in our library and
scriptorium
, then I must hasten back to St Erconwald’s to ensure that calm has returned. I also need to talk to my little altar boy, Crim. Yes, that’s very important.’
Mystified, the coroner agreed. They left Lady Anne’s house, out through the noisy streets of Poultry and down to the city now cloaked in one of those thick river fogs. Cranston made sure their escort kept close. Athelstan, however, was not concerned about this, his mind tumbling like dice in a cup. They reached Blackfriars and entered the hallowed serenity of its cloisters. Athelstan relaxed. He ensured Sir John was safely ensconced in the prior’s parlour where the cook and refectoriam were eager to serve the coroner their tastiest achievements and listen once again to Sir John’s amazing exploits in France.
Athelstan excused himself and retreated into the comfortable darkness of the library and
scriptorium
. On a polished oaken desk lighted by candles he laid out his writing materials, weighed down a neatly cut square of vellum, and sat staring into the darkness. His gaze was caught by the lectern, carved in the shape of a soaring eagle, on which rested the priory’s principal Bible – a work of art copied out by the Benedictines of Glastonbury and presented to the Dominicans when they first set up house in London. Athelstan rose and walked over to it. He opened the Bible and turned to the place where he had read that extract from the scorched piece of parchment. He went back to his desk, grasped his sharpest quill pen and began to itemize certain salient points in a series of questions to himself. Item: the attacks by the Ignifer on himself and others were easy enough – all his victims had been taken by surprise. Who had been where and when? Item: apparently the Ignifer had also communicated his secrets to Parson Garman and the Upright Men. Why? Item: those letters, ‘SFSM’, scrawled on the walls of Isolda’s death cell – what did they mean? Item: what did Isolda have when she died apart from food and drink? Item: why did Isolda have that heated dispute with Lady Anne, who was doing nothing but trying to comfort her? Item: who had been a member of the Luciferi? Item: why had Sir Walter constantly boasted that the secrets of ‘The Book of Fires’ would be a revelation to anyone who ever found them and that they were safe on Patmos? Item: the Ignifer was someone passionately devoted to Isolda. At the same time this assassin was apparently the holder of the secret of Greek fire, so why didn’t the Ignifer try to trade such secrets for a pardon for Isolda? Item: a man claiming to be Vanner came to Smithfield to collect the charred remains of Lady Isolda. Who was this? Why did he call himself Vanner when that clerk lay murdered, his corpse deep in the mere at Firecrest Manor? Item: why did the Ignifer give off the fragrance of a rather costly perfume, the scent of crushed lilies? Item: what was the true source of the poison given to Sir Walter used first in those figs coated with an almond sauce and later in that fateful cup of posset? Item: Isolda went into the city to meet Nicephorus but also someone else. Who was this? Why the secrecy? Item: on the night he, Cranston and Lady Anne had been attacked, Turgot had been trailing behind them. Why had Turgot now been killed? Was there a connection between Turgot’s death and that of Lady Anne’s ostler? Item: the Ignifer certainly had a relationship with the Upright Men. Who favoured them – Buckholt, Sir Henry? Did Master Falke? Item: why was it so important for the Ignifer that Gaunt’s barges be burnt? Why was the Ignifer so determined to remove both Cranston and himself from this investigation?