The Book of Fires (29 page)

‘If I had “The Book of Fires”, why did I not use it to negotiate Isolda’s life?’

‘Sharp, very sharp,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sharp as a serpent’s tooth! A very good question. So I return to circumstance and coincidence. It’s a matter of logic, isn’t it?’

Lady Anne just glared back.

‘Some people are in the right place at the right time or,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘some people are in the wrong place at the right time and so on. To be brief, you never discovered the secret until after Isolda’s execution. God knows why and how. Was it mere chance? Did you sit brooding and realize all you had left from your complex plotting was Sir Walter’s copy of the New Testament? Did you wonder what to do with it? Take it out and leaf through the pages, or did you reflect on all you knew about Black Beaumont? The years abroad, his sly illusions to the book’s whereabouts being a revelation safe on the island of Patmos? I cannot say, but you certainly discovered the secret and used it to deadly effect.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘At the same time you continued the pretence of condemning Isolda. You had no choice but to mask your true intentions.’

‘You will produce proof for all this?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘You can evidence what you say?’

‘You and your familiar Turgot became very busy,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You are an apothecary – you can easily buy the different components and constituents. You also had the Keep in which to distil them. Turgot was young, skilled and able. Once ready, you strike. First, Turgot attacks Sutler and Gavelkind. An easy enough task. Go out on to any London street and you will find someone carrying a pot, a pail, a pan and sometimes a lantern or candle. Turgot acted this out. A pot of Greek fire in one hand, a flame in the other. Vengeance was inflicted on Sutler, Gavelkind and Pynchon, foreman of the jury. The latter was not caught out on a London street. He made it easy for you, a bachelor locked in his strong room in the cellars. All Turgot had to do, using a pair of bellows, was pump Greek fire through that grille, followed by a flame. Pynchon was drunk, clumsy on his feet and, of course, he had sealed himself in. Even for someone with a fresh mind, unlocking and unbarring a heavy door could be frustrating. You also turned on us. You knew our reputation. You feared discovery and you wished to deepen the mystery. Twice you attacked Sir John and me and, on a separate occasion, the coroner in his own house.’

‘Turgot and I were with you when you were attacked on our way to Firecrest Manor!’

‘Oh, you were.’ Athelstan emphasized his words. ‘You were with us and Turgot was allegedly following to protect us. It was all a pretence. You wished to create an illusion.’ He paused. ‘On reflection, there was no need for you to accompany us so late in the evening. You did give us your judgement on Isolda, but you could have said that in the privacy of your own house. You simply wanted to take us out into the dark, wasting time so Turgot could prepare himself. On that night Turgot did not leave the house behind us, Wickham the ostler did. All we saw was a cloaked, cowled figure following us. Wickham was given strict instructions on what to do, whilst Turgot sped ahead. He launched his assault and then disappeared, fleeing through the maze of streets. Remember what you told us, how Turgot knew that warren of alleyways? Your accomplice hurled the missile then slipped back to act his part. Wickham was dismissed. The ostler was simple-minded, yet even the most sharp-witted might not have suspected. To all intents and purposes, Turgot had apparently caught up with him and assumed his usual duty of protecting his mistress. Wickham was instructed to keep silent. You, Lady Anne, clearly used that assault to show the Ignifer had nothing to do with you or yours. You played the same game when we were attacked in Aldgate. We left Pynchon’s house. Turgot followed us. He waited for his opportunity and perpetrated that assault. An easy enough task, you realized we’d be summoned there and be vulnerable afterwards. You created the pretence that Turgot was busy on your affairs in Southwark. He was not. You sent a mute, cowled and cloaked, that strange creature who suffers the same as Turgot, Didymus. Remember him? The twin who constantly makes signs to a so-called brother invisible to everyone else? We human beings, Lady Anne, as you well know, treat cripples and the maimed as if they don’t exist. You sent a mute to St Erconwald’s with a letter. Didymus, not Turgot, was your emissary, but who would care about a mute beggar’s individual characteristics? I did, only because of a boy.’

‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne beat her fists on the table.

‘Children are different. Crim, my altar boy, was fascinated by the way Didymus, after he delivered the letter to my house, wandered off busy with his sign language, as if someone else was present. That wasn’t Turgot but Didymus.’

‘I would agree,’ Cranston murmured.

‘Didymus did as you instructed. He gave the letter over, marvelled at what was happening around him and became busy with his invisible twin. Of course, you never frequented St Erconwald’s, did you? You said you would like to visit the Great Miracle but Turgot would have followed and that could be dangerous – he might be recognized. You deliberately deployed others where Turgot should have been whilst secretly assisting your familiar to carry out hideous murder.’ Athelstan rose and walked up and down the cell, grateful for the exercise, before returning to his seat. ‘Strange, Lady Anne, that you do not protest your innocence but demand evidence. Very well.’ He leaned forward, emphasizing his points on his fingers. ‘Firstly, where’s Beaumont’s New Testament? He lent it to you, that is a matter of record. Where is it? Tell Sir John. He will despatch a messenger to your house and find it.’ Lady Anne just glared back. ‘Secondly, I will produce part of a page of that New Testament. An extract from the Book of Revelation, scorched but still legible. A relic of that mysterious fire which killed Turgot and devastated the Keep. The extract clearly spells out a formula from “The Book of Fires” written above and below the scriptural text. Thirdly,’ Athelstan steeled himself; some of what he was about to say was only a bluff, hoodman’s wink, ‘Wickham is dead. Strangely enough, so is Didymus, found sprawled in a lay stall, his throat slashed from ear to ear. The poor man had been dead for some time.’ Athelstan stared down at the floor; that was the truth. Sir John had organized a careful search for the eccentric beggar man. Flaxwith had discovered his cadaver in the Hall of Deep Shadows where the Harrower of the Dead brought the corpses of those he’d found in the streets. Athelstan prayed silently. What he was going to say next was not the proven truth. ‘However, Wickham,’ he glanced up, ‘did make statements to Picquart about the strange events which occurred on the night we were attacked. Did he not, Sir John?’ He glanced quickly at the coroner and winked.

‘Strange tales, Lady Anne,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Strange indeed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Then there is Crim, our altar boy.’ Athelstan ignored her question. ‘And his description of the mute who visited St Erconwald’s,’ he tapped the table, ‘and of course Parson Garman. You used Didymus to give the chaplain that formula from “The Book of Fires”.’

‘What formula?’

‘The one used to create such devastation amongst Gaunt’s flotilla of barges along Southwark quayside.’

‘Why? What are you saying?’ Lady Anne’s voice faltered.

‘Garman talked about a beggar man making swift, silent signs to an invisible personage – that was Didymus – on another errand from his so-called friend and ally, Turgot. You gave it to Garman because, well, there is the past, isn’t there, and, of course, the present? Garman is a fervent ally of the Upright Men. He is also a former ignifer, a high-ranking officer in the Luciferi. He would have recognized what you gave him and only be too eager to pass such a coveted prize on to the Upright Men.’

‘And why should I support them?’

‘You don’t. You hate Gaunt. You fiercely resent him. He insisted that Isolda be shown no mercy over her sentence. You did it out of revenge. It’s as simple as that.’ Athelstan sat head down, letting the silence deepen. Newgate remained quiet. Only the occasional scream or the slamming of a door shattered the stillness.

‘The case presses hard against you,’ Cranston declared. ‘Lady Anne, think about what the Crown lawyers will make of all this. They will dig deep into your past. They will note the similarity between your maiden title and the name given to that little girl-child so many years ago. They will ask you how Turgot truly died, locked and shuttered in the Keep. No one entered your garden that night. No one broke into that building. Your grief, however, was genuine because Turgot suffered a hideous accident caused by himself. There’s more. The piece of parchment Athelstan found. The whereabouts of Beaumont’s New Testament. The involvement of Wickham and Didymus. Descriptions of certain individuals will be drawn up and compared. People will wonder at the strange coincidence of both Wickham and Didymus being mysteriously murdered in street assaults within the same brief period of time. I shall move on. There’s your skill as an apothecary. A thorough search will be made of all the items you have recently bought. Your house will be ransacked, your records scrupulously studied. Gaunt will be furious and so will his familiar, Thibault, his Master of Secrets. He will drag you to the dark, sombre caverns of the Tower, where his minions will put you to rack and rope.’

‘You are guilty,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘You slaughtered innocent men. You will burn like Isolda did, but of course,’ he pointed to the white cloth Lady Anne was pressing to her mouth, ‘I know what you are doing. No, Sir John,’ he put his hand out as Cranston made to rise, ‘let her go to judgement.’ The friar rose and stood over her. ‘You have swallowed some malignancy, haven’t you?’

The white cloth still clutched to her mouth, Lady Anne smiled at Athelstan with those eerie, night-black eyes, even as she coughed, tensed then relaxed.

‘Clever little friar.’ She took the cloth from her mouth, where a slight creamy froth bubbled. ‘So accurate, so exact in so many details.’ She moved, her hands still clutching the cloth, and wagged a finger at Athelstan. ‘Cranston is right. You are a ferret in human flesh. I warned Turgot about you, I really did. There’re a few errors, some gaps, but what does it matter, eh? Why should I wait? Isolda has gone. Turgot has gone. What is left for me?’ She coughed throatily. Athelstan glimpsed blood bubbling in the froth staining her thin, pale lips. ‘At least we sent Black Beaumont to judgement before us. He was the cause of it all.’ She coughed, a sobbing sound which twisted her body. ‘He stole from us and I nearly stole it back.’ She sat rocking in her chair, her face twisted, her eyes fluttering. She gave a deep sigh and tilted sideways, sprawling on to the floor, her body convulsing, then she lay still.

Athelstan knelt down and pressed his hand against the side of her neck, but he could detect no pulse of life. He twisted her face towards him. She stared back, an empty, glassy gaze as blood trickled between her lips.

‘God knows what she swallowed.’ The friar rose and gingerly shook the blood-stained cloth. He gently sifted the small yellow pellets out on to the tabletop.

‘You knew she would do that?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, I did. Whatever her crimes, Sir John, the tortures Gaunt would have inflicted should not be imposed on any human being. I prayed for judgement and we have received it. She and Turgot have gone to God to answer for their crimes.’

‘You will give her the last rites, Brother?’

‘Not me, Sir John.’ Athelstan walked to the door. ‘Stay with her until I return.’ He rapped on the door and the turnkey unlocked it. He glimpsed Lady Anne’s corpse sprawled on the floor. Athelstan calmed him, whispering that the coroner had matters in hand. The gaoler took him down to the shadow-filled chapel where Parson Garman was kneeling on a prie-dieu before the small Lady altar, lit by a halo of taper-light. The chaplain did not move as Athelstan walked slowly up behind him.

‘You must have suspected why we brought her here,’ the friar declared. Parson Garman remained kneeling, glancing over his shoulder as the turnkey left, closing the chapel door.

‘She’s dead,’ Athelstan continued. ‘She took her own life. You should give Lady Anne what spiritual solace you can.’

‘Why?’ Garman whispered.

‘You know who she really was,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You recognized what Anne Lasido was capable of. You and her, Parson Garman, are well suited. Sir Walter returned decades ago from Outremer – you followed shortly afterwards. You, Adam Lesures and Anne Lasido became firm friends. I suspect that you and she had a passionate affair. Did she become pregnant with your child?’

‘You are correct.’ Garman’s voice was calm. ‘There were three of us – me, Anne and Adam Lesures. Anne was a wild, free spirit, flattered by our passion for her. She held love trysts with both of us and became pregnant. Adam Lesures did not wish to acknowledge the child, and neither could I. I had applied to the Bishop’s curia to be ordained.’ The parson rose from the prie-dieu and walked through the dancing shadows towards Athelstan. ‘We thought it best if Anne withdrew, had her child and then married Adam Lesures. Whatever you may think of her, Brother Athelstan, Adam truly loved her.’

‘And the child?’

‘You know full well, Brother Athelstan, that she was handed over to the Minoresses. Adam Lesures swore that if that happened, and we both kept silent, he would marry Anne.’

‘Isolda could have been your daughter?’

‘Could have been, might have been.’ The chaplain mimicked Athelstan’s words. ‘There are more important matters than a love child, a baby girl. I had a vocation to be a priest, to spread the message amongst the poor.’

‘You approved of Isolda’s marriage to Beaumont?’

‘I neither approved nor disapproved.’

‘Yes, you did. You and Lady Anne saw the marriage as a way of bringing Sir Walter down, of seizing his secrets and sharing his wealth. Beaumont, however, was a match for all of you – cunning as a snake. Isolda did not get what she wanted. Sir Walter began to raise doubts about his marriage. You, because of your deep hatred for him, were only too willing to feed his anxieties, to taunt him. You brought those almond-coated figs. Did you suspect Isolda was poisoning him? Given Sir Walter’s grumbling sickness, the thought must have crossed your mind, but you did not really care, did you, as long as Beaumont died. Revenge sweet enough for you.’