The Gallows Murders

seized my arm and pulled me closer. ‘You know our sweet Prince, Roger: he would condemn half of London to the scaffold. However, he needs the evidence, he needs a charge backed up by proof, however spurious that proof may be.' He indicated with his thumb. Those men have families and relatives. The more Henry crashes around, the greater the noise. He could kill all three. Extinguish the life of everyone in the Tower garrison as he would the wick of a candle. But the letters could well continue, and Henry's despotic actions would make people wonder. After all, when the proclamations were opened, those officials were innocently here, quietly locked away in the Tower. There's no more secure place in the kingdom than that!'
    Benjamin, who had walked away to study the great ravens, now came back. Where to now, my good Doctor?' he asked.
    Agrippa peered up at the sun. ‘We are expected in Windsor by evening. Our barge will take us there. So, let's slake our thirsts, gentlemen, and join the Guild of Hangmen at the Gallows tavern.'
    The prospect of a blackjack of ale, even amongst such macabre company, was a bright promise after such sinister tales. Nevertheless, as we walked back across the green and through narrow, winding lanes down to the Lion Gate, the Tower didn't seem so bright and sunny. Just before we turned a corner, I stopped and looked back at the summit of the great Norman keep. Some people claimed it had been built by the Conqueror, others by great Caesar who used human blood to mix in the mortar. Whatever, that keep was a witness to a great mystery. Forty years ago it had looked down upon two young boys playing archery on the green: one was the King of England, the other his younger brother; yet both had disappeared. Or had they? My mind became fanciful. Was it possible that some part of this Tower still housed a great Prince in hiding? 'Roger!' Benjamin called.
    I was about to walk on when suddenly there was the most chilling howl. It made me start, curling the hair on the nape of my neck. 'In God's name, what was that?' I exclaimed.
    'Henry's wolves,' Agrippa explained. 'A present from the Prince of Muscovy'
    Now at that time I didn't know much about Muscovy or its icy, wild wastes. Nevertheless, ever since my days in Paris during the great famine, I have had a terror of wolves. The city had been cut off by snow and the wolves came down from the forests. One night they hunted me – I was sobbing and crying for mercy as usual – along the foul alleyways of Montmartre. Now their howling awoke old terrors in Old Shallot's soul. I needed no further urging but skipped along, sighing with relief as we crossed the moat and back into Petty Wales. Apparently Benjamin and Agrippa had changed their minds. Instead of following the Tower wall around to the tavern, we took an alleyway leading into the city.
    We'll first visit Andrew Undershaft's widow,' Benjamin explained. 'Perhaps she knew something the good constable did not!'
    I recalled that blackened corpse I'd dragged from the cage in Smithfield and seized Benjamin's arm. He paused and looked kindly at me. 'Roger, what is it?'
    'Master, did you believe all that?' I indicated back towards the Tower. They are the King's loyal officers.'
    'No, no, I am sure they are. Yet how could the Prince have survived forty years? Or, if he didn't, where did those seals come from?'
    Benjamin shrugged. His thumb went to his lips. Whoever it is knows the King's mind and the nightmares which lurk there. The King has refused to hand over the first amount. I doubt if he will the second.'
    He walked on, Agrippa and I trotting behind, struggling to keep up with his long-legged gait. Now and again he stopped to make inquiries. At last a beggar boy took us along a narrow, evil-smelling runnel which led into a surprisingly pleasant open green space. Across this stood the house of Andrew Undershaft.
    'He must have hanged many men,' I remarked, pointing to the freshly painted plaster and glass-filled windows.
    Benjamin stopped and stared at the tilers busy on the roof, removing damaged slate and replacing it with good. He looked over his shoulder at Agrippa. Was Undershaft well paid?'
    'Oh, yes, a goodly sum every week. At Michaelmas, midsummer, Christmas and Easter, he'd also be able to draw fresh provisions, fuel and new robes from the royal household.' 'He must have died a wealthy man,' I remarked as we went through the gate and up the pavement; on either side lay gardens filled with