The Gallows Murders

flowers of every kind and hue. Benjamin knocked on the door which was briskly opened by a maid in a white mobcap and grey smock. Benjamin explained who we were. The girl curtseyed as if we were the Great Cham of Tartary. She ushered us into a sweet-smelling passageway, the walls freshly painted, and into a cosy parlour overlooking the front garden. Benjamin and I sat in the window-seat, Agrippa lounged in a chair alongside as the maid hurried off to fetch her mistress.
    I heard a child crying, probably from the garden beyond, and two boys playing at the top of the stairs, followed by footsteps and the hoarse whispering of the maid outside. The door was pushed open and Mistress Undershaft came into the room. I immediately rose, sweeping off my hat: she was the prettiest wench you ever did see. Her face was narrow and pointed, the skin ivory pale. Hair the colour of straw peeped out from just beneath her widow's veil. Her dress of black taffeta, mourning weeds, only enhanced her angel-like beauty. She moved delicately with small steps, those lustrous eyes blinking against the sunlight pouring through the window. She glanced at Benjamin, myself and, more than once, at Agrippa, who must have looked like some monstrous dressed spider which had crawled into her house. 'Do I know you, sirs?'
    Benjamin made the introductions. The woman's hand went out but not far enough for Benjamin to grip. She smiled quickly, her fingers flying to her lips, then opened the small reticule which swung from the belt round her narrow waist: she brought out a pair of spectacles which she perched on the bridge of that lovely nose.
    ‘I am so sorry, sirs.' Her voice was sweet and low. 'My sight is poor but vanity makes me wear these as little as possible.' Benjamin bowed from his waist. 'Madam, we have come to ask you certain questions about your late husband.'
    The woman closed her eyes; she clasped her hands together as if in prayer. That is difficult, sir,' she whispered. ‘I find it so hard.'
    She opened her eyes, beautiful, clear pools of light, and Old Shallot saw it. Ever so fleeting! Ever so quick! A look, a cast of the eyes, perhaps a pucker of the mouth. Those little movements you glimpse out of the corner of your eye which tell you that all is not what it appears to be. Agrippa pushed across the chair he had been sitting on and helped her into it, softly murmuring his condolences. The woman looked up, peering over her spectacles at Benjamin, then her gaze slid quickly towards me. I caught it again: a spark of mischief, of hidden laughter. Always remember Shallot's old maxim: A charlatan may fool a wise man but he can never fool another charlatan.' 'Sirs, do you wish something to eat or drink?'
    Faced with such beauty, I would have stayed to supper, but Benjamin murmured his thanks. 'It is your husband, madam, we have come to talk about. We wish to cause as little pain as possible.'
    Mistress Undershaft bowed her head, sobbing quietly. For a while we just sat in silence.
    ‘I am sorry, madam,' Benjamin insisted, 'but we come from the King: your husband's death may not have been a simple act of revenge but connected with something much more sinister.'
    The woman's head snapped up, a little too quickly. ‘What do you mean, sir?' she stammered.
    'Madam, excuse my bluntness, we believe your husband was pushed into a cage at Smithfield and burnt to death not out of revenge, but because of some treasonable activity…'

Chapter 5
    'Madam.' Benjamin waited for Mistress Undershaft to compose herself. 'Before he died, did your husband act untoward? Did he mention anything? Was he worried about anything?'
    'Andrew was a good man,' she replied tearfully. 'He did a dreadful job, though he always maintained that those he hanged or executed fully deserved their punishment. Every Sunday, when he went to Mass at St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower, he always prayed for the souls of those who'd suffered.' 'Precisely so, madam,' Benjamin replied, 'but did he-'
    'My husband rarely talked about what he did, Master Daunbey,' she interrupted, a touch of steel in her voice. Unlike others of the Guild, he did not boast about how many he had killed, or how he had made such a person suffer by putting a knot in the wrong place. Nor did he refuse those burnt at Smithfield a bag of gunpowder round their necks to hasten their ends.'
    (I just sat and shivered to hear this beautiful woman talk so matter-of-factly about her late husband's trade.) 'So you know nothing,