The Gallows Murders

a rope. (Perhaps that was my guilty conscience. During my long and convoluted life I have been condemned to death either in England or abroad at least eighteen times. Sorry, nineteen, I forgot that madcap bugger, the Prince of Muscovy. I've been, no less than eight times, on the scaffold with a rope round my neck.)
    Nevertheless, I remained merry-faced. For a while we discussed the sweating sickness, though the conversation was desultory. Mallow and his apprentices seemed highly nervous of Dr Agrippa, and even more so when Benjamin introduced himself as the Cardinal's nephew. I could understand their fear. Hangmen always have a shadowy past. They hide just beneath the skirts of the law and take cold comfort in the fact that, if they are its servants, they are safe. Mallow abruptly made that point.
    ‘We have done nothing wrong, sirs.' He sipped from his tankard.
    'No one has said you have,' Benjamin coolly replied. 'But, as St Augustine says, "Quis custodiet custodes?" "Who will guard the guards?"' He beat his tankard gently on the table. ‘What we do have are villains threatening His Grace the rung.'
    ‘We know nothing of that,' Wormwood whispered, his voice no more than a hiss, 'though we heard tittle-tattle about the letters.' 'And the deaths of Hellbane and Undershaft?'
    'Again innocent,' Toadflax sneered. 'Master Daunbey.' The hangman leaned forward, I noticed how ink-stained his fingers were. ‘We, too, are officers of the Crown. We execute the villains of London. One in three go to the scaffold screaming their innocence: around the hanging tree, their friends and relatives shake their fists and spit at us!' 'Anyone in particular?' I asked innocently.
    Toadflax drew his head back, studying me from under heavy-lidded eyes. If he could, he would have spat at me.
    Mallow, sniffing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, called for more ale before continuing. ‘Undershaft and Hellbane were young, powerful men. They would not have given up their lives easily.'
    'Hellbane was fished from the Thames,' I replied. 'It's easy to knock a man on the head, put weights on a sack and tip him into the water.'
    'If that's the case,' Mallow snapped, 'the list of suspects is endless.'
    'Indeed,' Wormwood whispered, 'it could happen to any of us.'
    'So, you know nothing?' Benjamin asked, pushing back his stool as if to rise. That is the answer we shall give His Grace the Cardinal.' ‘No.' Mallow shrugged. ‘No quarrel between you, within the guild?'
    "None whatsoever. Master Daunbey,' Mallow pleaded, ‘it is true that one of us here could have killed Hellbane, but why? True, we have heard of those proclamations pinned on the doors of churches in Westminster and Cheapside, as well as the death of poor Andrew. But, sir, we were in the Tower when all this happened, kept as close and secure as any prisoner.'
    Tell me,' I asked, 'this clerk of the stores, Allardyce: did you know him well?' Mallow looked at his companions and pulled a face. 'Describe him to me,' I ordered.
    ‘He was tall, about your height,' the hangman replied. 'Long black curly hair, moustache and beard, thick and luxuriant which he liked to oil. He was a happy-go-lucky fellow with no known family and friends. He told us he came from Dover: his task was to keep careful account of the foodstuffs and fodder stored in the Tower. Allardyce would record what came in, how it was distributed. He would also advise the constable or Master Vetch what further supplies were needed.' 'And he fell sick?' I insisted.
    'We'd all heard about the sweating sickness, but Allardyce just laughed at it. One day he came down here to break his fast. He said he felt unwell. He was shivering, the sweat coursing down his face like water. He went back to the Tower. Sir Edward Kemble was of a mind to throw him out-' 'How do you know that?' I interrupted.
    Mallow pointed to Snakeroot. 'He's well named.' He grinned. "He slides along galleries and corridors and listens through half-open doors.'
    Snakeroot pulled a face. ‘I heard Kemble roaring at Allardyce,' he said, 'telling him he should not have come to his chamber. The Tower has a small infirmary, nothing more than a bare cell. Kemble ordered him to go there.' 'Where is this?' I asked.
    'Near Bowyer Tower, overlooking the river. There's an old woman, slightly madcap, who calls herself Ragusa. She has some knowledge of physic and looks after those of the garrison who fall ill.' He grinned. 'Sometimes, for a coin, she’ll help