The Gallows Murders

Death: grotesque, macabre skeletons leaping and cavorting as they led hundreds into the great dark pit of Hell. I simply mention it because it has gone now. The Duke of Somerset pulled it down. We went into the cathedral along the nave, Paul's Walk, where men of the city strode, showed themselves, gossiped and did a little business. The choirboys were out in force, looking for anyone silly enough to wear spurs, for they had the right to demand 'spur' money as a fee. At the west end of the nave, about two dozen scribes sat at small tables scribbling letters and legal documents. Benjamin made his escort stop and stared at these industrious scribblers.
    ‘I wonder,' he whispered, 'if our blackmailer uses them?'
    ‘No, Master.' I pointed round. 'Just look at the rogues and rapscallions gathered here. Servants for hire, ragged-arsed lawyers looking for clients. If the scribe didn't betray their hirer, these would.'
    Benjamin agreed. We went up to the sanctuary dominated by the gorgeously carved and decorated tomb of St Erconwald. A busy-looking cleric, hopping from foot to foot, was waiting for us there. He beckoned us quickly into the sacristy where a liveried thug introduced himself as John Ramasden. A captain of the guard of the King's palace at Whitehall, Ramasden was dressed in chainmail, a heavy warbelt slung round his waist. A hard-faced, lean, mean-eyed, fighting man. He ignored our introductions and came swiftly to the point.
    'My orders are simple,' he barked. ‘When the cathedral bell tolls the Angelus, you are to go into St Paul's churchyard, carrying the gold. You are to place the gold on the steps of St Paul's Cross.' 'And then what?' I asked.
    Ramasden pushed his face close; his blood-filled eyes reminded me of the King's.
    ‘I don't give a rat's turd what happens!' he replied: then he grinned. (He had one good tooth in his mouth and his breath was foul.) 'Some villain will try to pick up the sacks. I and my men will seize him and any accomplices, then it's heigh ho down to the Tower. Until then,' he pulled a face, 'we wait!'
    And wait we did: the minutes seemed to last for hours. Benjamin, lost in his own thoughts, crouched on a stool, cradling the gold. Every so often he would look at me, shake his head and mutter.
    ‘But how could it be done? How on earth, Roger, could it be done?’
    To be truthful, even my sharp wits were dulled. I jumped as the bells began to toll. Ramasden hustled us out by a side door into the vast expanse of St Paul's churchyard. Now, those of you who have been there, know the area is a small town in itself It stopped being used as a cemetery years ago, and became a shabby market where all the thieves congregated to share their ill-gotten gains. They're protected by some stupid city ordinance which stipulates no lawman or sheriff's officer can enter there in pursuit.
    On that particular day, business was brisk. The air stank with a variety of smells: sweaty bodies, stale food being cooked over open fires, perfumes from the whores, whilst our ears were dinned by the clack of tongues and shouts of traders. A few people looked askance at Ramasden. However, he was wearing the royal livery, so no one dared accost him as we threaded our way past the battered stalls to where St Paul's Cross soared high above the graveyard. Now the cross was where heralds came to report news of great victories; the birth of a prince; to announce the sentencing of some great noble, or to give a lurid description of his death by disembowelling on Tower Hill. Around the cross were the bookstalls and pamphleteers whose clerks would sit and listen to such information and, within hours, be writing some broadsheet to sell in the streets outside. Above us the bell kept tolling as I anxiously searched the crowd, seeking a face I could recognise. At last, the chimes began. Benjamin and I counted aloud. Ten, eleven!'
    And then, like the knell of death, the final one. Benjamin quickly moved forward and placed the gold on the steps of the cross. I was wondering how long it would stay: with every rogue in London milling about, any sack left unattended would disappear in a twinkling of an eye. I watched one sharp-eyed caitiff come from behind a stall and edge towards the sack. I started as a woman screamed. The sweating sickness! The sweating sickness!'
    Her screams were drowned by a deafening explosion, as if someone had fired a cannon. Everyone scattered. Benjamin and I dropped our guard and, when we looked back,