The House of Shadows

rubbish. At dusk Master Rolles took it out to the lay stall, the great refuse mound on London Bridge . Nobody lingers to watch refuse, ordure and other unmentionables be unloaded. The Judas Man’s corpse became part of the midden heap, and along with the rest was tipped into the Thames .’
    He paused at the furious knocking at the door, and Flaxwith came in. The bailiff stood fascinated by the corpse sprawled on the floor.
    ‘What is it, Henry?’ Cranston asked.
    Flaxwith whispered hoarsely in the coroner’s ear. Athelstan overheard a few words: something had been found in the garden.
    ‘Let it wait, Sir John.’
    Cranston agreed, but ordered Flaxwith to remove the taverner’s corpse. A sheet was hastily brought, the body rolled in it, and taken out into the passageway. Athelstan heard the cries and groans of the servants and maids, now gathering, horrorstruck at what was happening. He rose and closed the door firmly against the noise.
    ‘Brother Malachi, we come to you. You were attacked in my church by a dagger man. One of the knives used belonged to the Judas Man, but of course, that was just to muddy the water. That poor unfortunate had already gone to God. Master Rolles, a prime mover in all these matters, was your assailant.’ Athelstan pointed at the coroner. ‘When Sir John first described Rolles, he called him a sicarius, “dagger man“; the knights sent him to silence you.’
    ‘And why should they do that?’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm.
    ‘You know why.’ Athelstan held the Benedictine’s gaze. ‘Once you had that ring,’ he continued, ‘you realised your brother was dead. On the day of the great robbery you had been absent across the river; for all I know, that may have been arranged by Rolles, Sir Maurice and the other conspirators. You returned and, like the rest, were mystified at what had happened. In the end you reluctantly accepted that your brother was a thief and a fugitive. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. The crusading fleet left the Thames ,- never once did you see or hear anything to arouse your suspicions, until that ring came into your possession. It was a matter of logic. Who else would have known about that treasure? Who else had the means to carry out the deed? Did you reflect upon Guinevere the Golden, on the possibility that she may not have loved your brother as he loved her? And, of course, the treasure. Have you been to see His Grace, John of Gaunt?’
    Malachi gazed coolly back.
    ‘What was it, Brother?’ Athelstan urged. ‘What made you decide to carry out God’s judgement on these murderers?’
    ‘Did I?’ Malachi taunted back. He scraped back his chair, smiling to himself. ‘Tell Sir Maurice how I did it, Athelstan.’
    ‘You decided Chandler should die first,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That fat knight was all a-quiver, still disturbed by the events of the previous night, hot and sweaty and agitated. He wanted to sip at claret and soothe himself in a hot tub. You saw the taverner take it up. You waited until he had gone and then, carrying an identical cup, of claret, tapped on Sir Stephen’s door. The knight, all in a fluster, admitted you. He was in a state of undress, and when he realised that you had come to talk about nothing of significance, he wanted you to go.’
    ‘But only after Malachi had exchanged one cup for another,’ Cranston replied.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘The goblet Malachi brought was heavily laced with poison. How many times do we put a cup down and pick up the wrong one? Chandler didn’t even notice. He let Malachi out, placed his boots to be cleaned, locked and barred the door, climbed into that hot bath and swallowed his own death. The rheums in his nose would dull the taste of poison.’
    ‘And Sir Laurence Broomhill?’ Cranston asked. ‘You lured him into that cellar, lit the candle at the far end and he stumbled into that repulsive mantrap.’
    ‘God knows,’ Athelstan added, ‘how you did it. A message that Broomhill was to come alone to learn something? You know all about this tavern, the cellar and what it holds.’
    ‘I now realise,’ Cranston tapped the table, ‘why we were not summoned when Broomhill was first found. You, Sir Maurice, delayed, you didn’t want us to hear the dangerous babbling of a dying man who might ask Athelstan to shrive him.’
    ‘You are truly evil men,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You didn’t give a fig for Broomhill’s soul or Chandler’s reputation. If