The House of Shadows

voice.’
    Athelstan dismissed him.
    ‘So, Master Keeper, you brought the pie to the prisoner?’
    ‘Yes, of course I did, Brother. I thought the same as the bailiff. A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be interfered with.’
    ‘What was he doing when you entered the cell?’
    The keeper pointed towards the rusting manacles hanging from a clasp in the far corner. ‘Like other prisoners, whiling his time away carving the wall. I’ve looked at it but can’t make sense of it.’
    Athelstan picked up the lantern horn, gave it to Cranston and went across. The Misericord’s carvings were fresh, different from the rest. A Latin quotation, ‘ Quem quaeritis? ’, and beneath it the numbers ‘1, 1, 2, 3, 5’.
    ‘What does that mean?’ Cranston asked. ‘I understand the Latin — it’s a question, “Whom do you seek?“ But what does it mean? And the significance of the numbers?’
    ‘God only knows,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and the Misericord, but he too has gone to God. Remember, Sir John, the Misericord probably didn’t tell us everything. He must have been holding something back.’
    Athelstan returned to the keeper.
    ‘So, then you left. What happened?’
    ‘I went back down the passageway. Suddenly I heard this gut-wrenching screaming. Now I’m used to that. What happens, Brother, is that when prisoners are brought here, they often don’t realise what is happening, then something occurs, and it can be something pleasant like food, a cup of wine or a visit, and they realise where they truly are and what has become of them.’ The keeper looped his clutch of keys back on his belt. ‘If I opened the door to every prisoner who screamed I would spend all day doing it. The screaming went on, then it began to fade.’ He jabbed a finger at the wall to his left. ‘Then the prisoner in the next cell, he’s usually quiet, he began to shout that something was wrong.’
    ‘Who’s in there?’ Cranston asked.
    The keeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah yes, that’s it. Number 35, Spindleshanks.’
    ‘Ah!’ Sir John smiled. ‘The relic-seller! Master Keeper, let’s have a word with him.’
    The gaoler led them out and opened the next door. A little man, sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet. He was so small and thin in his torn shirt, patched hose and boots apparently far too big for him that Athelstan could see why he was named Spindleshanks, for his legs were as thin as needles. The prisoner walked into the pool of light. A mournful face, even his eyes seemed to droop. He reminded Athelstan of a professional mourner; an impression heightened by the lank grey hair which hung down either side of his face.
    ‘Oh, Sir John Cranston,’ Spindleshanks whined with a gap-toothed smile. He clasped his hands together. ‘What a great pleasure, what a great honour, a visit from the Lord Coroner.’
    ‘Innocent or guilty?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘Oh, guilty, my Lord Coroner. I won’t tell a lie. As felonious as Judas.’
    ‘On what charge?’
    ‘Oh, the usual, Sir John, relics, they’ll be the death of me.’
    ‘How many times is it now, Spindleshanks?’
    The prisoner tapped his chin, staring up at the ceiling. ‘My sixth, no, it’s my seventh time, Sir John. It’s bound to be a flogging this time,’ his face grew more mournful, ‘or my ears clipped.’ His lower lip trembled as he fought back the tears. ‘Maybe even a brand mark on my cheek.’
    ‘What were you doing this time?’
    ‘Dead dogs, Sir John.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Dead dogs. I was boiling their corpses, crushing their bones in a maer... a handmill.’ Spindleshanks answered Athelstan’s puzzled look. ‘I ground the bones down, bought some little gilt cases and a roll of linen, which I cut into ever so small strips, and sold them as relics.’
    ‘Whose?’ Athelstan was genuinely intrigued by this funny little man.
    ‘St Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins martyred by the devilish Huns.’
    ‘And how were you caught?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘My neighbours, they alerted the watch complaining about the smell.’
    ‘Well, at least it was only relics and not those potions you were selling. Why have they put you in the Netherworld?’
    ‘Hermisimus!’
    ‘What?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Have a smell, Brother.’
    Spindleshanks drew closer to Athelstan, and the friar recoiled at the foul stench from the old man’s clothing.
    ‘Hermisimus, Brother,’ Spindleshanks said proudly. ‘Sweaty armpits.’
    ‘Even the other prisoners