The Relic Murders

the taproom near the window where I could watch the door. (I trust that you young men will act on my advice. If you go into a tavern or ale-house, you never know when you will have to leave, sometimes it's quicker than you imagine, so, always sit near the window or door. If trouble breaks out, you can flee like the wind.) The place was full. I noticed Edmund Poppleton, the Great Mouth's son, holding forth on the price of corn. As I stared at his greasy face, with its scrawny moustache and beard, and his beer gut like a barrel, I wondered why men such as he have to collect riches they don't really need whilst the poor go hungry to bed? I sat sneering at him over my ale: like a coney he rose to the lure.
    'Master Shallot, Master Shallot!' His face creased into a smile. 'You are being rather discreet, sitting there so doleful, cradling a tankard.'
    'I have no choice,' I replied. 'I always do this when listening to someone speak. It's so fascinating
    He narrowed his eyes, too shrewd to ask why I found it so fascinating. 'Your master,' he cooed, 'is off to Italy?'
    'Yes,' I lied. 'Gone to see the Holy Father on the business of his dear uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, as well as to make a report on other matters that might disturb His Holiness.'
    Poppleton flinched and I knew the rumours were correct. The Great Mouth and her sons had been flirting with the new doctrines of Luther. Now the Poppletons hated me and I hated them. You may recall from my previous memoirs how I tricked them when they dared to call my master a catamite. They hadn't forgotten and, full of malice, could never resist baiting me. 'And you saw your dear master leave?'
    I saw my chance. 'No, no.' I shook my head. 'Not just that, something much more important.' The noise in the taproom stilled.
    'I went to Harwich with my master to receive special gifts: artifacts and relics that my master and I discovered when we visited Florence.' I shrugged. 'Well, not really discovered. They were more gifts from His Eminence Cardinal de Medici.'
    'Piddle poo!' Poppleton scoffed. 'Master Shallot, you are well known for your tales and your trickery. What relics are these? Goliath's foreskin?'
    I sat back. I hadn't thought of that one and mentally added it to my list. Poppleton now had the attention of all the customers. I looked round and saw that young Lucy Witherspoon was not present. I was sad as I'd hoped to impress her.
    'Relics!' Poppleton scoffed. 'You have no relics, Master Shallot!'
    That was my signal. I undid the neck of the sack and took out the spear shaft.
    'Look,' I said, standing up, deliberately turning so the polished steel caught the sunlight; this gave it a spiritual aura as it shimmered and reflected the light. The appearance of the spear brought 'oohs' and 'aahs' from everyone. Turning sideways I pointed the spear at Poppleton, every inch the Roman soldier.
    'This is the spear,' I intoned, 'the centurion used on Calvary when he pierced the Lord's side. This is the blood of a martyr who buried it until Roger Shallot was given it as a gift in Florence!' 'Pig's trotters!' Poppleton taunted.
    Giggling broke out. I stared round and saw old Doctor Littlejohn sitting there, tankard grasped in his hand, staring blearily at me. The old fool styled himself an antiquarian. He had been a schoolmaster and knew some Latin. I thrust the spear under his nose. 'Master Littlejohn, what do you think?'
    The old fellow put on his spectacles. He took the spear shaft and held it gingerly in his hands. He examined the steel and even he, who looked as if he lived half-asleep, became visibly excited as he glimpsed the eagle and the letters S.P.Q.R. He touched the steel reverentially.
    'I cannot say,' he declared, 'whether this is the actual spear used on Calvary but it is definitely very ancient and was once used in the armies of Rome.'
    Well, that shut old Poppleton up for a start. Everyone crowded round. Offers were made but I just shook my head. Like the coy young maid, you show your customer your garters but that's as far as you go. Time was on my side: rumour and greed would grow and the gold would come pouring in once this spear, this most holy relic, was accepted. It would only be a matter of time before I got round to Goliath's foreskin.
    ‘If it's a relic,' Poppleton declared, shouldering his way through the crowd, his lips coated with a white foam of ale. 'If it's so holy, it should be able to perform miracles.'
    'That's right!' another cried. 'Miracles! We