The Relic Murders

with a fine house, all plaster and black timber on a red brick base, in Chancery Lane near Grays Inn. It was a busy household with scullions, maids, servants and retainers, all with one duty under God – to keep Mistress Beatrice Frumpleton in a good mood and to satisfy her every whim. The house was beautiful, with polished wainscoting, galleries, broad staircases, heavy oaken furniture with Bruges cloths and drapes hanging on the walls and cupboards stuffed full of fine pewter plate and silver.
    Now, you know these great mansions, they are a law unto themselves: a strict hierarchy rules amongst the servants and strangers are distrusted. I learnt that Beatrice's husband was someone important in the courts but, for the rest, I was left alone although I received the odd pitying glance from some of the male servants. I soon discovered why! Mistress Frumpleton made her husband a cuckold a thousand times over. He was out at the crack of dawn and only returned well after dusk. During the day, certain 'kinsmen' came to visit; they were always entertained in the private chambers, and when they had left Mistress Frumpleton's face was always pinker than before.
    To be honest, I don't think even a stallion could have satisfied her. And, yes, you've guessed, my time came! It was during the afternoon, about a week after I had arrived. There was a fair outside St Bartholomew's and the servants had been allowed to attend, all except me. This latter-day Messalina, this Cleopatra of the Thames, not satisfied with me moving provisions and other stuffs around the house, now invited me to her chamber.
    I found the, room darkened, the windows shuttered and the drapes pulled. A single lamp burned at the side of the four-poster bed upon which Mistress Frumpleton lay as naked as the day she was born. Well, you've heard the expression, 'in for a penny, in for a pound' and I had to do my devoir. Soon we were bouncing about, she squealing, legs and arms flailing, when suddenly the door opened and one of her young kinsmen came into the room. Beatrice sprang from the bed as speedily as a roebuck startled from a thicket. She pushed the young kinsman out of the room, locked the door and turned to me. 'Get dressed!' she hissed. And, while I did, so did she.
    Outside, the 'young kinsman', Oliver or whatever his name was, was hammering and banging. Beatrice threw open the door. The young man, probably aping some Spanish masque he had seen, came in dramatically, with sword and dagger drawn. I picked up a bedpan and waited to defend my virtue. The young man, his spotty face full of hauteur, danced towards me but he was even more lily-livered than 1.1 lifted the bedpan and he danced back. Beatrice loved every minute of it, wailing and crying, clasping her hands – you'd think she was the fair Lucretia waiting to be raped by an entire legion of perfidious Tarquins. I was getting tired of this, and was looking eagerly towards one of the windows when the door was pushed open again. Oh dear! Oh Lord! In strode Beatrice's husband, home early for the first time ever.
    In retrospect, I believe that our Messalina intended that! She wanted to show her husband what a cuckold he was and I was to be the sacrificial lamb: her subtle story was to save 'young kinsman'.
    Oh, the perfidy of women! Oh, their duplicity! Oh, their wanton fickleness! Oh, tigresses' hearts wrapped in a human hide! Oh, how I love each and every one of them!
    'What is this?' Old Greybeard intoned. 'Wife, what goes on here?'
    The young man quickly sheathed sword and dagger. I lowered the bedpan. Beatrice winked at me, then threw herself on her knees before her husband, clasping his legs. 'Oh, husband!' she wailed.
    Now, you young people, listen – for even I, with all my skill in lying, couldn't better this.
    'Oh, husband!' she wailed, eyes rolling heavenwards, 'Oh, light of my life!'
    'Yes, yes, yes,' Old Greybeard replied testily. 'Who are these young men?'
    I breathed a sigh of relief: at least the silly, old dodderer hadn't recognised me as one of his household. Burning Beatrice realised this as well.
    'Oh, husband,' she intoned again, stretching one hand out to me. 'This young man came here seeking sanctuary from this one,' she pointed to the 'young kinsman', 'who followed in hot pursuit intent on has blood.' She breathed in. 'I was at my orisons when this young man,' again, pointing to me, 'burst in and sought my protection from this young blood bent on vengeance.'
    Well, I couldn't