The Relic Murders

have your sharp wits dug up?'
    'Fourthly,' I continued. 'We know fifteen men were killed at Malevel Manor but how or by whom is a mystery. There's no evidence as to how the assassin was able to enter and massacre so many able men and then leave without disturbing a mouse. Fifthly, Sir Thomas Kempe is not above suspicion. We believe that at least one archer may have been sending him messages from Malevel Manor.'
    'But there again,' Benjamin intervened, 'we have no evidence that it was Kempe who was receiving such messages.'
    'Finally,' I concluded. 'Lord Charon may be involved in this wickedness. He was undoubtedly responsible for the murder of Lady Isabella Malevel and he may know some secret entrance into the manor.'
    'There is one other person,' Benjamin added. 'The man Cornelius referred to as the Schlachter, a former member of the Noctales who may be working for himself…' 'Or for Lord Charon?' I suggested.
    I gazed round the taproom. The day was drawing on; traders, journeymen, porters, a few of the street trollops, two wandering musicians and a beggar with a fistful of pennies were now clamouring for wine and food, laughing loudly at Boscombe's imitation of a friar. One of the porters, a drunken oaf, caught my gaze and came lumbering across threateningly; Castor raised his head and growled and the fellow scuttled off like a beetle.
    'I wonder if Cerberus, or another of Lord Charon's men, is here?' Benjamin pulled a face.
    'Boscombe!' I called. I held up my hand, a silver piece between my fingers.
    The taverner almost jumped across the room, knocking aside other customers. 'Master Roger?'
    'If I wanted,' I whispered, 'to speak to Lord Charon, how would I do it?'
    Boscombe took the silver piece and, before I could stop him, clapped his hands.
    'Hear ye! Hear ye!' he bellowed, mimicking a town crier. 'Know that Master Shallot, my guest and dearest friend, wishes to have words with the Lord Charon!' Boscombe put his hand on his chest and bowed. 'Of course,' he added, 'at a time and place of Lord Charon's choosing.'
    The rest of the customers just gazed at him and a deathly silence held the taproom. Boscombe clapped his hands again and laughed.
    'The scullions and tap boys will look after you: a free blackjack of ale.' His eyes slid towards me. 'On our good friend Master Shallot!' He sat down on a stool. 'Was that really necessary?' I asked.
    'It is the only way, my son,' Boscombe replied unctuously. 'Do it in any other manner and Lord Charon would become suspicious and you, my son, would be dead.' He leaned across the table. 'Why, Roger?' he whispered. 'Why Lord Charon? You were out at Malevel Manor, weren't you? There are terrible stories about a massacre taking place. Was Lord Charon…?'
    'They are all true,' Benjamin retorted. 'Will one of Lord Charon's men be here?'
    'Oh, don't worry,' Boscombe replied. 'Within the hour he'll know all about it'
    'Where do you come from?' Benjamin asked abruptly. 'Your accent?'
    'From the West Country,' Boscombe replied cheerily, wiping his hands on his robe. 'But there's not good custom along the south-western road, that's where my father had his tavern. Anyway, we sold up and moved into London, my wife and I. She's now lying in peace in St Botolph's churchyard.' His smile widened. 'And if she's at peace then so am I.' He was about to push his stool back. 'Ah, Master Roger, when Lord Charon took you and your belongings I found a bag under your bed.' He got up, hurried away and then came back and thrust the bag at me.
    I looked inside. Nothing much: the cup I had stolen from the Poppletons and a few of my makeshift relics. My smile of thanks faded as I realised that, when all this was over, I would have to go back to Ipswich and face their malice, King's pardon or not. Such a thought would turn any man to drink and indeed I drank so deeply that I slept the night with Castor on the taproom floor. I spent the next day recovering, glad that Lord Charon did not strike immediately; my wits were so befuddled I would have been no use to anyone.
    Now Sir Thomas Kempe had called me the bait so, naturally, I became anxious about what might happen if this self-styled lord of the underworld took me prisoner again. I pestered Benjamin but he was of very little help.
    'Don't worry, don't worry,' he replied absentmindedly. 'Dearest Uncle will look after us.'
    I didn't believe him. However, on the morning of the second day as I sat in the tavern or walked the maze of alleyways around it, I