The Relic Murders

Roger the cup…' He opened his eyes. 'She repeated that a number of times. The groom ran for help but, by the time we arrived, Lucy was dead.' He paused. 'What did she mean, master, about the cup?'
    '"My cup is overflowing".' I brushed the tears from my eyes. 'It's a quotation from the Bible. She always said that, when I was with her, her cup of happiness overflowed. For some strange reason she thought this was funny.'
    'Does anyone know why she was attacked?' Benjamin intervened.
    'No. Since Master Roger left she had been working at the White Harte. She made no enemies, though she steered well clear of the Poppletons. I know she had a disagreement with them over you and refused to work at their house. After she died, we had a parish meeting in the taproom,' Laxton concluded. 'It was ' decided that I should come and tell you. I reached the city just before dawn.' He shook his head. 'It's years since I've been to London. I'm glad I found you.'
    Benjamin, seeing I was upset, took Laxton away. For a while I just sat and cried. I then got up and walked out into the alleyway, knocking aside the costermongers and traders who thronged into the alleyway.
    Now, you know old Shallot. I am not a man for prayer. I just like to sit and hope that God looks my way and, if he's in a good mood, smiles at me. I laugh and joke: it's the best way to hide the tears. However, Lucy was a soft young thing. She was a woman full of life with a keen sense of wit, lovable and kind. There wasn't a jot of malice in her beautiful body. She was born good and some bastard had killed her. I went down the narrow street and into the small church owned by the Crutched Friars, a little, dank place which suited my mood. I crouched on the floor before the statue of the Virgin Child and tried to pray for Lucy's soul. My usual prayer: 'This is Roger Shallot, sinner and stupid with it.' I was only halfway through when I heard the slither of footsteps. I was just thinking of fleeing when the club hit my head. I felt rough sacking and then it was down into the darkness. I woke up and, believe me, what a change! Not the Virgin and Child but Charon's ugly face peering at me. He didn't begin with some dramatic line like, 'Welcome to my abode.' He just kicked me in the groin and asked me what I was doing in church. 'I was praying,' I moaned.
    I stared around and, trust me, I began to gabble my prayers. I was back in the Lord Charon's abode, full of the opulent luxury which contrasted so strangely with the filthy surroundings and, in the background, I could hear the ominous slop of water. Shadows moved into the candlelight; Cerberus and all the other beauties of Lord Charon's household, twisted, leering faces, garbed in tawdry finery and armed to the teeth. I did what I always do in such circumstances: I knelt, clasped my hands and hoped my bowels would not betray me.
    (Honestly, I can never stop trembling in such situations. Once, when the Great Beast had me sent to the execution block, the headsman told me to stay still. 'What do you expect me to do?' I screamed back. 'Do a dance?'
    And so I did a merry jig. I made the executioner chase me round the scaffold. God be thanked, Henry was playing one of his sick jokes and the courier bringing my pardon had taken a fall from his horse and been delayed!)
    However, I did not jig that day. I just gazed beseechingly at Lord Charon. 'You wanted to see me?'
    This king of villains, that mad, moustached, purple-hued, malt-worm crouched down beside me.
    'Well, ticklebrain?' He poked me in the shoulder. 'You want to see the Lord Charon?'
    'I know where those tapestries come from,' I blurted out, pointing behind him. 'Lady Malevel's house. You broke in, cleared out all her valuables, cut her throat and buried her in the cellar, didn't you?'
    (You young men, take note, whenever you are captured by the enemy, none of this stiff upper lip business. For goodness' sake, talk and talk fast. The longer you talk, the more hope there is and, where there's hope, there's life!) 'Now, here's a clever boy' Charon tapped me on the head. 'And you want to take it all back with you?'
    'No! No!' I gabbled. 'But the Orb of Charlemagne, the relic you stole 'Stole?'
    And, throwing his head back, Charon laughed. The rest of his coven guffawed in ghastly chorus.
    I stammered, thinking of the replica that Kempe still held, 'I… I… I can get you the real Orb of Charlemagne.'
    Charon started to laugh again, until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
    He