The Relic Murders

Orb stolen from Malevel to the Papal Envoys. Now that poses even more interesting questions. Who sold the Orb to the French? And where is the real Orb?'
    Benjamin paused as Boscombe came back and pushed two bowls of meat on to the table.
    'Somehow, master,' I took out my horn spoon, 'the solution lies at Malevel Manor. I have been wondering what led poor Castor to that cellar? It wasn't the remains of some poor, old woman. What did Castor smell? What was so attractive?'
    Benjamin pointed at his dish of meat. 'Food. Let us say,' he continued, 'the killers sheltered there. How did they escape unnoticed? Were they there with someone's permission?' He sat for a while eating, lost in his own thoughts.
    'We always come back to food,' he remarked. 'Why had the table been cleared away, the kitchen and the blackjacks washed? Food!' he repeated. 'Perhaps it's time we visited those cooks: perhaps they did see something? Tomorrow at first light we'll go there. In the meantime, search out this scrivener at St Paul's. Give him your full name, tell him we're staying at the Flickering Lamp, and say you want to hire the services of a slaughterer.'
    Of course I protested but Benjamin was insistent. So, after a quiet sleep on my bed, I braved the afternoon crowds and made my way up into St Paul's Cathedral. It brought back memories of being hired by Sir Hubert Berkeley. I lit a taper in his memory. As I did so, a serving wench caught my eye: her black curly hair framed the sweetest, prettiest face. She reminded me of Lucy and so I fell to talking. Well, you know how it goes, one things leads to another. We shared a loving cup in a nearby tavern, followed by a most energetic two hours on the bed in a small chamber above.
    It was dusk before I returned to the Cathedral but the scriveners' comer was still busy. I espied Master Richard Notley, a cadaver-faced, wispy-haired man. He sat, legs crossed under the table, lips pursed, pen ready to dictate any messages. I remembered my promise to Cerberus so I sat down and dictated a letter to his parents in Nottingham. Notley acted the professional scribe. He faithfully wrote down my farrago of lies, about how young William had lived, then died, in something akin to the odour of sanctity. Now and again Notley's pen faltered and I wondered if he knew the truth. When he had finished I signed it, paid him a fee, plus an extra coin so that a reputable carrier would take it to Nottingham.
    'Is there anything else, sir?' His close-set eyes studied me curiously.
    'My name is Roger Shallot,' I replied. 'I can be found at the Flickering Lamp tavern.' 'Yes,' he interrupted quickly. 'I know where it is.'
    'I am a farmer,' I continued. 'I am looking for a slaughterer: certain beasts have to be killed before Michaelmas. I want someone skilled, not a butcher's lad.' 'That will be one silver piece, sir, just for my searches.' I paid the coin over. 'And when will I meet him?' I asked.
    "Oh, don't worry, sir. You will be informed as soon as possible. Now-' He pushed back the table and pointed to the hour candle burning in its small glass holder. 'My day's work is done.'
    I thanked him and left. Once outside the cathedral, I remembered poor Berkeley so I went along the lanes and alleyways to his house. His steward let me in. The man's face was tear-streaked, the household still in mourning. All the walls were covered in mourning cloths and the rooms were shuttered; it was no longer the convivial, merry household I had joined. 'You see, Master Shallot, Sir Hubert had no heirs,' the steward explained. 'His will has still to go through Chancery. All work has stopped.
    I expressed my condolences and accepted his offer of white wine and some marzipan wafers.
    'It's about his work I've come. Are Sir Hubert's accounts here?' 'Oh no, sir. Sir Thomas Kempe came and took them all away.'
    'What was Sir Hubert working on?' I asked. ‘I mean, what different artefacts?'
    'None of us know,' the fellow replied. 'For the last year Sir Hubert was hired by the court. He worked by himself without any of his apprentices. God knows what he was doing!' 'Did Sir Thomas Kempe come here often?'
    'Yes, he did, sometimes carrying clinking saddlebags. We suspected they contained gold to be melted down. Only once,' the steward continued, 'did I catch a glimpse of Sir Hubert at work. I was in a chamber upstairs.I looked down into the garden, and saw that Sir Hubert had taken a lantern out: he was holding something precious up against the