The Relic Murders

coincidence: if Roger had not met the relic-seller and then come here; if we had not hired chambers at the Flickering Lamp after our return from Malevel.' He smiled thinly. 'But God is good. Perhaps he grew tired of your bloody-handed ways and Roger is his vengeance.' 'I'll say nothing!' Boscombe yelled.
    'You could be taken to the Tower,' I retorted. 'Spread out on the rack like Cerberus was whilst royal messengers are sent to the West Country, to discover all they can about Andrew Boscombe.'
    The taverner stared at me round-eyed. 'Is that so, Roger? Now tell me, what do you think I'll do? Saunter into the barge, sit in the Tower and tell all to Fat Henry's questioners? Oh yes.' He clapped his hands together. 'Have mercy on me for I am a traitor and an assassin. I stole the Orb of Charlemagne. I sold it to the Lord Charon.' He paused and grinned. 'I shouldn't have said that, should I? I'm not supposed to know that, dearie, dearie me!'
    One second Boscombe was shaking his head, the next the wine cup went flying at Benjamin's head. Boscombe sprang across the room, snatching his sword and dagger from his war-belt. He came back, moving sideways like a dancer.
    'I'm not going to the Tower!' he hissed. 'And you are never leaving this tavern! Both of you will die and I've got all night to dispose of your corpses.'
    He came skipping forward, sword and dagger whirling. My master, skilled at fencing, blocked his blows. Boscombe stood back. Again they closed. It was obvious that Boscombe was no taverner: the way he moved, slightly sideways trying to draw out my master's sword and expose his body for a killing thrust of the dagger, showed him to be a professional, a skilled swordsman. The deadly dance continued; the slap of boots against the stone floor; the screeching clash of steel; and the grunts and groans of both combatants. My master was at a disadvantage, he did not know the room like Boscombe did. Twice he nearly slipped. Each time Boscombe closed for the kill. I tried to intervene but Benjamin waved me away. Boscombe stood back grinning, chest heaving. 'Oh, you fops!' he breathed. 'Ever the gentleman.'
    His sword and dagger went down as he studied my master. Now Benjamin may have been a fop, a gentleman, but old Roger was not. As Boscombe shuffled forward, I did what I was good at. I threw my dagger with all my force and caught him low in the neck, the point rupturing soft flesh and nerve. The blood spouted out like wine from a broached cask. Boscombe dropped his sword, hands clawing at the hilt of my dagger, his face contorted in pain. He stepped back, turning as if he wished to flee to the door. He collapsed, his life blood pouring out through nose and mouth as well as the jagged wound in his throat. I went to turn him over but Benjamin grasped me. 'Let him die!'
    For what seemed an age Boscombe's body jerked and moved on the floor. He tried to turn over, move sideways before his body gave a final shudder. Benjamin kicked at his boots. 'It's a pity, as a prisoner he might have talked.' 'Aye,' I replied. 'And as an assassin he might have killed you.'
    I turned him over. Boscombe's eyes stared sightlessly up into mine.
    'This was no time for the rules of the duel,' I exclaimed, pulling my dagger out and wiping it on Boscombe's jerkin. 'If he had killed you, what chance would I have had?' I stood up, resheathing my dagger. 'I'm glad the bastard's dead!' Benjamin grasped my shoulder and turned me round.
    'I would like to protest, Roger,' he declared. 'I would like to say it was swordsman against swordsman but I'm glad for what you did: I thank you for that.'
    Benjamin dropped his own sword and dagger on a table. He then went round the tavern securing the windows and doors.
    'Intriguing,' he remarked. 'Did you notice, Roger? In all the taverns I know, either here or on the Scottish march, the scullions, maids and tapsters sleep on the kitchen floor. Boscombe, however, lived alone and, since we arrived here, no other customers have hired a chamber. The tavern was a mere front,' he continued. 'A fitting disguise for a man who earned his gold by cutting throats. So now, let's see what proof we can find.'
    We scoured that tavern from the garret to the cellar but Boscombe was like all the professional killers I have met. A very tidy man, neat and precise. Not a stick was out of place, nothing seemed untoward. At last we broke into his own chamber but, there again there seemed to be nothing remarkable – a sword, a dagger,