The Relic Murders

tavern accounts, some silver and gold in a small chest -until we searched the large aumbry or cupboard which stood beside the bed. It contained more clothes than a simple taverner should have owned. Robes, cloaks, broad-brimmed hats, satin breeches, jerkins of different textures and colours, boots and shoes, wigs and hair-pieces. On the floor at the back was a small chest full of face paints, the sort mummers and players use to daub their faces when making a presentation. 'His disguises,' Benjamin remarked. 'But what else?'
    On a shelf was a sheaf of documents, all associated with the tavern, though we did find bills bearing the marks of Oswald and Imelda for pies and other pastries sold to the Flickering Lamp. We then searched the bed and at last Benjamin's suspicions were proved correct. Behind the chest, at the foot of the small four-poster, was a secret cupboard, noticeable only to someone making a thorough search. Inside were a few personal items: a letter in French, the ink faded; a lock of hair, neatly waxed to the bottom. 'Some lady love,' Benjamin remarked.
    He pulled out the rest: a receipt from a goldsmith in Nottingham; a gilt-edged dagger and a small box containing about four or five phials. Benjamin sniffed at these and pulled a face. 'Poisons!' he declared.
    Finally he pulled out a large flask with a stopper on. Benjamin undid this. He told me to bring a cup from the bedside table and poured a little in. For a while he sniffed at it, then laughed softly. 'What is it?' I asked. 'Valerian' he replied. 'He had trouble sleeping!' I exclaimed.
    'I don't think so,' Benjamin replied, putting the stopper back in. 'Men like Boscombe have no conscience. They sleep like a babe, as did those poor soldiers at Malevel Manor.'

Chapter 13
    Benjamin refused to say any more, becoming more concerned about Boscombe's corpse.
    'It's important,' my master insisted, 'that no one at court learns that he has been killed.'
    We went back to the taproom, took the cadaver and put it in a cellar behind some vats. After that we packed our belongings and collected our horses from the nearby stable. 'Where to, master?' I asked. 'Eltham? Westminster?' 'No,' Benjamin replied. 'Malevel. We need to be there.'
    We rode through the night. Benjamin showed the guards at the city gates his special pass and we were allowed through. The first streaks of dawn were lighting the sky as we approached Malevel Manor: in the half-light, its shadowy shape reminded me of some animal crouched, ready to spring. Kempe's men were still on guard at the gatehouse. Benjamin told them to stay at their posts and look after our horses whilst we were at the manor. We opened the front door and went in. An eerie place, black as Hell! The air was stale, yet something else filled my senses. A reek of evil, of wickedness. I wondered if the ghosts of Lady Isabella and the fifteen soldiers slaughtered there watched and waited for justice to be done. Dirt from the cellar still lay heaped on the gallery floor. Dust covered the tables and chairs in the kitchen. For a while Benjamin wandered around: up and down stairs, along galleries. I could hear him as he went, floorboards creaking, the house groaning as if it resented our presence. I sat in the kitchen trying to control my own fears and reflecting on my master's confrontation with Boscombe. Everything had now started to fit into place yet it still didn't explain the mystery surrounding the Orb, or how the dreadful murders at Malevel had been carried out. Benjamin came back.
    'What now, master?' I asked. 'And why didn't you tell me about Boscombe?' I challenged.
    'Roger, Roger.' Benjamin patted me reassuringly on the shoulder. 'I didn't really know myself. Only after the attack on you in the church did my suspicions harden into certainty. You see, whilst you were gone, I grew concerned. I went looking for Boscombe, only to find that he himself was nowhere in the tavern.' 'But he must have been working with someone else?' 'Yes, yes, he was…'
    (Well, Benjamin actually did voice his suspicions and now my secretary, that little marmoset, that ticklebrain of a quill-pusher, that smelly pudding-bag, is jumping up and down. 'Tell me! Tell me!' he cries. I rap him across the knuckles with my new ash cane. A gentle tap to remind him of his duties. I can't tell him now! The Queen would object: she wants my memoirs to be written as events unfolded. I mean, here is my little puddle-brain of a chaplain; who runs to London to watch