A Haunt of Murder

Chapter 3

Ralph attended Sir John Grasse’s council meeting held that afternoon in the castle solar. Eleanora had been confined to one of the dungeons in Bowyer Tower with a guard placed outside. Sir John, his wife Lady Anne, Theobald Vavasour, Father Aylred, Adam and Marisa, Beardsmore and himself gathered round the wooden, oval table in the Constable’s private quarters. Lady Anne tried to lighten the atmosphere, serving goblets of chilled white wine and small trays of sweetmeats. They all listened as Beardsmore delivered his report. Before Sir John could respond, Father Aylred, agitated and anxious, sprang to his feet. He was unshaven, eyes red-rimmed; Ralph secretly wondered if the hideous events of the previous night had disturbed his wits.

‘I am a priest, Sir John, dedicated to the care of souls. I do believe something very wicked has entered this castle.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sir John interrupted impatiently. ‘Of that we are certain. Phoebe’s death, the attack on Master Ralph, the disappearance of Fulk. The facts speak for themselves.’

‘No, no, I talk of other things,’ the priest said hurriedly. ‘Ralph and I have been to Midnight Tower.’

‘Ah, yes. You told me about that. The tower has always had an evil reputation.’

‘But the phantasms, the phenomena!’ the priest cried, rubbing the side of his face.

‘Father.’ Ralph got up, came round and gently eased him back into his chair. ‘The evil we face is of human origin, and it is human wit and good counselling that will reveal the truth.’

The priest calmed down and Ralph returned to his chair.

‘Sir John, if I may speak?’

The Constable nodded.

‘We have had a number of strange occurrences here,’ Ralph began, ‘but logic and reason can untangle any mystery.’

The others stared owlishly at him, except Adam, who winked mischievously.

‘Ever the clerk, eh, Ralph?’

‘Yes, Adam, ever the clerk. We know Phoebe was alive last Monday afternoon. We have established that her corpse was found in Devil’s Spinney the following Tuesday, yes?’

They all agreed.

‘We know that the wench Eleanora and her young lover Fulk were in those woods when Phoebe’s corpse was taken there. Accordingly, Phoebe must have been killed some time late on Monday afternoon, here in the castle, her corpse was wrapped in a sheet, bound with cords and taken out to Devil’s Spinney by her assassin.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ Beardsmore cried. ‘I was on guard duty at the barbican. No one passed me carrying such a bundle: I would have seen it. We have both checked the postern gate. It has not been opened for years.’

‘Sir John,’ said Ralph, ‘is there a secret passageway out of this castle?’

The Constable shook his head. ‘If there was, Ralph, I’d know. And how can there be? The moat is deep, any passageway would have to go under it so it’s nigh impossible.’

‘Why?’ Marisa asked.

‘Because,’ Adam replied languidly, ‘the water would seep through any man-made structure and flood the tunnel.’

Ralph sipped his wine and took another piece of marchpane from the plate. ‘Nonetheless, what I have said is true. How the assassin left carrying the corpse must, for the time being, remain a mystery.’ He pulled a face. ‘So, my next question is, what were we all doing that Monday afternoon?’

‘I was in my chamber,’ Theobald answered quickly. ‘I never left there, not till the bell rang for supper. I was studying the innards of a rat.’ There were cries of disgust. ‘I read in a treatise from Italy,’ he explained, ‘that the innards of a rat, dried and ground to powder, are a veritable cure for certain skin diseases.’

‘Did anyone visit you there?’ Sir John asked.

The physician shook his head.

‘No one would dare go there,’ Lady Anne said tartly. ‘Such smells and odours!’

The others also gave an account of themselves. Few could offer any witnesses except Adam who had been going through the list of stores in the castle with Marisa. ‘We were there all afternoon,’ he concluded.

‘And I can vouch for that,’ Sir John declared. ‘I heard your voice, and Marisa’s. As for myself, I dined here in the hall then I went for a sleep.’

‘Whilst I,’ Lady Anne pointed to the spinning wheel near the window seat, ‘read a little and worked on the wheel. You came over, Father. You asked if you could borrow some candlesticks for the altar.’

The priest picked at a stain on his robe. ‘True, I was in my chapel, cleaning the sacred vessels.’ He flailed his hands in despair. ‘Master Ralph, what is the use of all this?’

‘And you?’ Ralph asked the sergeant-at-arms.

‘I dined with Sir John,’ Beardsmore replied. ‘And then I did my guard duty. I stayed with the other lads in the barbican.’

Ralph ran his thumbnail round his lips. ‘Sir John, we do have one loose thread: Fulk the miller’s son. From what Eleanora has told us, Fulk may have recognised the person who carried Phoebe’s corpse into the spinney. He must have come to the castle and demanded to see someone.’

‘That could be very easily established. Wait there.’ Beardsmore hurriedly left the solar, clattering down the stairs.

Sir John took advantage of the break to order the wine cups to be refilled. He loudly speculated on what they should do with their new prisoner. ‘There is no doubt,’ he announced, eager to assert his authority, ‘that the tavern slattern had a hand in Goodman Winthrop’s death. But what can we do? Put her to the torture? We have enough discontent in Maldon.’

‘Keep her safe,’ Ralph replied. ‘Wait for the commissioners to arrive from London. Let them take responsibility.’

Sir John nodded. ‘Adam, when this is finished, go down to Maldon, tell the taverner Taylis that Eleanora will be kept safe and secure. We will not harm a hair on her head. I just wish this business was finished.’ He looked at Aylred. ‘Father, I regret my sharp words earlier. Perhaps you could say a Mass in Midnight Tower and give the place a blessing.’

The priest agreed.

Ralph was studying Theobald, who appeared agitated. Of all the people present, he was the most solitary and most secretive. Ralph glanced at Adam and Marisa sitting hand in hand. Marisa was staring adoringly at her husband. Ralph felt a tug at his heart and tried to curb his envy at their closeness. They heard footsteps and Beardsmore strode back into the chamber.

‘I’ve made inquiries among the guards.’ He shook his head. ‘So many people come in and out of the castle, Sir John. One guard thinks he may have seen Fulk coming here early on Tuesday morning but Phoebe’s corpse had yet to be discovered. No one was stopped or challenged.’

Sir John put his cup down. ‘We’ve done what we can.’

Ralph was angry and disappointed at the lack of new information the meeting had produced. ‘There’s an assassin in the castle.’ he said heatedly. ‘He or she killed without mercy. The assassin could well be in this chamber.’ He got to his feet, kicking the chair back. ‘I would warn you all to be most careful.’

He was halfway across the bailey when Beardsmore caught up with him.

‘Master Ralph, do you trust me?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘If the killer is in this castle then he or she must be someone in authority.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, clerk, look around. Can you imagine any of the archers or the men-at-arms, the cooks, the scullions, the servants taking such pains over the disposing of poor Phoebe’s corpse? She wasn’t killed in some kitchen fight or because an archer wanted to ruffle her skirts. She was killed for something else. Something she saw or heard. Whoever it was managed to find a secret way out with the corpse. Everyone at that meeting will go back to their chambers and start to think.’

‘And you don’t want the finger of suspicion pointed at you.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Beardsmore tightened his war belt. ‘I have to check certain matters. Meet me at the barbican within the hour.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away.

Ralph remembered Eleanora and crossed to Bowyer Tower. He opened the door and went down the steps. The dungeons consisted of three cells off a passageway built into the base of the tower. They were well-swept and clean, usually reserved for stores. Two archers now sat across the passage playing dice, a jug of ale and some beakers on the ground beside them. Pitch torches flickered in the darkness. From the middle cell came the sound of crooning.

‘She’s happy enough,’ one of the archers declared as Ralph squatted beside him. The fellow wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘More comfortable than we are.’

‘And you don’t trouble her?’

The archer shook his head. ‘Master Beardsmore was most insistent. She’s to be kept warm and plump for the royal commissioners.’

‘I would like to speak to her.’

The archer pocketed his dice, got to his feet and took a key from a hook in the wall. He opened the door and ushered Ralph in.

Eleanora was comfortable enough; the cell was clean, fresh grass had been cut and strewn on the floor. She had a cot bed with a bolster and blankets, a table, stool, a shelf for cups and jugs; even a small crucifix hung from one of the window bars high in the wall. The tavern wench was sitting in the corner, knees up, making a doll out of straw she had pulled from the mattress.

‘You are well, Mistress?’

‘I would prefer to be back at the Pot of Thyme, sitting on a customer’s knee and sharing a tankard of ale. But I’m well looked after. I’ve had bread, roast goose.’ She pointed to a jug on the table. ‘And some watery ale. The old priest came down to see me but he was more nervous than I am.’

‘Do you think Fulk saw Phoebe’s murderer?’

‘I think he did but Fulk was tight-lipped. I asked him but he just stared at me in that strange way of his. You know, out of the corner of his eye, just like his father does when he makes a profit with that golden thumb of his.’

‘So why do you think Fulk came back to the castle?’ Eleanora’s eyes shifted.

‘Why should he come back?’ Ralph persisted. He got up and moved towards her. ‘Did he tell you?’

Again a flicker of the eyes.

‘Come on, did he? Why should Fulk the miller’s son be interested in a murderer? He came here to extort money, didn’t he? He didn’t return, so you put it about in the Pot of Thyme tavern that he was on some innocent errand to the castle and didn’t come back.’

‘I will tell all,’ Eleanora declared defiantly, ‘when the King’s men come. I wish to be alone. Sir John Grasse promised I wouldn’t be troubled.’

Ralph left the dungeon. He walked up into the keep looking for Father Aylred but the chapel was empty. He stayed for a while, kneeling in the entrance to the rood screen, staring up at the cross.

‘I am not a prayerful man,’ he murmured. ‘In fact, I don’t know what I am. But, Lord, I am very frightened. And I miss Beatrice.’

Ralph closed his eyes. In a week his whole life had been shattered, like the wine vat Beardsmore had sliced in the Pot of Thyme tavern. He made himself more comfortable, with his back to the rood screen, and stared up at the corbels on the roof. He noticed the gargoyle, a grinning jester with his fingers in his mouth. In his imagination the face became that of the killer, quietly mocking him from the shadows. Ralph looked away. He had been so engrossed in trying to find out who the killer was, how these deaths and attacks had occurred, he had not asked why the peaceable life of this castle had abruptly changed. True, there was unrest in the countryside but the attacks, apart from that on Phoebe, had been directed at him. Ralph wondered what Beatrice would have thought and said. She had a sharp mind. If only she was here, sitting next to him.

The sunlight was now streaming through the window, the dust motes dancing, and he wondered if they were angels. He felt warm and relaxed.

He heard a sound down the church and whirled round, peering through the rood screen, then he remembered locking and barring the door behind him. He got to his feet and stared round the little sanctuary. The cross on the altar was dazzling in the light of the sun. He felt alert but not distraught, as if he had woken from a refreshing sleep. He looked at the gleaming cross.

‘The treasure,’ he murmured. He knelt on the prie-dieu, eyes fixed on that cross. ‘The only thing anyone else would want is Brythnoth’s cross but I haven’t got it yet.’

He recalled the May Day celebrations, the castle officers assembled on the green. Ralph repressed a shiver and bowed his head. He had thought of this before, and now he was forced to accept it: his boasting had caused all this. Someone at that meal had decided to intervene, someone who had been following his search most closely. His chamber was often unlocked, with manuscripts left on the table. Never once had he suspected that someone would take up the hunt with him.

Ralph broke out in a sweat. He had to face the truth. He was supposed to have been on the parapet walk. He was supposed to have died in Devil’s Spinney. And Phoebe? She had been a pert-faced, sharp-tongued wench with a nose for mischief and an ear for other people’s conversations. She must have seen or heard something and been brutally silenced. But how had her corpse been taken out of the castle? Ralph remembered Beardsmore, crossed himself and almost fled from the church. His mind was all a jumble as guilt pricked at his grief. He strode across the castle bailey. Beardsmore was waiting for him on the steps of the barbican guardhouse.

‘Are you well, Master Ralph? You look pale.’

Ralph grasped him by the elbow and took him out on the drawbridge.

‘I know why Beatrice died,’ he said in a rush. ‘Because of Brythnoth’s treasure – you know, from chatter, my interest in it. They think I am close to finding the cross.’

‘They?’

‘Whoever killed Beatrice and attacked me in Devil’s Spinney. That’s why Phoebe died, she saw or heard something.’ He led Beardsmore even further away, out of the shadows into the full sunlight. ‘The killer must be one of the castle council, that’s why Fulk came here. He was going to blackmail him or her. He wanted silver for his silence.’

‘But where’s Fulk now?’

Ralph waved his hands. ‘I don’t know. Master Beardsmore, I trust you completely. You are the only one I do trust. Anyway, you asked me to meet you here. What do you propose?’

‘A walk round the moat, Master Ralph.’ He moved to the left, walking through the long grass which fringed the edge of the moat. ‘Keep behind me,’ he ordered. ‘Study the ground, look for anything untoward. A piece of cloth, dried blood. Anything that shouldn’t be there.’

Pinching his nostrils against the rank smell from the slimy water, Ralph obeyed. He understood Beardsmore’s logic. If Phoebe’s corpse had not been carried through the barbican or the rusting postern gate, some other route must have been taken. Now and again he’d stop and stare over the heathland towards Devil’s Spinney. A merlin hovered, wings whirling, above the trees, searching for prey. Butterflies and bees moved among the clusters of wild flowers. The click of grasshoppers broke the silence. A sentry noticed them and shouted out some greeting. Beardsmore simply raised his hand in acknowledgement.

They went along the side of the castle, then round the back. Ralph rarely came here. To the north stretched moorland dotted by copses of trees; against the blue sky curled the odd plume of grey smoke from a woodcutter’s or charcoal-burner’s cottage. In the centre of the rear wall rose the Salt Tower. The masonry was crumbling, some had fallen into the moat. Beardsmore stopped before this, narrowing his eyes.

‘It’s disused now,’ he said. ‘The steps are not too safe.’

Ralph looked up at the shuttered windows though Beardsmore was more interested in the moat. The water was shallower here and fallen masonry from the Salt Tower had created a makeshift causeway across the moat. On the far side against the wall a bank of mud had formed.

‘I wonder,’ Beardsmore murmured. ‘Look at the tower. What do you see?’

‘Windows on the higher floors, a window door lower down.’

‘In former times it was used to bring stores in. A way of victualling the castle without using the barbican.’ Beardsmore warily made his way through the reeds and, splashing and slipping, ran across the makeshift causeway to the muddy bank beneath the Salt Tower. He had to hold himself against the wall, for it was no more than a narrow ledge. He eased himself down and studied the ground. With a cry of triumph he drew his dagger, dug at the mud and held up a ring which flashed in the sunlight.

‘I knew it!’ he declared. ‘This is how they took Phoebe’s corpse out.’

Re-sheathing his dagger and grasping the ring, Beardsmore splashed back across the moat and showed Ralph what he had found. The ring was one of those sold at many fairs or market booths.

‘Phoebe bought this from a chapman who came here just after the feast of the Purification. She was very proud of it.’ The sergeant scratched his coarse, cropped hair and stared back at the Salt Tower. ‘She must have been lured into the tower, beaten and strangled, and then her corpse, wrapped and tied with cords, was lowered from that door. The assassin then let himself down, picked up the corpse and hurried into Devil’s Spinney. Remember, Eleanora said it was dark. The corpse was placed in the spinney and the assassin re-entered the castle, probably by the same route.’ He gripped Ralph’s arm. ‘You know I speak the truth.’

‘You speak the truth, Master Beardsmore.’ Ralph smiled. ‘The castle walls are undefended. This is a lonely part, no one would notice. If Eleanora and Fulk had not been in the spinney, no one would have been the wiser.’ Ralph walked towards the moat. ‘We should tell Sir John about this. If the castle was ever attacked-’ He heard a sound; a creak, as if a shutter was opening, followed by a whirring noise. He looked back over his shoulder and stared in horror.

Beardsmore was swaying on his feet, hands out, eyes rolled up at the crossbow bolt which had taken him dead centre in the forehead. Ralph ran towards him. Beardsmore sighed and fell into his arms. Ralph laid him down on the grass. His eyelids fluttered; he coughed blood, jerked and lay still, his hand still holding Phoebe’s ring. Ralph stretched across to take it. The action saved his life; a crossbow bolt skimmed the air above him. Ralph looked up at the Salt Tower. One of the windows at the top was open.

He stared around. What could he do? There was no cover. The next bolt skimmed over his shoulder. Too fast, Ralph thought, the hidden archer must have more than one crossbow primed. He considered using Beardsmore’s corpse as a shield but it would still leave him exposed. He flinched as a bolt struck just near his knee. He pushed Beardsmore’s corpse aside and fled at an angle to the edge of the moat and dived in. He remembered to keep his mouth closed but opened his eyes. The water was light green, about six feet deep; thick weeds impeded his progress. Ralph pushed them aside. If he could move further down the moat and get out, he’d be safe. The weeds, however, clutched at him and panic gripped him. His chest was hurting, his eyes stinging. He could not swim for much longer; he had to get out. He moved some weeds aside and opened his mouth in a silent scream as a corpse reached up to greet him, face liverish, eyes staring, tendrils of hair moving in the water. Ralph pushed the body away and reached the bank. The rushes here afforded some protection. He lay against the mud, gasping for breath, and stared back along the bank. He had swum a good few yards but to him it seemed like miles. Beardsmore’s corpse lay sprawled on the heathland. From the parapet above, Ralph heard the shouts of sentries – they had spotted Beardsmore’s body. Wearily Ralph pulled himself out, covered in mud and slime. He clambered on to the bank and stared back into the moat; no sign of the corpse but he guessed who it was.

‘Poor Fulk,’ he muttered. ‘That’s the only reward you earned.’

Despite the pain in his side, Ralph ran along the wall, determined to reach the barbican. His eyes stung and the moat water had coated his mouth. He had hardly turned the corner when Adam came running out, Marisa behind him, her hair flying. Ralph collapsed into his friends’ arms.

‘Beardsmore’s dead!’ he gasped. ‘The Salt Tower. There’s a corpse in the moat – Fulk’s. Father Aylred is right: the Devil has set up camp at Ravenscroft!’