The White Rose murders

Chapter 4

The days following our visit to Johanna were full of frenetic busyness: Benjamin had to pack our belongings, I had to sell a cup (I'd stolen this from Wolsey) and draw what money I had deposited with the goldsmiths. On 18 October, the Feast of St Luke, we assembled under the looming battlements of the Tower. Servants, porters, farriers and fletchers bustled about. Grooms, scullions and carters carried our baggage and loaded it on to the great wagon: hangings, feathered beds, yards of damask and costly cloth, towels and napkins, were piled into chests. The furnishings of Queen Margaret's chapel -candelabra, heavy missal books with their golden covers and carved stands, cushioned prayer stools – not to mention the pots and pitchers from the kitchen, were piled in great heaps on the cobbled yard. Of course, I avoided so much work, going out to the bloody square on Tower Hill to gawk at the gore-drenched platform where the Great Ones of the land had their heads cut off.

At last we were ready. We left the Tower by a postern gate and went along Hog Street, turning right to hear Mass at St Mary Grace's church. The cavalcade stopped and orders were issued for us to rest in the fields around the church whilst Queen Margaret and her principal attendants went inside. I was all agog with curiosity for I had glimpsed a cart, covered by a black damask cloth, arriving outside the main door of the church. It was protected by yeomen of the guard wearing the royal red and gold livery. The cloth was pulled back and a large casket was taken into the church. Catesby ordered us to follow it.

I wondered what it was as we trailed up the dark nave behind Agrippa, Melford, and others of the Queen's party. The casket was placed on trestles before the high altar. Queen Margaret stood at the head, the rest of us on either side. I craned forward. Queen Margaret, white-faced and with dark-ringed eyes, nodded slightly and Catesby prised loose the lid to reveal white, gauze cloths which gave off a sweet fragrant perfume. These were removed and – oh, sweet Lord, I nearly fainted! The corpse of a man lay there: red-haired, red-bearded, face long and marble-white. The body was clothed in a purple gown and a silver pectoral cross winked in the flickering candle light. The man looked to be asleep though his eyelids were only half-closed. I saw small wounds, red gashes, high on the cheek bones. Immediately the group knelt.

'Who is it?' I whispered.

'Her husband,' Benjamin murmured. 'The late James IV of Scotland, killed at Flodden!'

I stared at the skull-like face, the hollowed cheek bones, the red hair now combed smoothly back from the forehead. I later learnt that the corpse had been badly mauled in battle, the face disfigured by a crashing axe blow. The embalmers had used all their skills to repair the body. Queen Margaret muttered something to Catesby.

'Of your mercy,' Sir Robert intoned, 'pray for the soul of our late King James IV and take your leave. Her Grace wishes to be alone.'

We all filed out of the church, leaving Queen Margaret with her shadows whilst we waited in the warm autumn sunshine.

'Master Benjamin,' I muttered, 'the King's corpse has been above ground for four years.'

'The English generals,' he replied, 'had the body dressed and embalmed after Flodden and sent it south for our King to view.' He smiled and looked away. 'You know our good Henry – he fears neither the living nor the dead. He kept the corpse shut away in a special chamber at Sheen Palace.'

'And the Queen will take it back?'

'No, no!' Ruthven interrupted, sidling up behind us. 'King Henry has decreed that it stays here until she is restored to Scotland.'

I turned and looked at the man's tear-stained face.

'You loved King James?'

'He had his failings, but he was a great prince. Noble-hearted and generous to a fault.' Ruthven looked up at the birds wheeling and twisting against the blue sky. 'Such a noble prince,' he whispered, 'deserved a better end than that.'

Queen Margaret came out of the church, a veil covering her grief-stricken face. Benjamin tugged Ruthven by the sleeve, indicating he wished to talk to him. We walked further away from the group.

'What was your master like?' Benjamin indicated with his head towards the eerie church. 'The late James IV? I mean, as a man?'

'A strange person,' Ruthven replied, 'tinged with the new learning from Italy. King James was interested in medicine and was absorbed in all aspects of the study of physic and the human body.' He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. 'Do you know, he even founded a chair of medicine at one of the universities?' Ruthven glanced away, now lost in the past. 'The King's curiosity and hunger for knowledge led him down many strange paths. On one occasion he hired a Satanist, a monk who dabbled in the Black Arts.' Ruthven looked at the party clustered round the church door. 'In fact, Doctor Agrippa reminds me of him, but that was years ago.' Ruthven looked at us sharply. 'Do you know,' he whispered, 'Carey believes his grandfather met Doctor Agrippa in Antioch. But surely it's not possible for a man to live so long?' He sighed. 'Anyway, this Satanist promised he could make things fly. Whether he did or not I don't know, but James loved the good as well as the mysterious things of life – fine wine, beautiful women. He had bastards by at least two of his mistresses, Marion Boyd and Margaret Drummond. He would have lived a long and full life had it not been for Flodden.' Ruthven ground his teeth together. 'He should have heeded the warnings.' 'What warnings?'

'A few days before he joined his army, King James was at prayer in the royal chapel at Linlithgow. A ghostly figure appeared, dressed in flowing robes of blue and white. The spectre carried a great staff and, with his high forehead and blond hair, bore an uncanny resemblance to a painting of St John. In loud, sepulchral tones, this vision warned James to give up war and consorting with wanton women. One of the King's companions tried to seize the apparition but it vanished.' Ruthven gnawed at his lip. 'A few days later the army assembled outside Edinburgh and a ghostly voice was heard shouting at midnight. It seemed to come from the Market Cross. This voice called on James and all his commanders to appear before Pluto, God of the Underworld, within thirty days.' Ruthven shrugged. 'The prophecy was fulfilled. Within a month James and most of his commanders were dead, killed at Flodden.' The steward turned and spat on the ground. 'So, Master Daunbey, you know more about my master. Any further questions?'

'Yes,' I interrupted, 'when my master told you about Selkirk's mutterings, you seemed alarmed, even disturbed.'

Ruthven gazed gloomily at me. Do you know, I really thought he was going to tell me something, but his protuberant eyes refused to meet mine.

'I have said enough,' he muttered as he saw Moodie approach.

'The Queen mourns for her husband,' the chaplain squeaked.

'Does she?' Ruthven quipped. 'How can she?' 'What do you mean?' Benjamin turned as quick as a top, his eyes sharp and questioning. 'What do you mean, Ruthven?'

'I have heard stories, Master Daunbey.' Ruthven nodded towards the church. 'They say King James was not killed at Flodden and that corpse belongs to someone who merely looks like him.'

'Is that possible?' I asked.

Ruthven pursed his lips.

'It's possible,' he whispered. 'First, we always see what we expect to see. Secondly, the royal corpse was mangled; it had been in the hands of embalmers and above ground for four years. Thirdly, at Flodden James dressed at least sixteen of his knights in royal armour and coat of arms. God knows for what reason – he didn't lack courage. And, finally, there were several knights of James's court who looked like him.' He glanced up and saw Agrippa approaching. 'That is all,' he concluded.

I watched him walk away. Benjamin, his arms folded, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He waited until the smiling doctor had passed by.

'An interesting story, Roger. Do you believe it?'

'According to Fabyan's Chronicle,' I replied, airing my knowledge, 'when Henry IV fought at Shrewsbury against Hotspur, he dressed several of his knights in royal armour.'

[Oh, by the way, I also told William Shakespeare that and other details. You will read them in his play Henry IV. Will was so grateful he said he would base one of the characters of that drama on me. I think it is the Prince, though malicious tongues say it is Falstaff. God knows, I have nothing in common with him!]

We could talk no longer. Catesby was rapping out orders for us to mount and within the hour we had left St Mary Grace's, striking east for Canterbury. Queen Margaret and Lady Carey rode in front of the cavalcade, shimmering in their heavy brocade dresses. Alongside them rode Carey, Agrippa and Catesby, then us followed by the creaking carts and household minions. Melford and a group of archers fanned out before the cavalcade; they cleared the way of the usual merchants, traders, pedlars, students and hosts of vagabonds and beggars who cluster on every road like flies round a horse's arse.

At Canterbury Queen Margaret said prayers before the tomb of Thomas a Becket. Lord, such a sight: the casket which held Becket's body was encased in sheets of solid gold and, over the years, devout pilgrims had brought sapphires, diamonds, pearls and small rubies to be fastened into the goldwork as homage to the saint. Some of these gems were as large as goose eggs but the most precious was an exquisite diamond called the Regal of France. It had such fire and brilliance that even when the church was dark this diamond glowed like a flame in the sanctuary.

[Old Henry put an end to all that. The tomb was wrecked, the gold and silver went to his mint, and the Regal of France on to his large fat hand. Why do I tell you this? Well, the Regal of France caused murder, bloody intrigue and violent death. But that was for the future – you can read about it in one of my journals.]

After Canterbury we took the old Roman Road into Hertfordshire, planning to stop at a royal manor, but the weather turned cold; blustery rain clouds sped in from the sea and we were forced to break our journey at one of the great taverns just outside Canterbury. Melford soon cleared the chambers, telling the irate landlord to shut his mouth and present to the Exchequer, before the Feast of St John the Baptist, whatever bills we incurred. I remember that night well as the evil we had to face gathered and drew closer.

We were all sitting in the great taproom. It was dark and blustery outside and the flames of the candles danced, filling the room with moving shadows. The meal was over, Queen Margaret and Lady Carey had withdrawn and we men sat around the large oaken table, drinking deeply from the wine bowl. Ruthven had his cat with him, stroking it and muttering something – I could not tell whether he was talking to himself or his pet.

I noticed his comrades distanced themselves from him. Indeed, rumours about Ruthven were rife – how he was a warlock because he was left-handed and talked to his cat. Ruthven just ignored them.

[In those days, if you were a witch you were safe as long as you kept away from the common people: once I saw a group of villagers spread-eagle a warlock, drive a stake through his heart and bury him beneath a crossroads gibbet.]

Anyway, back to my companions in that darkened taproom: Catesby looked bright-eyed and flushed. Moodie, more like a mouse than ever, nibbled at a bit of cheese. There was ever-smiling Doctor Agrippa, hawk-visaged Carey, the thick coarsened face of Melford and, of course, Scawsby, his face sour as ever as if he had just broken wind and hoped no one would notice. The conversation swirled, passing from one topic to another.

Now Benjamin and I, recalling the Cardinal's secret instructions, had decided to reveal Selkirk's verses as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Benjamin indicated with meaningful glances at me that this stark, sombre evening was such an appropriate time. He skilfully guided the conversation back to the sinister events surrounding Selkirk's death for the murder had affected everybody. Oh, there had been speculation that Scawsby was wrong and the Scotsman had died because of some strange seizure. Or again, that his death was the result of the Black Arts, and many sombre looks were directed at Doctor Agrippa, Ruthven and even Benjamin. My master bore all this with his usual tolerance and bonhomie. He had apparently recovered from his visit to Johanna, hiding his feelings behind the usual veil of secrecy. Indeed, he had hardly referred to her except once as we passed through a small hamlet and had seen children baiting a poor, crazed woman by the crossroads. Benjamin glanced sideways at me and grimaced despairingly. However, he had not forgotten Selkirk's death and, when we were alone, constantly speculated on how the Scotsman had been murdered and what his enigmatic rhyme could mean.

In that taproom he decided to push the matter further and Catesby gave him his chance.

'If Selkirk was murdered,' Sir Robert declared, 'what was the reason?'

'Master Daunbey should have found that out,' Scawsby replied spitefully.

'He questioned the wretch long enough,' Carey barked.

Moodie squeaked in support whilst Ruthven just dismissed them all with one scathing look.

'Oh, but I did,' Benjamin announced.

'You did what?' Carey snapped.

'I may not know how Selkirk died but I think I know why.'

'Nonsense!' Carey retorted. 'What do you mean?'

'Selkirk wrote a poem,' Benjamin continued quietly.

'Mere brainless chatter!' Carey answered.

'Oh, no,' Benjamin whispered.

Outside the wind blustered and beat against the wooden shutters and the huge sign, swinging on its iron pole, creaked and groaned as if calling out across the darkened, rain-soaked meadows.

Benjamin closed his eyes and chanted aloud:

'Three less than twelve should it be,

Or the King, no prince engendered he.

The lamb did rest,

In the falcon's nest.

The Lion cried,

Even though it died.

The truth Now Stands,

In the Sacred Hands,

Of the place which owns

Dionysius' bones.'

Now, the Lord be my witness, Benjamin's words created a pool of watchful silence.

Ruthven pushed his hair wildly back from his face. 'Repeat it, man!' he whispered hoarsely.

Benjamin did while I glanced around. Catesby and Agrippa sat impassive. Moodie's face was a white blur in the candlelight. Scawsby looked frightened, his eyes two small piss-holes. Carey looked dumbstruck, Ruthven strangely excited, whilst even Melford leaned forward and watched Benjamin with amber cat-like eyes.

'Do the words mean anything to anyone?' Benjamin asked.

Ruthven cradled his cat and stroked the back of its head, his hand moving faster and faster across the animal's fur until it stirred restlessly and mewed in protest.

'What else?' Catesby asked. 'What else did Selkirk tell you?'

'He did not give me the poem,' Benjamin replied. 'I found it. But once I asked him why he was in prison, and he muttered about his days at Le Coq d'Or tavern in Paris and said he was a prisoner because he could "count the days".'

Ruthven suddenly rose as if to suppress some excitement inside him.

'Oh, no!' he hissed, speaking his secret thoughts aloud. 'Selkirk was not as mad as he appeared. I suspect he was in the Tower not because he could count the days but was privy to secrets which could rock thrones and topple crowns!' He stood staring at us.

'What do you mean?' Melford snarled. Ruthven's face paled. He shook his head and quietly left the room. After his departure, we all sat silent and uneasy about what to do next until Catesby cracked a joke and the conversation turned to other matters.

The next morning we left for Leicester. I wondered once again what was so important about Selkirk. What did his words mean? Why was he killed? Was the assassin now amongst us? Would he strike again? What did Ruthven know? What mysteries surrounded us? A king who may not have died? A royal corpse not buried? A queen who now sought to return from her self-imposed exile? The intrigue around the White Rose and the mysterious Les Blancs Sangliers? I asked Benjamin but he just shook his head and pointed across to the dark fringes of the forest.

'In there, Roger, spirits, witches, dwarfs, Robin Goodfellow and the terrifying boneless creatures lurk. Perhaps Satan himself.' Benjamin nodded towards our companions, now silent after a hard night's drinking. 'Such terrors,' he whispered, 'pale compared to the demons which lurk in the mind of man and feed on the human spirit.'

I still remained puzzled as we travelled north. The journey was uneventful enough; nights spent in some local hostelry, priory or convent where Queen Margaret's influence and the Cardinal's letters obtained us free food and clean but hard beds. We crossed the silent wilderness north of London, the grass withering under a warm sun, and passed eventually into Leicestershire. The weather became cooler under the influences of cold breezes from the frozen north, observed my master. I hadn't any idea what he was talking about but I listened attentively to his description of lands I had never imagined, with their dark green forests, snowy slopes and frozen lakes. Sometimes Benjamin would play on the lute he always carried, whilst I accompanied him on the rebec. (Oh, yes, I had learnt to play this whilst spending a few months in a rotting gaol due to one of the many misunderstandings which plagued my life.) The rest of our party were still silent and withdrawn, openly mistrustful of each other. Memories of Selkirk's death might have receded slightly but the mystery still remained.

Sometimes we met other travellers and conversation with them enlivened the boredom: merchants, wandering friars, the occasional hunting party, clerics or landless men looking for labour. They constantly warned us of the danger of the roads, about the thieves and vagabonds who dressed in green or brown buckram and played Robin Hood in the dark forests or wastelands we passed through. At other times my master, tired by the reticence of Agrippa and the others, continued his absorption with alchemy. Both of us did try to draw Ruthven further on his outburst in the taproom but he openly scorned us. He became withdrawn, chatting only to Moodie.

At last we turned off the main high road and approached the city of Leicester. The mayor and civic dignitaries met us in a blaze of colour at Bow Bridge with the usual greetings and pleasantries. My master studied the bridge carefully.

'Roger,' he whispered, 'you know Richard III, the Great Usurper, passed over here on his route to Bosworth? As he passed, his leg struck the side of the bridge and an old witch prophesied that when he returned his head would strike the same spot.' Benjamin leaned closer. 'Richard's naked corpse was brought back slung across a donkey. Tonight we are to lodge at the Blue Boar inn near High Cross, the same tavern the Usurper rested at before Bosworth. Now I suspect some villainy so when we get there, slip away. Go to the Greyfriars Church, conceal yourself somewhere so you can watch a spot, a place in the Lady Chapel on the left side of the sanctuary. Stay there as long as you can. Only when it is dark should you leave – and be careful! Whatever happens, just observe.'

That's what I liked about Benjamin, always kind and considerate, and of course he needn't have advised old Shallot to stay out of danger! We wound our way through the cobbled streets of Leicester past the great, four-storeyed houses of the merchants, jutting out above us, and into the Newarks. The great Blue Boar inn was a half-stone tavern mansion, its glazed horned windows stared out over the market place. My master pulled me back, watching the riders mill around, paying particular attention to the green-slimed horse trough in front of the Blue Boar.

[You know, of course, the Blue Boar was once called the White Boar but after Bosworth, they changed the colour from white to blue. I once talked to an old retainer of the Usurper who claimed Richard hid five hundred pounds in gold in the great bed there. I have been back to the tavern but have never found this treasure.]

Ah, well! I took a wineskin and went through the alleys and byeways of Leicester to Greyfriars Church. Inside it was cool and sombre, the pillars stretching up into the blackness, the nave and aisles silent except for the birds which nested under the eaves outside. I genuflected before the winking sanctuary lamp and concealed myself in one of the side chapels. From there I had a good view of a beautiful statue of the Madonna and Child lit by the flickering flames of candlelight, as well as of a small raised plinth of stone which I supposed marked the tomb of some notable. I sat, dozed, slurped from the wineskin, said a few prayers and kept my eyes fastened on the Lady Chapel. Some of the devout did come in; a mother and child, an old woman, and a dusty cloaked Franciscan. I watched the light fade outside the windows as the church grew cold, sombre and eerie.

'Hic est terriblis locus – this is a terrible place.' The words were scrawled on the frontal of the marble high altar. A terrible place indeed! Night fell, the candle flames flickered out and the ghosts of the dead came back to their resting place (or so the old wives say), somewhere sacred, a fitting protection against the assaults of the demons. The church door remained closed. I shivered and cursed my master. A lay brother came by, keys clanking. He wanted to close the church so I made myself known, claiming I was making a pilgrimage in atonement for my sins. He looked strangely at me, muttered something about coming back within the hour, and sauntered off. I went back to my hiding place. At last the door opened. A dark, cowled figure came in and went up to stand in the Lady Chapel. I crouched down to hide behind a pillar, and watched. The mysterious figure stared down at the tomb and then turned.

'Roger Shallot!' The voice was low and hollow. 'Roger Shallot, I know you are there!'

Oh, Lord, my heart beat quicker and a sudden sweat drenched my body.

'Shallot!' the ghostly figure bellowed. 'Come out!' The voice echoed in the high arches of the church.

I came out, shaking with fright, and watched the cowled figure sweep towards me. I saw a white hand draw back the hood and my master's innocent face grinned at me.

'Benjamin Daunbey!' I snarled. 'My arse and thighs are sore from a day's hard riding. I have lurked like some ghost in this cold, dank church, and now you appear, making a merry jest of it all!'

He laughed and clasped my hand. 'Roger,' he quipped, 'you look as frightened as a gargoyle! I'm sorry I scared you.' He beckoned me closer. 'Did you see anyone come in? I mean, go to the tomb over there? Pay their respects or place a white rose?'

I shook my head angrily. 'Nothing, Master. Why should they?'

He linked his arm through mine and we walked over to the tomb. Benjamin tapped it gently with his boot.

'Here, Roger, lie the mortal remains of King Richard III. His body was brought back to Leicester after the battle of Bosworth Field and thrown into the horse trough at the Blue Boar. The present King's father, his conscience pricked, had the corpse buried here and later erected this tomb.'

[Oh, by the way, when Bluff King Hal broke with Rome because he wanted to get amongst Boleyn's petticoats, the tomb was wrecked and Richard's corpse dumped into the River Stour.]

'So, Master,' I blurted out, 'King Richard lies here? What did you expect?'

Benjamin chewed on his lip and stared up into the darkness.

'What did I expect? Well, here we are in Leicester at the final resting place of the White Boar himself. Members of Les Blancs Sangliers, the Guardians of the White Rose, are supposed to be amongst our party. Yet no one comes here to pay their respects…'He rubbed the side of his face. 'I find that strange.' He put an arm round my shoulder and walked me back towards the church door. 'See, what do we have here, Roger? A Scottish doctor murdered in the Tower. Why? Because he spoke riddles in verse, or because he didn't believe the story of Flodden? What really happened at that battle? Why did Queen Margaret re-marry so quickly? Why does my good uncle send us to plead for her?' He waved his hand. 'There's a mystery here, Roger, something quite terrible. I don't trust my uncle, and I certainly don't trust Queen Margaret!'

'And Doctor Agrippa?' I asked.

Benjamin let his arm fall away. 'I'm not sure,' he murmured. 'Who is spying on whom? Agrippa is reputedly the agent of the Cardinal, as Carey, Moodie and Catesby are of Queen Margaret. But whom do they really work for? Is it in truth the Cardinal, or our gracious sovereign, or the Earl of Angus? Or even some other foreign potentate

…? After all, the present Regent of Scotland is by education a Frenchman. He, too, might be involved in this macabre, mysterious dance.'

We left Leicester and reached Royston Manor late the next afternoon. As a weak sun died and the shadows closed in around us, we saw the high pointed gables and turreted walls of the fortified manor house beckoning darkly to us over the treetops. Royston was a cold, sombre place which blighted our spirits as soon as we glimpsed it. Benjamin and I had been entertaining the group with a French madrigal, my deep bass a smooth foil to my master's well-modulated tenor: a stupid little song about a maid who lost her wealth and her virtue in the great city. Queen Margaret declared the sound was sweet and despatched a small purse of silver in token of her thanks.

As we entered the main causeway which snaked through the trees to the manor's main door, the sight of Royston killed the song on our lips and the joy in our hearts.

My master deepened my unease with a story about the stark, square building's previous owners, the Templars; the monks of war who, two centuries previously, had been brutally crushed by the papacy and the French crown because of their alleged involvement in witchcraft, dabbling in the Black Arts as well as such unnatural vices as sodomy and the worship of a huge black cat. As we dismounted and the grooms hurried about gathering the reins of our horses, Benjamin continued his low-voiced description of the fallen order. (Sometimes, I think, my master liked to frighten me.)

'Do you know, Roger, the Templars worshipped a mysterious image, a dreadful face printed on a cloth.'

At the time I smiled wanly and wished Benjamin would leave me alone. [I only mention this because he was in fact wrong. The Templars were crushed but some of them remained as a secret coven and I have crossed swords with them over the years. I have seen their dreadful face and the stories are true – strong men have lost their reason and wits once they have looked upon it. My chaplain begs me to say more but I shan't satisfy him!]

The inside of Royston Manor was equally grim: it usually stood empty, being used by the court as a place to rest during royal progresses and then left in the tender care of an old steward and a bustling, aged retainer. The steward answered Agrippa's insistent knocking and took us into the main hallway. The house was built in a square, with a broad staircase sweeping up into the darkness. At the top were two galleries, one to the left, the other to the right, which turned again to form a perfect square. On each gallery were chambers and our group was directed into these, servants being left to sleep in the hall, buttery or stables behind the manor house. Sconce torches were fixed in the wall but only a few of these were lit. Now and again we came across the signs and secret symbols of the Templar Order: huge black crosses, thinly covered with whitewash, whilst the arms and escutcheons of long dead knights still hung high on the walls.

The chambers themselves were bleak, containing truckle beds, a few pieces of furniture, a table and a bowl and jug for washing. The windows were mere arrow-slits now blocked by wooden shutters; the air was so damp with a pervasive chill that Queen Margaret insisted fires be lit in her rooms before she retired for the night. A cold meal was hastily served, a few words exchanged, and everyone speedily retired as Catesby insisted that on the morrow we would rise early as there was a great deal of business to be done.

Now it is important for me to tell the story correctly. At first there was a period of confusion as porters, cursing and sweating, brought up bags, chests and coffers. Ruthven was placed in the chamber next to ours and came upstairs just after us. I heard him lock the chamber door and, a few minutes later, the mewing of his cat scratching at the wood for admittance. I went out into the gallery, Ruthven's door opened, the Scotsman came out, picked up the cat, smiled at me and went inside. I heard the key turn. I was going to knock for I was still intrigued by him but Benjamin called me so I let the matter rest.

We retired to bed but I couldn't sleep. I felt restless, uneasy in that haunted, creaking manor house. My terrors would have increased if I had known how once again Murder was stalking us, in that Godforsaken place.