The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 10

THIS THING OF DARKNESS by Peter Tremayne

“This thing of darkness.

I acknowledge mine.”

William Shakespeare, The Tempest, V, i

MASTER HARDY DREW, Constable of the Bankside Watch, stood regarding the blackened and still smoking ruins of the once imposing edifice of the house on the corner of Stony Street near the parish church of St Saviour’s. There was little left of it as it had been a wood-built house, and wood and dry plaster were a combustible mix.

“It was a fine old house,” Master Drew’s companion said reflectively. “It once belonged to the old Papist Bishop Gardiner.”

“The one who took pleasure in burning those he deemed heretics in Queen Mary’s time?” asked Master Drew with a slight shudder. He had not been born when Mary had been on the throne but he knew it to be a strange, unsettled period when, during those five short years, she had earned the epithet of “Bloody Mary”.

Master Pettigrew, the fire warden, nodded.

“Aye, Master Drew. The same who condemned some good men to the flames because they would not accept Roman ways.”

“Well, it is not infrequent that buildings catch alight and burn. You and your sturdy lads have put out the flames and no other properties seem threatened. Why, therefore, do you bring me here?”

Master Pettigrew inclined his head towards the smouldering ruins.

“There is a body here. I think you should see it.”

The constable frowned.

“A poor soul caught in the fire? Surely that is a task for the coroner?”

“That’s as may be, good master. Come and examine it for yourself. It is not badly burned,” he added, seeing the distaste on Master Drew’s features. “I believe it was not fire that killed him.”

He led the way through the charred wood and the odd standing wall towards what must have been the back of the house and into an area that had been partially built of bricks and thus not much harmed in the conflagration.

Master Drew saw the problem straightway. The body of a man was hanging from a thick beam by means of iron manacles that secured his wrists and linked them via a chain over the beam. He breathed out sharply.

“This is a thing of darkness. A deed of evil,” he muttered.

The constable tried not to look at the legs of the corpse for they had received the force of the fire. The upper body was blackened but not burned for, by that curious vagary to which fire is often prey, the flames had not engulfed the entire body. The flames seemed to have died down after they had reached the corpse.

The body was that of a man of thirty or perhaps a little more. Through the soot and grime it was impossible to detect much about the features.

Master Drew saw that the mouth was tied as in the manner of a gag. The eyes were bulging still and blood-rimmed, marking the struggle to obtain air that must have been filled with smoke and fumes from the fire.

“You will observe, Master Drew, that the upper garments of this man speak of some wealth and status, and the manner of his death was clearly planned.”

The constable sniffed in irritation.

“I am experienced in the matter of observation,” he rebuked sharply.

Indeed, he had already observed that, in spite of the blackened and scorched garments, they were clearly those affected by a person of wealth. His sharp eyes had detected something under the shirt and he drew the long dagger he wore at his belt and used it to push aside the doublet and undershirt. Beneath was a gold chain on which was hung a medallion of sorts.

Master Pettigrew let out a breath. He was probably thinking of the wealth that he had missed, for being warden of the fire watch around Bankside did not provide him with means to live as he would want…or not without a little help from items collected in the debris of fires such as this.

Using the tip of his dagger, Master Drew was able to lift the chain over the head of the corpse and then examine it. Master Pettigrew peered over his shoulder.

“A dead sheep moulded in gold,” he breathed.

Master Drew shook his head.

“Not a dead sheep but the fleece of a sheep. I have seen the like once before. It was just after the defeat of the Spanish invasion force. They brought some prisoners to the Tower and I was one of the appointed guards. One of the prisoners was wearing such a symbol. When a sergeant wanted to divest him of it, our captain rebuked him, saying it was the symbol of a noble order and that the prisoner should be treated, therefore, with all courtesy and respect.”

The warden looked worried.

“A nobleman murdered here on the Bankside? We will not hear the last of it, good constable. A noble would have influence.”

Master Drew nodded thoughtfully.

“A nobleman, aye. But of what country and what allegiance? This order was set up to defend the Papist faith.”

Master Pettigrew looked at him in horror.

“The Papist Faith, you say?”

“This is a Spanish order for I see the insignia of Philip of Spain on the reverse.”

“Spanish?’ gasped Master Pettigrew. “There are several noble Spaniards in London at this time.”

Master Drew’s features hardened.

“And many who would as lief cut a Spaniard’s throat in revenge for the cruelties of previous years. Were there no witnesses to this incendiary act?”

To his surprise, Master Pettigrew nodded an affirmative.

“Tom Shadwell, a passing fruit merchant, saw the flames and called the alarm,” returned Master Pettigrew. “That was at dawn this morning. My men managed to isolate the building and extinguish the flames within the hour. Then we entered and that was when I found the body and sent for you.”

“Well, one thing is for certain, this poor soul did not hang himself nor set fire to this place. To whom does this building now belong?”

“I think it must still belong to the Bishop of Winchester for he has many estates around here. Such was the office of Bishop Gardiner but he has been dead these fifty years, during which it has remained empty.”

“That’s true,” Master Drew reflected. “I have never seen it occupied since I came here as Assistant Constable. No one has ever claimed it nor sought to occupy it.”

“Aye, and for the reason that local folk claim it to be haunted by the spirits of the unfortunates that Bishop Gardiner tortured and condemned to the flames as heretics.”

Master Drew pocketed the chain thoughtfully and glanced once more at the body.

“Release the corpse to the charge of the coroner, Master Pettigrew, and say that I will speak with him anon, but to do nothing precipitate until I have done so.”

He was about to turn when he caught sight of something in the corner of the room that puzzled him. In spite of the fire having damaged this area, he saw that the floorboards were smashed and that, where they had been torn away, a rectangular hole had been dug into the earth. He moved towards it.

“Is this the work of your men, Master Pettigrew?” he asked.

The warden of the fire watch shook his head.

“Not of my men.”

Master Drew sniffed sharply.

“Then someone has excavated this hole. But for what purpose?”

He bent down, peered into the hole and poked at it with the tip of his long dagger.

“The hole was already here and something buried, which was but recently dug up and removed and…” He frowned, moved his dagger again and then bent down into the hole, carefully, trying to avoid the soot. With a grunt of satisfaction he came up holding something between thumb and forefinger.

“A coin?” hazarded Master Pettigrew, leaning over his shoulder.

“Aye, a coin,” the constable confirmed, scraping away some of the soot with the point of the dagger.

“A groat?”

“No, this is a shilling, and an Irish shilling of Philip and Mary at that. See the harp under the crown on the face…and either side, under smaller crowns, the initials P and M? Now what would that be doing here?”

“Well, Bishop Gardiner was a Papist during the time of Mary and approved her marriage to the Spanish King Philip. It is logical that he might have lost the coin then.”

Master Drew looked down at the hole again. He knew better than to comment further. Instead, he slipped the coin into his pocket and moved towards the exit of the blackened building. Outside, groups of people were already gathering. He suspected that some of them had come to forage and pillage if there was anything worth salvaging.

“Where are you away to?” called Master Pettigrew.

“To proceed with my investigation,” he replied. “I’ll speak to the fruit merchant who first saw the conflagration.”

“He has the barrow at the corner of Clink Street, selling fruit and nosegays to those visiting the folk within the prison.”

The constable made no reply but he knew Tom Shadwell, the fruit seller, well enough and often passed the time of day with him as he made his way by the grim walls of the old prison.

“A body found, you say, good constable?” Tom Shadwell’s face paled when Master Drew told him of the gruesome find. “I saw only the flames and had no idea that anyone dwelt within the building. Had I known, I would have made an effort to save the poor soul. So far as I knew, it had been empty these many years.”

“You would have been too late anyway,” replied Master Drew. “It is murder that we are dealing with. Therefore, be cautious in your thoughts before you recite to me as much as you may remember.”

Tom Shadwell rubbed the bridge of his nose with a crooked forefinger.

“The first light was spreading when I came by the corner of Stony Street to make my way to my pitch. I was pushing my barrow as usual. It is not long after dawn that the prison door is opened and visitors are allowed to go in. I usually start my trade early. I was passing the old house when I saw the flames…”

He suddenly paused and frowned.

“You have thought of something, Master Shadwell?” prompted the constable.

“It is unrelated to the fire.”

“Let me decide that.”

“There was a coach standing in Stony Street, not far from the house. Two men were lifting a small wooden chest inside. It seemed heavy. Even as I passed the end of the street they had placed it in the coach, then one climbed in and the other scrambled to the box and took the reins. Away it went in a trice. I then crossed the end of the street towards the old house and that was when I heard the crackle of the fire and saw its flames through the window. I pushed my barrow to the end of the street, for I knew Master Pettigrew, warden of the fire watch, dwelt there. I was reluctant to leave my barrow – prey to thieves and wastrels – but there was no one about, so I ran along to his house and raised the alarm. That is all I know.”

“This coach, could you identify it?”

Shadwell shook his head.

“It was dark and the two men were clad in dark cloaks.”

“Well-dressed fellows, would you say?”

“Hard to say, Master Constable.”

“And which way did this coach proceed? Towards the bridge?”

Shadwell shook his head.

“In this direction, towards Clink Street or maybe along to Bankside, not towards the bridge.”

Having ascertained there was nothing more to be gathered from the fruit seller, Master Drew turned past the Clink Prison to the adjacent imposing ancient structure of Winchester Palace that dominated the area just west of the Bridgehead. Southwark was the largest town of the diocese of Winchester. In the days when Winchester was capital of the Saxon kingdom, before London reclaimed its Roman prominence, the Bishops of Winchester were all-powerful. Even after Winchester fell into decline as a capital, the bishops remained within court circles and therefore had to be frequently in London for royal and administrative purposes. So the grand Winchester Palace was built on the south bank of the Thames.

Master Drew explained his business to the gatekeeper of the palace and was shown directly to the office of Sir Gilbert Scrivener, secretary to His Grace, Thomas Bilson, Bishop of Winchester.

“The house on the corner of Stony Street? We have large estates in Southwark, Master Drew, as you know. But I do vaguely recall it. Unused since Bishop Gardiner’s decease.”

“You have no personal acquaintance with the house, then?”

“My dear constable,” replied Sir Gilbert, “I have more things to do with my time than personally to acquaint myself with all the properties controlled by the diocese. As for the burning of this building, and the murder of foreigners, it is not to be wondered that they and empty houses are treated in such manner – since it is so, it may be a blessing for it has long been His Grace’s wish to rebuild that crumbling edifice and set up on the site something more useful to the church and the community.”

“So you are acquainted with the house?” replied Master Drew sharply.

Sir Gilbert spread his hands with a thin smile.

“I said, not personally. But I am His Grace’s secretary. I fear you do but waste your time for do we not live in Southwark, and is it not said that these mean streets are better termed a foul den than a fair garden? Its reputation is best described as notorious. Bankside itself is a nest of prostitutes and thieves, of cut-throats and vagabonds.”

“And playhouses,” smiled Master Drew grimly. “Do not forget the playhouses, Sir Gilbert.”

The secretary sighed impatiently.

“I cannot spare you more time, Master Constable. I wish you a good morning and success with your endeavours.”

Outside the gates of Winchester Palace, Master Drew paused, frowning, one hand fingering the golden chain that reposed in his breeches pocket.

He sighed deeply. It was going to be a long walk to where he felt his next enquiry was going to take him. His allowance as Constable of the Bankside Watch would not stretch to what the justices of Southwark might deem the unnecessary expense of a wherryman to ferry him across the river. So, with a shrug, he set off for the entrance to the London Bridge. He was walking towards it when a voice hailed him.

“Give you a good day, Master Constable.”

He glanced up to see old Jepheson, the tanner, guiding his wagonload of hides towards the bridge. Master Drew knew him well for he had prevented the old man and his wife from being attacked and robbed one summer evening in their tannery in Bear Lane.

“Good day, Master Jepheson. Whither away?”

“To deliver these hides to The Strand.”

Master Drew smiled broadly. Here was luck indeed.

“Then I will seek the favour of a ride there with you for it will save me an exhausting walk and the wear of my shoe leather.’

“Climb up and welcome. I am already in your debt.”

Master Drew obeyed with alacrity. While old Jepheson prattled on, the constable could not help but dwell on the meaning of the golden chain in his pocket. A Spanish noble order found on the corpse of a murdered man… All England knew that the long war between England and Spain was coming to a negotiated end. Envoys from the two kingdoms were even now meeting in the palace built by the Duke of Somerset. Since 1585 the war had continued, with no side gaining any advantage. With the death of Elizabeth and the accession last year of James VI of Scotland as James I of England, it was felt the time had come to end the long and wasteful war. The old enemy, Philip II of Spain, was also dead and Philip III now ruled there. Six leading Spanish noblemen had arrived with their entourages to conduct the negotiations that would, hopefully, lead to a peace treaty.

Somerset House was on the north bank of the River Thames. Southwark was south of London Bridge and therefore a separate jurisdiction from London. It owed its importance to this position at the farther end of the only bridge spanning the Thames, making it the main thoroughfare to the south. It had further increased its prosperity and population by making itself a pleasure ground for the more law-abiding citizens of the north bank of the Thames. It had been only in 1550 that the City of London had decided to attempt to control the lawlessness of Southwark by setting up Justices and Constables, such as Master Drew, to impose order there.

But Southwark still felt separate and would not be forced into obedience to the Justices of London. It became the headquarters of the rebel Sir Thomas Wyatt in 1554, when he raised an insurgent force to move on London and prevent Queen Mary’s intended marriage to Philip II of Spain. Only the fortification on the northern end of London Bridge and the training of the cannons of the Tower of London across the river on the homes and churches of the people of Southwark, had forced the withdrawal of the insurgents.

It was because of this “independence”, this freedom and laxity in the laws, that the Bankside area became the place where playhouses had sprung up, beyond the restrictions placed on their neighbours on the northern bank. The Bankside had become a haunt of prostitutes, pimps and thieves. Master Drew’s remit was to impose order upon them, but because of the separation in jurisdiction he realized he would be unable to exercise his authority on the northern bank.

Master Drew left Jepheson and his wagon of hides in The Strand and walked to the gates of Somerset House. In the courtyard an officer of the guard stopped him and shook his head when Drew said he wanted to see one of the Spanish delegation or their secretaries.

“You have no jurisdiction here, Constable,” replied the officer. “I can let no one through without legal authority.”

“Master Drew?” a sharp voice suddenly called behind him.

The constable swung round. A man of small stature, crookback, with a tawny-coloured beard and hair, and sharp green eyes, was examining him. He had apparently emerged from a nearby doorway. The officer of the guard stiffened and saluted while Master Drew performed a clumsy bow as he recognized the Lord Chancellor of England, Sir Robert Cecil.

“I thought it was you,” Sir Robert said, with a soft, malicious smile. “I never forget a face. What business brings you hither?”

Master Drew tried to repress thoughts of how Sir Robert had come perilously close to having him arrested for conspiracy to High Treason while Elizabeth lay dying the previous year.

“A matter that may be one of national importance, Sir Robert.”

The Lord Chancellor raised his eyebrows and then waved away the officer of the guard.

“Then, come walk with me, and tell me what you mean.”

As they paced the courtyard, Master Drew, with few wasted words, explained what had happened and ended by presenting Sir Robert with the gold chain.

The Lord Chancellor frowned as he examined it.

“I have seen the like before and recently. You have in mind that it belongs to one of the Spanish delegation?”

“And even worse,” agreed Master Drew, “that the owner of the chain and the body in the house on Stony Street may be one of your Spanish nobles. If it is so and one of the ambassadors has been murdered at such a fraught time…” He shrugged.

The diplomatic implications were not lost on Sir Robert.

“If so, then indeed we face perilous times,” he said softly. He turned back to the officer of the guard and called to him.

“Go to the apartment of His Grace, the Duke of Frias, and ask him if it would not be troubling him too much if he could attend me in my chamber. I pray you, put as much courtesy and politeness into the request as you can.”

The officer went off on his new errand.

Sir Robert guided Master Drew into the building and through to a chamber where a fire crackled in the hearth.

“I have seen the Duke of Frias returning from his morning ride, so I know he is safe,” confided Sir Robert. “He is chief ambassador of the Spanish and should be able to assist in this matter.”

It seemed only a short time passed before there was a knock on the door and the officer of the guard entered and stood to one side.

“His Grace Juan de Velasco Frias, Duke of Frias, Constable of Castile,” he announced solemnly.

A tall, dark and elegantly dressed man entered and made a sweeping courtly bow to them.

Sir Robert went forward to greet him.

“Your Grace, forgive me for disturbing your morning’s preoccupations, but we must ask for your advice and information on a matter of pressing concern to both our nations.”

The Duke smiled with a cursory movement of his facial muscles. His dark eyes looking enquiringly at Master Drew, taking in his more shabby clothing and appearance, which clearly did not place him as a courtier or officer of state.

“It is what I and my compatriots are here for, Sir Robert. But I have not had the pleasure of this gentleman’s acquaintance.”

“This is Master Drew, a Constable of the Bankside…”

“Master Drew? And a Constable? I am Constable of Castile. Do you not have to be of the knightly rank to be a Constable in this kingdom?”

“There is a difference in office, Your Grace,” Sir Robert explained hurriedly. “Suffice to say, Master Drew is much in our confidence. Tell me, have you seen all your compatriots this morning?”

The Duke frowned.

“All? Indeed, we breakfasted together to discuss some points to raise at our sessions later today. Why do you ask?”

“Master Drew has something to explain.”

Master Drew cleared his throat and repeated his story and then held out the chain for the Spaniard to inspect.

“The Order of the Golden Fleece,” the Duke whispered softly. “It bears the insignia of His Majesty, Felipe III.” The expression on his face told them he recognized the significance of this discovery. He turned his dark eyes to Sir Robert. “Can someone ask the Count of Villa Medina to join us?”

Sir Robert glanced towards the officer of the guard who had remained by the door, and issued instructions.

When he had gone Master Drew asked: “Does Your Grace think that this belongs to the Count of Villa Medina?’

The Duke of Frias shook his head.

“I know that the Count of Villa Medina is not a member of this noble order. However, he will, I am sure, be able to cast light on the person who held this honour.”

Again, it was not long before the door was opened, to a nervous man whose movements reminded Master Drew of a bird, quick and unpredictable. He possessed the habit of running his hand swiftly over his small pointed beard each time he spoke.

This time, the Duke of Frias explained in rapid Spanish and then turned to Master Drew and asked him to hold forth the golden chain.

The Count’s face paled as he examined it.

“I can identify the owner of this,” he said slowly. He spoke a fair English but without the fluency of the Duke.

“And the owner is…?” queried Master Drew.

“My secretary, the Chevalier Stefano Jardiniero y Barbastro.”

Master Drew frowned.

“Stefano Jardiniero?” he echoed.

The Count made a motion with his hand, stroking his beard rapidly.

“He is of an English family who fled to Spain on the death of Mary, former Queen Consort of Spain.”

Sir Robert sniffed in embarrassment as he explained.

“Stefano Jardiniero was a nephew of Bishop Stephen Gardiner. That is why the name is familiar. I recall the family.”

Master Drew tried to hide his surprise.

“Bishop Gardiner of Winchester?”

“The family was granted asylum by the late King Felipe who gave them an estate in Barbastro,” added the Count of Villa Medina. “The Chevalier proved his nobility and loyalty in the King’s service and so was ennobled by the court and made a member of this order.”

Sir Robert glanced keenly at Master Drew.

“I am aware that Bishop Gardiner sent several worthy men to the flames as martyrs for the Protestant cause. Therefore there may be some who would see the death of one of his family as just retribution. But before we reach such a conclusion, let us seek out the facts. I presume the Chevalier is currently unaccounted for?”

The Count looked embarrassed and nodded.

“I sent for him this morning to discuss notes appertaining to the treaty but was told he was not in his chambers and that his bed had not been slept in. He has not been seen since last evening.”

“And why has an alarm not been raised?”

The Count of Villa Medina shrugged.

“The Chevalier is still a young man and there are many distractions in this city to preoccupy him.”

Master Drew looked sharply at him. The manner of his speech was careful to the point where it seemed obvious that he was withholding something.

“If I am to expedite this matter, I need to know all the facts.”

The Count was hesitant but the Duke of Frias spoke to him sharply in Spanish.

“It is true,” the Count said, as if answering the Duke but in English. He turned to Master Drew. “Very well, the facts it shall be. The Chevalier said he had to go out last evening, as he wanted to collect an old… how do you call it? Una reliquia de familia.”

The Duke translated for him.

“A family heirloom. He spoke to the Count of this within my hearing. He mentioned no further details.”

Master Drew sighed deeply.

“I would be grateful if the Count would accompany me across to Bankside in order that he may formally identify the body. After all, it may not be the Chevalier’s. But if it is, let us confirm it. Perhaps, Sir Robert, you might provide a coach to take us south of the river? I cannot ask the Count to walk with me.”

“Even better,” replied the Lord Chancellor, “there is a boat by the quayside at my constant disposal that will make your journey shorter.” He turned to the officer of the guard. “Captain, take you two good stalwarts of your guard and accompany Master Drew and the Count. You are the constable’s to command and his commands may be given in my name. Is that clear?”

The officer saluted and turned to fulfil his task.

A moment later the Count and guards were seated with Master Drew in the boat, whose four oars were manned by men in the livery of the Lord Chancellor. It pushed off from the north bank, making its way swiftly over the dark waters of the Thames, south towards the less than salubrious quays and wooden piers that lined the Bankside.

An elderly man limped forward to help tie up the boat in the hope of receiving a coin for his trouble. Master Drew recognized him as one of those unfortunates who regularly frequented the quays to scavenge or pick up the odd job here and there. A thought suddenly came to him.

“Were you about the quays last evening?” he demanded sharply.

The man touched his cap awkwardly.

“That I was, Master Constable. I do be here most times unless the ague confine me to the pot room at the Bell, wherein I do be given a place by the fire by the good office of the innkeeper.”

“Did you notice a boat similar to this one?” He jerked his head towards the boat they had arrived in. “Did a young man land here last night?”

“There be many young men come to the Bankside, good Master. You know as well as I. Young rakes in search of a good time at the taverns or theatres and the company of low women.”

Master Drew took out a penny and fingered it before the man’s eyes.

“This man would have been well dressed and foreign withal.”

“Foreign, you say? Spoke he like a Dago?”

Drew’s eyes narrowed.

“You spoke with him?”

“By my soul, I did. It was late and I was about to go back to the Bell. There were few folk around. He came from the quay and asked if I could direct him to Stony Street, which I did. He then asked if I knew whether the Gardiner house still stood. That I could not say for I had never heard of it. But when he confided that Gardiner was once the bishop here, I said he had best call at Winchester Palace and enquire there. I told him where that was and he gave me a coin and went his way. That’s all I do know.”

Master Drew dropped the penny into the man’s hand and instructed the boatmen to stand ready to transport the Count back to Somerset House. The mortuary was not far away and, as soon as the Count had confirmed that the body of the young man was, indeed, that of his missing secretary, the Chevalier Stefano Jardiniero, he was despatched with one of the guards back to the boat, with assurances that his murderer would soon be found.

With the officer and the other guard in attendance, Master Drew made his way directly to Winchester Palace and went straightway to the gatekeeper, who was the same man who had been on duty earlier.

“Who was on watch here last night between dusk and midnight?” he demanded without preamble.

The man looked nervously from the constable, whom he knew, to the liveried soldiers behind him.

“Why, old Martin, Master Drew.”

“And where shall I find old Martin?” snapped the constable.

“About this time o’ day, he’ll be in the Bear Pit Tavern.”

It was a short walk to the tavern, which was on the quayside, and old Martin was soon pointed out.

Master Drew seated himself opposite the elderly man.

“Last evening you were the watch at the entrance to Winchester Palace.” It was a statement and not a question.

Martin looked at him with rheumy eyes.

“I cannot deny it.”

“A young foreign gentleman called there?”

“He did, good master. That he did. He asked me if the Gardiner House on Stony Street still stood.”

“And you told him?”

“I told him that all the houses belonged to the diocese of Winchester, and which did he mean? He was trying to explain when Master Burton came by and took him aside to offer his help. They were deep in conversation for a while and then the foreign gentleman… well, he went off looking quite content.”

“You saw no more of him?”

“None.”

“And who is this Master Burton?”

“Why, he be manservant to Sir Gilbert Scrivener.”

Master Drew sat back with a curious smile on his face.

Within fifteen minutes he was standing before the desk of the secretary to His Grace, the Bishop of Winchester, with the officer of the Lord Chancellor’s guard at the door. Sir Gilbert was frowning in annoyance.

“I have much business to occupy me, Master Constable. I trust this will not take too long, and only condescend to spare the time as you now say you come on the Lord Chancellor’s business.”

Master Drew returned his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated by the man or his office.

“I would tell you a brief story first, about one of the Bishops of Winchester. Fortunately for him he died in the time of Queen Mary and so did not have to account for the Protestant souls he cast into the flames to cure them of what he deemed to be heresy. He was a wealthy and influential man and owned many houses here when he occupied this very palace. One particular building was used to interrogate and torture heretics. You know it… the one that was burned down last night.

“It seems he gathered together some wealth, a chest of coins, that, if Mary lost her throne and the Protestant faction came in, would help him escape to Spain and ease his exile. In the end, Mary outlived him and it was members of his own family who later had to flee to Spain. Before his death, he seems to have written instructions to his family there as to where they could find that chest of coins. But war between Spain and England prevented any member of the family seeking it… until now, nearly twenty years later, when it so happened one of his family was appointed secretary to the Spanish ambassadors who are now in this country to agree the peace.’

Sir Gilbert looked stony-faced.

“Are you coming to a point, Master Constable?”

“Last night this scion of the Gardiner family, now known as Chevalier Jardiniero y Barbastro, came in search of the Gardiner house wherein the box was buried. He made the mistake of being too free in his enquiries.”

“Are you saying that someone decided to kill him for vengeance when they knew he was the relative of Bishop Gardiner?”

Master Drew shook his head.

“Not for such a lofty motive as vengeance was he killed, but merely of theft. He was followed and watched, and when he dug up the box of coins, they attacked, bound him so that he could hardly breathe and left him to the tender mercy of the fire that they had set. They hoped the conflagration would destroy the evidence of their evil. They had a coach waiting and set off with the strongbox. That much was seen.”

Sir Gilbert raised an eye, quickly searching the constable’s features.

“And were they thus identified?”

“When the young man came here asking directions, he was told the way by Master Burton,” Master Drew went on, avoiding the question.

“Master Burton? My manservant?”

“Where is Master Burton?”

Sir Gilbert frowned.

“He set out this morning in my coach with some papers bound for Winchester.”

“And with the chest of money?”

“If he is involved in such a business, have no fear. I will question the rogue and he shall be punished. You may leave it in my hands.”

Master Drew smiled and shook his head.

“Not in your hands, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert. Master Burton had an accomplice.”

“And do you name him?” Sir Gilbert’s jaw tightened.

“You were that accomplice.”

“You cannot prove it.”

“Perhaps not. But you revealed yourself earlier when I was asking you about the ownership of the house and spoke of the body found there. I had not mentioned anything about it or the possibility of its Spanish identification – yet you said to me that the burning of a house and murder of a foreigner was not to be wondered at in this city. How would you know that the body found was that of a foreigner unless you shared Master Burton’s secret?”

Sir Gilbert’s eyes narrowed.

“You are clever, Master Drew, and with the tongue of a serpent. But when all is said and done, I am an Englishman with good connections, and the young man was a foreigner and a Spaniard at that.”

“The war is over, Sir Gilbert, or will be when this treaty is signed.”

“My answer to any charge will be that I was retrieving what is rightfully the property of the Bishops of Winchester from theft by a foreigner. I shall say that he tried to make away with this treasure and Master Burton and I prevented him and reclaimed it for its true owner.”

Master Drew paused and nodded thoughtfully.

“It is, perhaps, a good defence. But there is one aspect that may not sit well with such a plea; that is, the Chevalier Stefano Jardiniero y Barbastro was a member of the delegation currently negotiating the treaty. True, he was but a secretary within the delegation, and there are arguments to be made on both sides as to whether the treasure to which he had been directed was his family’s property or whether subsequent Bishops of Winchester had a right to it. And, of course, we will have to ascertain whether Master Burton has gone directly with the chest to the Bishop of Winchester or whether he may have cause to rest with it awhile in your own manor at Winchester Town.

“And, even when these arguments are all set in place, it will come down to a simple matter of policy. How badly do the Lord Chancellor and His Majesty desire this treaty ending the twenty years of war with Spain? The Spanish ambassadors may seek to be compensated for the murder of one of their number before agreement can be reached.”

It was at the end of August of that year of 1604 that the treaty of peace and perpetual alliance between England and Spain was finally signed in Somerset House. Two weeks before the agreement, a certain Master Burton was taken from Newgate in a tumbrel to Tyburn Tree and hanged. A year later a prisoner in the Clink caught typhoid, in spite of the payments he had been able to give the jailer to secure good quarters for himself during his incarceration. He was dead within three days. It was common gossip in the prison that he had once been a man of some status and influence and had even dwelt in the grand palace of the Bishop of Winchester, adjacent to the prison.