The White Rose murders

Chapter 5

We were up early next morning. A heavy mist had fallen, drowning the countryside in its white vapour and making Royston Manor even more sinister. We breakfasted in the dingy Great Hall. Queen Margaret came in, leaning heavily on Catesby's arm. The desultory conversation faded. Catesby looked around.

'Where's Ruthven? I ordered everyone to rise early.' He glanced across at me. 'Shallot, be so courteous as to tell Master Ruthven we await him here.'

Carey heard this as he marched in, his bad temper apparent.

'Yes, go and tell him. Hurry up!' he snapped.

Now I would have stood my ground, I wasn't a dog to be sent running hither and thither, but Benjamin added his plea with his eyes.

'Melford, go with him,' Catesby added.

We went back up the staircase and I hammered on the door. There was no answer though I heard the faint mewing of the cat. We tried the door but it was locked.

'Is anything wrong?' Carey called from the hall below.

'No answer,' Melford shouted back. 'Was Ruthven seen this morning?'

Carey hurried up, then Catesby, followed by Moodie and a worried servant.

'Try the door again,' Carey ordered.

Benjamin joined us. We knocked, shouted and pushed. Catesby instructed us to take a bench leaning against the far wall and, though the space was narrow, we began to pound at the door like besiegers breaking into a castle. The old steward came hurrying up, huffing and puffing, but Carey snarled at him so he slunk away. One final shove and the buckled door flew back on its leather hinges.

I'll describe things as they were: Ruthven was slumped across the desk, his head on his arm, his face a whitish-blue, mouth open, eyes staring but sightless. In the far corner, the cat cowered as if it knew it was in the presence of death. On the table near Ruthven stood an empty pewter goblet. Carey lifted the body carefully.

'Dead,' he muttered. 'Dead as a stone! Place him on the bed.'

We carried him across, arranging the cold, lifeless form, trying to impose some dignity for already rigor mortis had set in. The look on the dead man's face was ghastly, as if some phantom of the night had stopped his heart. I wondered where the soul had gone. Was it still with us? Do the souls of the dead stand behind some invisible mirror, watching us who cannot see them?

'Look!' Moodie suddenly yelled.

He pointed to the bolster at the top of the bed where a small, white rose lay like some gift waiting to be presented. We all stood staring at the flower as if it were responsible for Ruthven's death.

'What's the matter?' Agrippa, accompanied by Scawsby, stood in the doorway. Melford pointed to the corpse on the bed and the flower still lying there. Scawsby hurried over, full of his own importance. The fool failed to realise the significance of the white rose, but instead peered down at Ruthven.

'A seizure!' he announced. 'Quite common in a man of choleric humour.'

Melford snorted, mocking him. Agrippa smiled, going up beside the doctor and picking up the white rose.

'I think not, good physician,' he whispered. 'Master Ruthven was murdered and the assassin left his token.' He twirled the rose between his fingers as he looked around. 'The murderer is here in Royston. The question is, who?'

We just stared back. The last time I had seen a white rose had been in that filthy room in the Tower. My master stared at the flower curiously before bending over Ruthven's corpse. He examined the eyes, tongue and nails of the dead man minutely, taking deep sniffs at the gaping mouth.

'Master Ruthven was poisoned,' he declared. 'But how?' He walked over and picked up the pewter goblet, sniffing at it carefully. 'Nothing,' he murmured, 'but the faint tinge of claret. Who brought this up?'

Agrippa shrugged. 'Ruthven did so himself. I saw him as he left the table last night.'

'I smell no potion,' Benjamin replied. He turned to 'Scawsby. 'Master Physician,' he asked tactfully, 'you would agree?'

Scawsby took the wine cup and held it under his long, arrogant nose.

'Nothing,' he answered.

Agrippa took the cup from him, rubbed his finger around it to collect the dregs and, despite the gasps of Moodie and Carey, licked it noisily.

'Correct, Master Daunbey, no poison.'

'Are you an authority on poisons, Master Daunbey?' Melford asked sharply.

'No,' Benjamin replied tartly. 'But as Physician Scawsby will testify, as Clerk to the Justices I have viewed enough corpses and have some knowledge of…'

His voice trailed away as Doctor Agrippa spread his hands.

'Yet,' Agrippa interrupted briskly, 'Ruthven was poisoned, even though he ate and drank only what we all did yesterday evening. So, did anyone else visit him in his room?'

A chorus of denials greeted his question and, because of my sleepless night, I could confirm these. I had heard no human footfalls in the corridor.

Carey stepped forward. 'So Ruthven locks himself in his chamber, he visits no one and no one visits him, but the next morning he is found poisoned and a white rose discovered lying on the bed.'

'Just like Selkirk,' Agrippa added flatly.

'Are there any secret passages?' Moodie squeaked.

Catesby glanced despairingly at the ceiling; still, the old steward was summoned and questioned. The man was frightened, unable to tear his eyes away from Ruthven's corpse, but he shook his head.

'No tunnels,' he declared roundly. 'No passageways or trap doors, but there are ghosts,' he said defiantly. 'The monk knights still walk the corridors.'

Melford sneered in derision.

'Did Master Ruthven go down to the kitchen or buttery or ask for any victuals to be sent up?' asked Catesby.

The old man shook his head and was dismissed.

'Is there anything else?' my master asked.

'What do you mean?' snapped Carey.

'Something in the room perhaps?'

A brief search was made but nothing untoward was found. Ruthven's ink-stained quill was lying on the floor. My master picked it up, scrutinised it carefully then threw it on the table.

'A mystery,' Agrippa announced. He glared round at all of us. 'But someone here is a murderer who knows how Ruthven died!' He sighed and looked at Carey. 'Enough of this, Queen Margaret must be informed.'

We all trooped downstairs, my master staying behind to scrutinise the room once more then joining me outside, shaking his head.

'Doctor Agrippa is right,' he whispered. 'A true mystery. How can a man, hale and hearty before he retired, be found poisoned the next morning, when no one visited him and he remained locked in his room?' He looked at me sharply. 'You saw him?'

I nodded. 'You heard me,' I replied. 'He opened his chamber door, smiled at me and picked up his cat.'

'So how was he poisoned?'

The question dominated our discussions as we gathered in what used to be the long Chapter Room of the Knights Templar.

Queen Margaret sat at the head of the cracked, dangerously shaky table whilst Catesby ordered benches to be brought in for the rest. The King's sister was white-faced and tight-lipped, obviously finding it difficult to control her anger.

'Someone here,' she snapped, her eyes darting round us, 'murdered Ruthven! Someone here is also a traitor, guilty of the blackest treason. Why does the House of York plague us with their romantic dreams and stupid ambitions? The assassins, in their temerity, even left a white rose to mock us! Doctor Agrippa…' her voice trailed off.

The good doctor beamed around.

'We must account for our movements,' he said. 'Each and every one of us.'

His prompting was summarily answered. No one had approached Ruthven. Both Master Benjamin and myself had heard nothing amiss and Moodie, who had been in the chamber adjoining Ruthven's on the other side, could also confirm this.

'How was Ruthven?' Catesby asked. 'I mean, in the days before his death? Did he say or do anything untoward?' He looked around. 'To whom did he talk?'

'He talked to Moodie,' Melford observed.

'Well?' Agrippa asked.

The mouse-faced chaplain became even more agitated than usual.

'Ruthven kept to himself,' he stammered. 'He was distant, lost in his own thoughts.' 'What did he talk about?'

'About Selkirk's murder. He found the fellow's mutterings strange.' 'Anything else?'

Moodie licked his lips and looked nervously at Queen

Margaret. Then, placing his hands on the table, he looked down, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

'We also talked about the days before Flodden – the doings of the late King and the gossip of the court.'

'What gossip?' Queen Margaret asked smoothly.

'Nothing, My Lady. Just memories… recollections of happier days. I assure you, that was all.'

'The rose?' Benjamin asked abruptly.

'What about it?' Agrippa retorted.

'Well, there are no roses here!'

'There were in Canterbury,' Scawsby pointed out. 'Small, white rosebuds, the type which come late in the year.'

'So,' Benjamin continued, 'the murderer planned Ruthven's death, then…' He let his comment hang like a rope in the air.

'There is no doubt,' Agrippa intervened silkily, 'that Ruthven died by the same hand and in the same way as Selkirk in the Tower.' He took us all in with one sombre glance. 'How Ruthven was murdered, and why, is a mystery.' He looked at Scawsby. 'There was no food or wine in the room?'

The old quack shook his head.

'And you, Shallot, were the last person to see him alive?'

'And I heard no one come up!' I snapped.

Agrippa took a deep breath, placing both hands on the table before him.

'Is it possible, Master Physician, for poison to be administered in slow drops?'

Scawsby grimaced. 'I suppose so, but that would be dangerous. The poisoner would have to infuse the potions many times and, if he was caught…'

'Is it possible,' Catesby grated, 'for a poison to be slow acting?'

Scawsby smiled peevishly. 'I have never heard of such a potion. And, even if one existed, Ruthven would surely have felt the effects before he retired.'

'Master Scawsby is correct,' Benjamin added. 'Ruthven was meant to die in that room, behind a locked and barred door.' He waved a bony finger in the air. 'Remember, the door was locked and bolted from the inside. The assassin is subtle and clever. No one heard him come up but he must have got in for Ruthven to die and the white rose to be found.'

'And you, Master Daunbey, were in the chamber next to him,' Lady Carey retorted. She glanced balefully at me. 'Your servant was the last man to see him alive. Isn't it strange that you, Benjamin, were the last person to see Selkirk alive!'

'I am sure,' Queen Margaret intervened smoothly, 'no suspicion of foul play can fall on the Cardinal's nephew.' She glanced angrily at Lady Carey, then smiled falsely at us.

But, oh, that was a clever move by Carey! The damage had been done because when you fling dirt, some sticks. The rest of the group stared at us like a hanging jury before sentence is passed. Benjamin smiled as if savouring a secret joke.

'Lady Carey is correct in some of what she says but her logic is faulty,' he commented. 'Ruthven died because he knew something. He was probably the only one, besides the murderer, to understand all or some of Selkirk's verses.' He leaned forward. 'The murderer is definitely here. I wonder which of us has Yorkist sympathies. Melford?'

The mercenary stirred like a cat alerted to danger.

'What is it, Daunbey?'

'Didn't your family fight for the White Rose once?'

The mercenary smirked. 'Yes, but that's true of everyone here. Isn't it, Carey?'

The old soldier fidgeted as memories stirred. Accusations grew heated, voices were raised. The sum total of charge and counter charge was that every person in the room, besides myself and Benjamin, had some affinity or link with the House of York and the cause of the White Rose. Queen Margaret sat back in her chair watching disdainfully. Catesby looked furious whilst Doctor Agrippa, eyes closed, arms folded, sat like some benevolent friar after a hearty meal. At last he stirred. Drawing a long, thin stiletto from his belt, he rapped the top of the table.

'Come, come!' he shouted. 'You are like children playing a game. These angry words prove nothing. Ruthven could have been killed by magic' He grinned down at me. 'But we are here on other business.'

'Master Daunbey, we have lost enough time over Ruthven's death.' Catesby interrupted. 'Have your bags packed. You are to leave within the hour. The steward will provide you with a local guide.'

Benjamin tugged at my sleeve. We rose, bowed to the head of the table and left our companions to their baleful conjecturing. Benjamin skipped lightly up the stairs but, instead of going to our own chamber, took me into Ruthven's. The corpse still lay sheeted on the bed. Benjamin scrutinised the room, especially the objects on the desk, picking up the quill, the ink and paper. He sniffed at each, shook his head and put them back.

'What are you looking for, Master?'

'I don't really know,' he replied.

He went across to the bed and pulled back the sheet. He scrutinised Ruthven's corpse, paying particular attention to the hands and closely examining the callous on Ruthven's third finger. Again he sniffed carefully.

'No poison there,' he whispered. He prised open Ruthven's mouth. I stood behind him, trying to conceal my fear and distaste. Surely the dead man's ghost would object to this? Was his soul still earthbound? Would it stay here forever or be freed only when his murderer was brought to justice? Benjamin examined the yellowing teeth. He took a small pin from the sleeve of his doublet and began to scrape between the yellow stumps until he extracted small, grey fragments still wet with mucus.

Benjamin held the pin up to the light, staring at these scrapings.

'What is it, master?' I whispered.

Benjamin shook his head. 'I don't know. It could be food, perhaps some bread.'

'What are you doing, Benjamin?'

Both my master and I turned quickly. Doctor Agrippa and Sir Robert Catesby stood in the doorway. Benjamin beamed.

'Nothing, good doctor. Lady Carey insinuated I might be involved in Ruthven's death. I thought I might find something to show I was not.'

'And have you?' Catesby asked.

Unobserved, Benjamin let the pin drop to the floor.

'No, not at all.'

Catesby waved us forward. 'Then come!'

We went into our own chamber. Catesby, closing the door behind him, told us to sit.

'Forget Ruthven's death,' he began. 'The Scottish envoys will soon land at Yarmouth. They have safe conducts and passes to travel to Nottingham where you will meet them. Queen Margaret's second husband, the Earl of Angus, will be present but the delegation is led by Lord d'Aubigny, one of the Regent's lieutenants. You will treat with him about Queen Margaret's return to Scotland. You will offer nothing, but listen most carefully to what is said. We have arranged for you to be there on the Feast of St Cecilia, the twenty-second of November. However, before that, in two days' time, on the Feast of St Leo the Great, you will meet Irvine, My Lord Cardinal's spy, at Coldstream Priory which lies about thirty miles from here. Irvine's information may well be given in cipher. You will memorise the message and bring it back to me and Doctor Agrippa.'

'Why the secrecy?' I asked. 'Why can't Irvine come here? Why are the Scottish envoys coming by sea? And why Nottingham? Moreover,' I glanced sideways at my master, 'surely the Scottish nobles will want to treat with someone more important than the Cardinal's nephew and,' I added bitterly, 'his manservant.'

Agrippa smirked. 'Shallot!' he murmured. 'Use your head. Irvine cannot come here – there is a traitor and a murderer in the Queen's party. Despite Lady Carey's accusations, you and Benjamin,' he glanced slyly at Catesby, 'are the only ones above suspicion. Moreover, if the Lord Cardinal trusts you implicitly, so will Irvine. As for the Scottish envoys… first, a journey by land is too dangerous; secondly, our good King Henry believes this is a Scottish matter and does not wish to intervene officially; finally, Queen Margaret and her household, on the other hand, do not wish to be seen to have anything to do with the men who drove her from Scotland.' Agrippa leaned closer and I smelt that strange perfume he always wore. 'So, Shallot, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The Scots will talk with Master Benjamin. They know he acts on the personal authority of the Cardinal.'

'And the rest?' Benjamin spoke up. 'You all stay at Royston?'

Catesby grinned sheepishly. 'Unfortunately, yes, though Melford and I will leave for Nottingham within the hour to ensure the castle is ready for the Scottish envoys.' Catesby smiled. 'You have three days to reach Coldstream Priory. As for Ruthven… ' he turned and lifted the latch of our chamber door, 'as Scripture says: "… Leave the dead to bury the dead…" Eh, good doctor?'

And without further ado they slipped out of the chamber.

We took our leave of a sombre-visaged Queen Margaret and within the hour the steward's guide was leading us out of Royston Manor and into the mist-shrouded countryside. Catesby and Melford had already departed, riding hard for Nottingham, leaving Agrippa, the Careys, Moodie and the old quack Scawsby at Royston.

Our guide was a dour-faced, taciturn, little man who had as much chatter and wit as a dumb-struck oaf though he knew the bridle paths and trackways of Leicestershire like the back of his hand. It was a strange journey. The heavy mist rarely lifted but closed in like a cold, clinging cloud around us. We had the eerie impression that we were the only people alive and the clip-clop of our horses' hooves was the last remaining sound under heaven. Naturally, my master and I reflected on what had happened at Royston.

'I'm puzzled, Roger,' Benjamin kept repeating. 'Two most ingenious murders: both Selkirk and Ruthven poisoned in chambers locked from the inside.' He sighed, his breath hanging like a cloud in the icy air. 'Yet no trace of poison, no one enters their chamber… most subtle, most subtle!'

I could only agree and wondered if Agrippa's joke about magic might have some truth in it. I also guiltily recollected Lady Carey's insidious remarks: somehow or Other Benjamin was always close to the murdered person. Was he the assassin? I wondered. Did Benjamin carry secret orders from his uncle that Selkirk and Ruthven were to die for the common good? If so, who would be next? I dismissed the thoughts as too disturbing and concentrated instead on Selkirk's poem. The first and last lines especially puzzled me. Benjamin could give no enlightenment but speculated on what news Irvine might bring.

'Perhaps he will provide privy information which will explain it all,' he observed.

I shook my head. I had the uneasy feeling it would not be so simple. Moreover, since leaving Royston I was becoming concerned that we were being followed. Oh, I had no real evidence but a certain wariness, a feeling of unease. Perhaps it was only the effect of the cold, clinging mist but now and again I would catch a sound as if another rider were covertly following our route. We stopped and sheltered in a farmer's barn for the night and the following morning, misty as ever, did little to assuage my suspicions.

'What's the matter, Roger?' Benjamin asked, peering closely at me, his head deep in its woollen cowl. In front of us, the guide also stopped. I listened to the echoes of our horses' hoofbeats fade away, my ears straining.

'Master, we are being followed!'

'Are you sure, Roger?'

'As certain as I am that Queen Margaret has two tits!' I observed crossly.

Benjamin grinned wryly and listened with me. I thought I heard something but then the oaf of a guide urged his horse back, shouting out questions which would have roused the dead. Benjamin shook his head.

'Nothing, Roger,' he commented. 'Perhaps the ghosts of Royston?'

We continued on our way and reached Coldstream Priory just after dark, only being admitted within the convent walls after a great deal of shouting and argument. We waited in the yard until the lady prioress herself came out, a strange woman and rather young for such high office. She was not clad in the garb of her order but attired in a pale blue dress trimmed with the copper hue of squirrel fur. Her head-dress was old-fashioned, two veils of pleated lawn falling down either side of her heart-shaped face and fastened under the chin by a bejewelled gorget. Her skin was as white as milk, her eyes were green flecked with amber, and rather slanted. She looked slyly at my master, just like Queen Margaret had, though she greeted us civilly enough, ordering servants to take our guide and the baggage off to the guest house while she entertained us with cups of wine, fresh-baked bread and huge bowls of hot spicy broth. The prioress read the Cardinal's letters of introduction and listened to my master's questions about the arrangements for our meeting with Irvine. She just shook her pretty head and looked coyly at us.

'No such man has come here yet. Nor have we any warning of his arrival.'

'But My Lord Cardinal said the man would be here today, the Feast of St Leo the Great,' replied Benjamin.

The prioress pursed her lips.

'No other man has approached our convent walls, nor have travellers or pedlars reported anyone on the roads.' She smiled. 'Perhaps he has been delayed. Perhaps he will arrive tomorrow.'

Tomorrow came and went, 'creeping by' as Master Shakespeare would put it, but no Irvine arrived. We whiled away our time in the convent's comfortable guest house. Our clothes were laundered and, morning, noon and eve, we were invited to partake of fresh-cooked meals and wines even a king would have envied. A strange place, Coldstream Priory: no bells for divine office, just a rather hasty Mass said before noon. The nuns themselves gossiped freely in and out of church. Indeed, as my poet friend would put it, any regulations regarding their life seemed to be honoured more in the breach than in the observance. My master said they had a splendid library, as well they might, but the only work I saw the nuns do was clever and intricate embroidery of curtains, cloths and napkins.

The prioress seemed to regard my master as her chief concern. She solicitously asked if all was well, sending constant messages to enquire if there was anything lacking, or inviting him to walk with her in the sweet-smelling orchard outside the convent church.

My master's main concern was Irvine's non-appearance and when darkness fell on our third day at Coldstream, we both walked out on to the convent wall, peering into the darkness as if willing him to appear. The lady prioress joined us. She pressed close to my master, stroking his hand gently with one of her fingers.

'Master Benjamin,' she said, 'Irvine will arrive tomorrow perhaps. Come – a glass of wine laced with nutmeg?'

My master refused but I cheerfully accepted. The lady prioress glowered at me, shrugged, and with ill grace took me back to her own chamber across the cloister garden where she poured me the smallest goblet of wine I had ever seen. She then busied herself around the room, the implication quite clear: I was to drink up and get out as quickly as I could. I enjoyed making her wait but, just before I left, she called over to me, a false smile on her pretty, hypocritical face.

'Roger, your master – he is a true man?'

'Yes, My Lady,' I replied.

The prioress caught the tip of her tongue between her sharp, white teeth, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

'A true stallion,' I continued. 'A great romancer where the damsels are concerned but…'

'But what?' she asked sharply.

'At times he can be shy and perhaps…'

'Perhaps what?' she snapped impatiently.

I nodded towards the bedchamber which I could glimpse through a half open door. 'My Lady, I think he is as taken with you as you are with him. Perhaps if My Lady were to wait for him tonight, there in the dark, he might recite some love poetry… a sonnet he has composed?'

The prioress smiled, turned away and opened a small coffer. She threw a clinking bag at me.

'If you can arrange this, Shallot, there will be another purse in the morning.'

'Oh, all My Lady has to do,' I replied with a bow, 'is leave a candle here burning in the window.' I pointed to the high sill which ran just beneath the horn-glazed covering. 'My master will take it as a sign, a beacon to lead him the way you wish.'

I scampered out of the door. Master Benjamin was still on the convent wall, peering into the darkness. I ran up to the guest room, stripped naked and washed myself with a wet rag. I rubbed some of the fragrant perfume my master used into my neck and cheeks, borrowed his best cambric shirt, cloak and hood, and slunk back to the courtyard. I waited a while, hidden in the shadows, watching the convent settle for the night. Ah, yes, the lady prioress was also preparing herself. A candle appeared at her window, its flickering flame a beacon of welcome.

I slipped quietly across the courtyard, pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. I quenched the candle flame with my fingers and slid into the bed chamber. Praise be, the lady prioress had no light or candle there. My eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and I glimpsed her dark shape on the bed, her long hair falling down to her shoulders. I slipped into the great four-poster bed, whispered a few French endearments I had learnt from a wench and set to with a will. The prioress may have been a lady but she welcomed my rough embraces with groans and shrieks of pleasure. Her body was succulent, slender and smooth. I confess she was one of the merriest tumbles I have ever had.

[Oh, dear, there goes my chaplain again, tut-tutting and shaking his noddle! The little hypocrite! Does he have to be reminded about his long meetings with apple-cheeked Maude the milkmaid at the back of my stables? She certainly came out more red-faced than she went in! He says I lie; the prioress would know the difference between me and Benjamin. He's wrong. Lust, like love, blinds the eyes, otherwise red-cheeked Maude would never let him within a mile of her! Ah, good, he has stopped shaking his head. So, back to the prioress…]

'Oh, sweet heaven! Oh, sweet heaven!' she cried as I entered her, my weapon as hard as any spear. Oh, what a night! Two, three times, I had my pleasure of her before kissing her roundly on the cheeks, slapping her on the bottom and whispering a fond adieu.

Next morning a heavy mist had blown in, covering the land with a blanket of gloomy silence. It swirled amongst the convent buildings, dulling the spirit – even mine after such a riotous night. I rose early, pleasantly tired. My master was still asleep, as he had been the previous evening when I returned from my love tryst. I dressed quickly and hurried across the courtyard to the refectory. This was reached by outside stairs and some of the nuns, ever hungry, were already filing in. I heard one comment tossed back.

'Such a gargoyle! A veritable troll of a man!'

I wondered who this unbecoming fellow was and hung my head in embarrassment when another replied.

'Yes, his name is Roger. Isn't it strange such a handsome master employs such an ugly servant!'

Of course, nuns have no finesse, no real appreciation of the true beauty which can lie beneath the surface. I took my place in the refectory at a separate table near the dais and watched the lady prioress sweep in. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-rimmed, and this assuaged some of my pain at the nun's silly chatter. Master Benjamin joined me, gaily prophesying that the mist would soon lift and it would be another splendid day. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed how the prioress kept sending him frowning glances at being ignored, interspersed with coy smiles in an attempt to provoke him into some loving conspiracy about the events of the previous night.

Her love sighs were suddenly interrupted by a commotion outside, the screams of women mingling with the deep gruff shouts of some of the convent's labourers and porters. The prioress, lips pursed tight, hurried out and we followed. In the courtyard below, surrounded by nuns and other members of the convent, sat a strange-looking man on horseback. His hair was dyed orange and his white face made ghostly by his dyed russet beard. He wore a cap of rabbit skin and a dirty moleskin jerkin to which small bells had been sewn. The prioress muttered he was a pedlar, but the real source of the commotion was the corpse slumped across the fellow's sumpter pony. As Benjamin and I followed the prioress down, the pedlar shouted in a tongue I could not understand.

'What's he saying?' Benjamin asked.

'He found the corpse,' she replied archly over her shoulder, 'a few hours' journey from the convent.'

Benjamin went across and pulled back the dead man's head. I glimpsed sandy hair, a white-grey face, glazed open eyes and slack jaw. What really drew my attention, however, was the ugly, purple-red gash which ran from ear to ear. The prioress chatted to the pedlar in a strange tongue.

'It may be the man you've been waiting for, Master Benjamin,' she called across. 'John Irvine.'

The prioress instructed the porter to take the body into the nearby infirmary, ordered the crowd to disperse and asked one of the sisters to extend hospitality to the pedlar. Inside the low ceilinged, lime-washed sick room the corpse was laid on a straw-covered bed. He had been a young man, quite personable until someone slashed his throat. Benjamin stared as if the victim had been well known to him. We noticed the man's wallet had been cut away from the belt round his waist.

'Robbers!' the lady prioress murmured. 'The roads are plagued with them. The pedlar found the corpse hidden under some bushes.'

I knelt down and went through the dead man's clothing. Sure enough I found what I was looking for: a concealed pocket inside the quilted jerkin. This contained cunningly inlaid pouches holding a little gold and some silver (which I pocketed to have Masses said for the poor man's soul), and a small roll of parchment. On top of this was scrawled the man's name 'John Irvine' and a list of victuals and wine bought from his own pocket at a tavern called the Sea Barque near the Town Wall in Leicester. I walked back to Master Benjamin.

'It is Irvine,' I said.

'Then God rest his soul!' he answered. 'Roger, we have no need to delay here further. We must hasten back to Royston.'

Behind us, the lady prioress gasped.

'Don't you wish to stay, Master Benjamin?' She came closer, her skirts swaying and rustling. 'You are not happy with our hospitality?' she asked archly.

'My Lady,' he replied, 'the food and wine were excellent.' And, spinning on his heel, he left the woman standing open-mouthed behind him. We summoned our guide, packed our saddle bags and, within the hour, had our horses saddled and ready to leave. The lady prioress, a pure wool cloak wrapped around her, came down to bid us adieu. Benjamin just smiled, raised her white fingers to his lips, kissed them daintily and, like some chivalrous knight, kicked his horse into a canter, almost knocking his would-be-love to the ground. I was less gallant. Ignoring the expression of shock on the woman's face, I stretched out my hand.

'My Lady,' I said, 'you promised me another purse!'

She glared at me, dug beneath her cloak and pushed a purse (much leaner than the one she had given me the night before) into my hand.

'Pimp!' she hissed.

'Oh, sweet heaven! Oh, sweet heaven!' I mimicked in a falsetto voice. The woman's face became pale, her eyes ever widening pools of anger. I laughed and set spurs to my horse and thundered through the convent gates as fast as a deer. I was surprised to see Benjamin keep to a swift gallop, not reining in until a good mile separated us from the convent. Eventually we stopped to walk the horses, the guide going ahead.

'Why the haste, Master?' I asked.

He shook his head and stared up at the sun now breaking through the blanket of mist.

'An evil place, that convent,' he murmured.

My stomach lurched. Did my master know?

'An evil place,' he repeated. He stared at me. 'Irvine was probably murdered there. The lady prioress had a hand in it!'

I gazed back at him, dumbfounded.

'First,' Benjamin continued, 'When we arrived at Coldstream, the prioress said she had not seen Irvine.'

'But the pedlar could have told her.'

'How would he know? His wallet had been taken and it was you who found his concealed pocket. Before you did, the prioress called him: 'John Irvine'. So she seemed to have recognised the corpse and knew his christian name. I didn't tell her that, did you?'

I shook my head. 'But what makes you think he was murdered in the convent?' I asked.

'Ah, that's my second point. When I was on the parapet of the convent wall I saw fresh horse dung lying near the main gate; it was not from our mounts, but the lady prioress said no one had approached the convent.' Benjamin brought his hand up to emphasise his point. 'Did you notice the cloister garden?' he continued. The ground was covered with a fine white sand. There were traces of that on Irvine's boots. Finally, the points on his leggings had been tied up wrongly as if done by someone else in a hurry.' Benjamin squinted at me. 'I suspect poor Irvine was murdered in that convent when he loosed his trews, either to relieve himself or…' His voice faded away.

I felt a spasm of fear and rubbed my own throat, plucking greedily at the skin. Benjamin was probably right. Irvine had been killed, not preparing for a piss but to carry out the same amorous duties I had. I silently vowed I would not be returning to Coldstream.

'We could go back,' Benjamin muttered, as if he read my thoughts. 'But, of course,' he continued, 'that would prove nothing. The lady prioress would deny the charge, and call in the sheriff or some local justice she has in her power. Anyway,' he sighed, peering away into the mist, 'we have very little evidence.'

'And now, Master,' I answered, 'once again we go back with our tails between our legs! Selkirk was killed before he could reveal anything. Ruthven's dead, and now Irvine.' I had a wild thought but dismissed it: Had Benjamin killed Irvine? Had he gone out one dark night and ambushed the fellow?

'What are you thinking, Roger?'

'I am thinking,' I lied, 'about Irvine staying at the Sea Barque in Leicester.' I took out the piece of parchment I had found on the corpse.

'Strange,' Benjamin commented, watching me closely, 'the murderers did not find that.'

I shrugged. 'The poor fellow had to die quickly. They took his wallet and, after that, he was crows' meat. You do realise,' I added, 'that the lady prioress may have connived at Irvine's death but the murderer must be one of our party from Royston? Only they, as well as the Lord Cardinal, knew Irvine was coming here.'

'But who could it be? Catesby and Melford have gone to Nottingham and we can always establish what day they arrived there. I suppose someone could have come from Royston, perhaps leaving after us but passing us in the mist to plan their ambush…'

The guide came over, shouting at us in his strange dialect. Benjamin politely asked him to wait.

'So, Roger, you think we should go to the Sea Barque at Leicester?'

'Yes, Master. We may find something there which could explain Irvine's death and Selkirk's death-bearing verses.'