Now, the more I thought of Malevel the more convinced I became that, if Castor could have talked, we would have now known why the cellar was so important. Benjamin kept well away from me all day, being more busy in the taproom. Late that evening he shook me awake from my slumbers.
'Get up, Roger! Up now! Arm yourself!'
His face was grim. I noticed he had his leather wrist guards on and his war-belt strapped around his waist, sword and dagger hung in the Italian style. He had his guarded look, the same expression that had threatened violent retribution if I approached the marvellous Miranda.
'Where are we going?' I asked, pulling my boots on.
'We are going for supper,' Benjamin replied.
I glanced at the hour candle burning in its glass on a shelf.
'Boscombe will not be pleased, the ovens will be out
...'
'I don't give a fig what Boscombe thinks!' Benjamin retorted. 'It will happen on the turn of a card.' He smiled wryly. 'Or, in this case, a knock on the door.'
We went down to the taproom. Boscombe grumbled but brought across two tankards of ale and a platter of cold meat, onions and apples neatly sliced. The pot boys and scullions had long left. The taproom was empty. Boscombe busied himself about, humming under his breath. A watchman stopped in the lane outside.
'It's eleven o'clock and all is well! Pray for your souls that they stay out of Hell!'
Benjamin stopped, a piece of food halfway to his mouth.
There was a loud rapping on the door.
'Answer that, Shallot,' Boscombe called.
'Master Boscombe, we are eating,' Benjamin replied.
Cursing and muttering under his breath, the taverner went to the door and pulled it open. I heard someone say something and Boscombe's exclamation.
'What? Impossible! I . . . !' His voice took on a nervous stammer. 'I don't know what you're talking about!'
I pricked up my ears because I am sure I caught mention of the names Berkeley and Notley. The change in Benjamin was startling. He stood up and drew his sword. I watched, open-mouthed, as Boscombe closed the door: drawing the bolts across, he turned slowly. He saw my master's drawn sword and smiled.
'Oh, Master Benjamin, what's the matter?'
'You know full well,' my master replied. 'The constable just knocked on the door and told you a strange story: how he met two men outside the church of Crutched Friars who gave their names as Berkeley and Notley, and said they had an appointment with you to discuss certain matters.'
Boscombe took a step forward, his genial smile faded, his eyes watchful. I noticed he was standing differently now, on the balls of his feet, like a man ready to run or leap.
'And I heard your reply,' my master said softly. 'You used the word "impossible". You were caught on the hop, were you not, Master Boscombe? Why is it impossible to meet two men who, in theory, you shouldn't know at all? Both men are dead. Notley's corpse hasn't even been discovered. Roger knows because he has seen his severed head. You know because you killed him. You are Jakob von Archetel, nicknamed the Schlachter.' Boscombe drew a bit closer.
'Earlier this evening,' my master continued, 'I took the constable into my confidence. I asked him to deliver that message tonight, just after the watchman had proclaimed the eleventh hour.'
'My name is Andrew Boscombe,' the taverner replied. 'I hail from the West Country.'
'The real Andrew Boscombe probably did,' Benjamin replied. 'But you are no more English than poor old Castor. I've listened to your tongue quite carefully. Now and again I can catch the rolling "R", the guttural "G". You are a Hainaulter - probably from around the town of Dordrecht. Once you were not only a subject of the Emperor Charles V but a high-ranking official, engaged in his secret business as a Noctale. About fifteen years ago you fled to England. You are a consummate actor, a born mimic. You probably did live in the West country for a while but, later, used your wealth to travel to London and buy this tavern. To all intents and purposes, Andrew Boscombe, the honest, jovial taverner, the man who loves a jest, play-acting and mummery. But, when the candles are extinguished, when the darkness comes, you are the Slaughterer, London's most skilful and subtle assassin. You are responsible for the deaths of many: Notley, Berkeley, those two poor cooks Oswald and Imelda. Above all, sir, you are responsible for those deaths at Malevel though how you did it and who you worked with is still a mystery.'
Boscombe moved to a stool.
'Master Daunbey, you have me wrong. This is preposterous. I am what I claim to be. A taverner, your servant's close friend. Tell him, Roger.'
I stared at him narrow-eyed. Benjamin's allegations seemed fantastic yet I recalled my master's close interrogation of what had happened since I
had arrived in London: Boscombe’
s initial refusal to lodge me and then his abrupt change of mind. The way Lord Charon had seized and interrogated me. Boscombe's ability to disguise himself and then
...
(Ah, excuse me,
my
little clerk is murmuring about coincidences. So what? Ask yourself, is anything in life planned? It may have started with coincidence, oh yes, but once I was in Boscombe's power, he had worked to keep me there.)
My suspicions deepened as I remembered how Boscombe had claimed to have made a trip to the West Country whilst we had been at Malevel. My change of mood must have been obvious.
Boscombe's lips curled. 'We have all night,' he said soothingly, 'to discuss these matters!'
Benjamin, his sword in hand, stepped back and sat down on the stool. 'I could have had you arrested,' he replied. 'Taken to the Tower for interrogation. However, men like you don't break, do they, Boscombe? Something untoward would happen: you might even escape, and there again, my evidence is not as strong as I would like.'
Boscombe pulled the stool closer, his eyes sliding to his war-belt hanging on a hook in the wall. I drew my own poignard.
'Let's hear your story.' Boscombe waggled a finger. 'And, if it's good, I'll put my hands behind my back and you can cart me off to Newgate.'
'You are an assassin,' Benjamin declared. 'A Hainaulter. My servant, Roger, came here to sell relics. Now, not all of life is planned and plotted; sometimes Fickle Fortune spins her wheel and kingdoms are won and lost on a single blow. If Prince Arthur hadn't caught a cold in the marshes of Wales, he would now be king and Henry would simply be a royal prince
...'
'Or who would think,' Boscombe sneered, 'that a butcher's son would become Cardinal and First Minister of the Realm?'
'Ah, you catch my drift,' Benjamin replied, ignoring the taunt at Dearest Uncle. 'At first you saw Roger as a trickster, but when you discovered that Shallot worked for me and I for the Cardinal you gave him a comfortable berth here. You were intrigued. You couldn't accept he was working by himself, and thought there was some secret, subtle trickery. Nevertheless, he was dangerous to have about. You had ties with the Lord Charon, not close, but a sharing of information, so when you were laying your plans to seize the Orb, you asked Lord Charon a favour. Roger was seized, frightened and beaten and this provided you with a golden opportunity. You knew Sir Hubert Berkeley was involved in arranging for the Orb of Charlemagne to be handed over to the Imperial envoys. Accordingly, Roger, down on his luck, was provided with new clothes and sent along to St Paul's; at the same time you let it be known to Sir Hubert that my manservant was looking for employment in London. Berkeley was working on a secret assignment for the King, and was persuaded Roger would be the best person to offer him protection. How did you arrange it, Boscombe? Send Berkeley a message, saying it came from me?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Remember, Roger, Berkeley seemed to know you'd be in St Paul's.'
I nodded, my eyes never leaving Boscombe. The taverner just stared at Benjamin. Never once did he look at me: his cold, calculating gaze was for Benjamin and Benjamin alone. The hair on the nape of my neck curled, this man was intent on our murder. I could only sit and blink as I recalled Berkeley's words on hiring me. I also realised how Lord Charon had found me so quickly.
'Roger's imprisonment was an unforeseen occurrence,'
Benjamin continued. 'However, he was released from Newgate and came back here. How could you leave such a tender friend in his adversity? You offered us both chambers, even taking in poor Castor; anything to keep us under close scrutiny.' Benjamin paused, tapping the tip of his sword on the paving stones. 'And then we come to the business at Malevel! God knows how it was done. Boscombe the taverner supposedly left for the West Country; but in reality you adopted your secret profession: the Schlachter, the Slaughterer! Somehow or other -' Benjamin jabbed a finger at him '- you were responsible for the deaths of those men. You stole the Orb and left.'
'Oh come, Master Benjamin,' Boscombe scoffed. 'And how did I do that? Just walk up to the manor, knock on the front door and fifteen burly men offered their throats to be cut?'
'Who told you there were fifteen?' Benjamin asked.
Boscombe's sneer faded.
'As for how you did it. . . Well, Master Boscombe, when I came here two things struck me as odd. First, here's a taverner who is also a master of disguise. You revel in it. Secondly, I had seen you before: something about your features struck a chord in my memory. On the day that the massacre was discovered, when Kempe and others were milling about Malevel Manor, I am sure I glimpsed your face. To be sure, it was hidden by some disguise, but there was something familiar.'
'Mistaken identity!' Boscombe sneered.
'Perhaps,' Benjamin replied. 'However, we now come to another matter: Berkeley's murder. You lured the goldsmith out into that lonely copse north of the Tower. The Orb you had stolen from Malevel was a forgery: Henley the professional relic-seller had told you so when he met you in that tavern. He must have been surprised to see the Orb of Charlemagne given to him for scrutiny but his surprise turned to laughter when he realised it was a fake.'
'Henley?' Boscombe retorted. 'I don't know any Henley!'
'Oh, you not only knew him but killed him,' Benjamin retorted. 'And then, full of fury, you and your accomplice - and you do have an accomplice, don't you? - lured the hapless goldsmith to that lonely glade where you tortured him. Asking the same question, time and time again: where was the real Orb?'
'Very interesting.' Boscombe got up and moved towards the wine vats. 'Thirsty work, Master Daunbey, do you wish some wine? My good friend, Roger?'
We both refused. Benjamin now stood up, his sword out, but Boscombe coolly filled his goblet and returned to his stool. I noticed he moved it a few inches nearer the wall. He toasted us both silently but there was something in his eyes that convinced me my master was right. Boscombe was the Slaughterer and he was only biding his time.
'You eavesdropped,' Benjamin continued, 'on our conversations. When Roger expressed a desire to meet the Lord Charon you happily obliged. Now, the Lord of London's underworld should have been pleased that Roger was ready to offer him the Orb of Charlemagne but he wasn't. Why? Because he already had it. Roger was, therefore, an unnecessary nuisance and had to be despatched. He would have been, if it hadn't been for that dog. The rest you know: except that Cerberus, Charon's lieutenant, on the brink of death, gave Roger information on how to contact the Slaughterer.' Benjamin paused, watching Boscombe sip his drink. 'Only then did you become afraid. Perhaps the net was closing in? Notley was stupid, a possible threat, so you killed him and used his corpse to frighten Roger before you attacked him in the Church of the Crutched Friars. However, being disturbed, you fled and, once out into the darkened lane, became again Boscombe the genial taverner, the purveyor of wine and pies.'
"The pies!' I exclaimed. 'Of course, master, the pies!' I half rose from my stool. 'You bought pies from Imelda and Oswald -
I have eaten them here myself - that's how you could get into their shop so easily.'
'I noticed the same,' Benjamin declared. 'And after Oswald and Imelda were killed, I realised someone had entered their house who knew them well. Friendly, genial Boscombe coming round to place another order. However, once you were in the house you became the Slaughterer: a dagger thrust here and another there, and an entire family was wiped out. Then you stole their accounts. Why, Boscombe? Was there something which had to be left hidden? Or, in their conversation with you, had they let drop that they'd seen something wrong at Malevel Manor? I don't know how you killed those soldiers but, for some reason, you spent a great deal of time cleaning that kitchen, scrubbing down the traunchers, washing out the blackjacks. Why, Boscombe?' Benjamin advanced towards him. 'More importantly, who did you work for? Who hired you? How did you get in and out of Malevel so easily?'
Boscombe shook his head and stared into his wine cup.
'Master Daunbey, this is a merry tale for a dark evening. Yet, it's nothing more than old wives muttering round the fire and gossiping. Go through this tavern, search my private chamber, you'll find nothing untoward.'
'Oh, I agree.' Benjamin declared. 'Much suspected, nothing proved. Indeed, it all rests on coincidence: if Roger had not met the relic-seller and then come here; if we had not hired chambers at the Flickering Lamp after our return from Malevel.' He smiled thinly. 'But God is good. Perhaps he grew tired of your bloody-handed ways and Roger is his vengeance.'