‘One of those could be the Ignifer?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that.’
Athelstan could see the chaplain wasn’t convinced.
‘Parson Garman, you claim Sir Walter was a cold-blooded murderer?’
‘Brother Athelstan, that’s one thing I did ask Beaumont time and again. He left with six of our company. I swear to God, not one of these have been heard of or seen since that night at the oasis.’
‘None!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The friar moved on the bench, very much aware of the darkness, the deepening cold, the dying light of the tapers and the winter wind tugging at the outside shutters.
‘You are alleging foul play,’ Cranston murmured. ‘That Sir Walter murdered those six men?’
‘Sir John, it was in his nature. Now look. I have been honest.’ Garman shook his head and refused to meet their gaze. ‘Well, as honest as I can be in this business. Lord Coroner, I am a marked man – my sympathies are well known to Gaunt. I work amongst the poor and dispossessed. I am what I am: a simple prison chaplain with a rich, tangled past. I took this post for many reasons. One of them is the prominence it gave me.’
‘Amongst the Upright Men?’
Garman smiled thinly at Cranston’s remark. ‘There’re other reasons.’ He continued slowly, ‘This prison post is a watch tower. I have worked amongst mercenaries. Now, as I have explained, most of those who stayed at the oasis eventually returned home. Like me, they renounced their false names. A few went back to loved ones but many drifted into London to seek shelter in the twilight world of Whitefriars, Southwark and the other halls of darkness. A few even passed through here. Anyway, over the years, I have been visited by former comrades but never, I repeat never, by anyone who left that oasis with Black Beaumont. Those who visit me tell a similar tale. They too have never heard of those six comrades.’
‘You must have put this to Sir Walter?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, I did, and his reply was stark and simple: they’d wandered off and he knew nothing of their whereabouts or their fate. All I can say is that Sir Walter would have done anything to keep “The Book of Fires” to himself.’ Garman rubbed his face between his hands. ‘Gentlemen, more than that I cannot say.’
‘Lady Isolda’s cell,’ Athelstan asked, ‘those markings on the wall – “SFSM” – do you know what they mean?’
‘No.’
‘And her visitors before she died?’
‘Lady Anne Lesures with her mute body servant, Falke, of course, but no others.’
‘And you still believe her to be innocent?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I am biased. Beaumont was a black-hearted sinner, a truly evil man. If he was murdered, then he merited it. Now, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I do have other business.’
‘And her last days here?’ Athelstan also got to his feet.
Garman indicated that they follow him out of the chapel along a hollow, stone-paved corridor. The reek of boiled cabbage, sweat and the privy mixed with the stench of tar being heated in an enclave next to a chamber, its narrow door flung open. Inside thick, evil-smelling tallow candles fluttered. A man sat behind a trestle table heaped with items of clothing, buckles and belts, hose, girdles, hoods, jerkins, dagger sheaths, battered purses and women’s clothing. Next to him sat an old clerk with a dripping nose, long, thinning hair and popping watery eyes; he was itemizing the different pieces which the other man held up, brusquely described and tossed into a huge chest to the right of the table.
‘Master Binny,’ Garman declared, ‘I am sorry to interrupt, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan …’
‘Oh, I know Sir John.’ Eustace Binny, Carnifex, or executioner for Newgate, was a cheery-faced imp of a man dressed soberly in a dun-coloured robe. He seemed pleased to meet Cranston and sprang to his feet to clasp Sir John’s outstretched hand before bowing his sweaty pate for Athelstan’s blessing. He introduced his clerk, Scrimshaw, and brusquely ordered him to bring three stools for his visitors before retaking his seat and gesturing at the items heaped on the table.
‘The worldly goods of all those I have hanged this week,’ he declared, picking up a faded petticoat then tossing it back on to the table.
‘The legitimate profits of the hangman,’ Cranston murmured, ‘including those of Lady Isolda?’
‘Oh, a very nice bracelet, a costly gown, petticoats, shoes, girdle and belt. They all came to me. She went to her death in a long grey hair shirt daubed with a red cross. I also had her brooch and the twine which braided her tresses.’ He sniffed as he crossed himself swiftly. ‘My heart was moved to pity. Scrimshaw here watched her strip; he made sure we had everything before he gave her the hair shirt. He said she had a beautiful body, unmarked, white as the purest snow.’
Athelstan glanced at the scrivener, who smiled vacuously back with a display of yellow, blackening teeth. ‘We missed nothing,’ Scrimshaw muttered.
‘No books?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, no books, we are vigilant about that. Books fetch a good price. Our prisoners,’ Scrimshaw smiled reassuringly, ‘when they know they are going to die, are honest. What they own, we get.’
‘Who rented the solitary cell?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Lawyer Falke. He gave us silver for a clean chamber, nearly fresh bedding and the same victuals as ours. We made it very clear that when the end arrived all her property was ours,’ Binny gabbled on. ‘I tell my wife that all movables and items worn by …’
‘Very good, Eustace,’ Cranston intervened. ‘We are more interested in those last two days before her execution.’
‘She was very frightened,’ Scrimshaw screeched. ‘She quarrelled with Lady Lesures and drove her away. I felt sorry for her. She truly didn’t know what was coming. I told her no mercy was to be shown, though for a few coins I could hire some ruffians to toss bricks and stones at her head when she was lashed to the …’
‘Shut up!’ Binny roared, his face turning puce. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he glanced spitefully at the scrivener, ‘he shouldn’t have said that. When all this,’ he gestured at the chest, ‘is sold to the fripperers I will deduct a fine. Our orders were very clear – no mercy was to be shown and it wasn’t. Everything she ate or drank was tasted. I made sure Scrimshaw,’ he glared at his scrivener, ‘did that. Yet in the end, Lady Isolda frightened herself into a stupor, a daze. I’ve seen the likes before.’
‘She was very quiet,’ Garman spoke up. ‘I was at her execution.’
‘We had to carry her to the execution stake,’ Binny murmured. ‘We bound her fast, the fire started and the crowd thronged about. True, stones were thrown to smash her skull to stun her as you would some cow in a slaughter shed but there was no real need. The flames roared up and she was gone.’
Athelstan hid his chill at the horror described so casually. ‘Afterwards,’ he asked, ‘did anyone come to gather ashes or her bones?’
Binny pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘Oh, yes they did.’ Scrimshaw picked up a cheap bangle off the table. ‘I’ve just remembered – someone did. I was busy around the execution stake collecting chains, any items; you know, it’s very important.’
‘What happened?’ Cranston snapped. ‘Who came?’
‘A man. He was hooded and visored. He carried a cedarwood casket, a little trowel and a pair of tongs. He collected the remains, shards of blackened bone. I asked him who he was.’
‘And? His name?’
‘Reginald Vanner, clerk …’
PART FIVE
‘Take petroleum, black petroleum, liquid pitch and oil of sulphur. Put all these in a pottery jar buried in horse manure for fifteen days.’