Waelstow: the place of slaughter
Three hours later, long after the bells had tolled, Miles Fleschner, Clerk of St Botulph’s in Cripplegate, nervously approached the corpse door of his parish church. Although a former coroner, he was a timid man, fearful of the horrors perpetrated in this supposedly hallowed place. St Botulph’s accurately reflected the words of Scripture: ‘The Abomination of the Desolation had been set up in the holy place.’ The building had been desecrated by sacrilege and blasphemy, and now the Blessed Sacrament had been removed, the sanctuary lamp extinguished, the sacred vessels sealed away. No prayers could be said, no candles lit before the Virgin, no chants raised, no Mass offered until the Bishop of London purged, sanctified and reconsecrated the building as ‘a Holy Place, the House of God and the Gate of Heaven’. Miles recalled memories of twenty years ago when Boniface Ippegrave had sheltered here in sanctuary before disappearing. That had been in the parish clerk’s green and salad days, when he was an ambitious coroner still in the fresh spring of manhood. Now the memories drifted back like ghosts through Fleschner’s tired mind. He recalled Evesham, bullying and arrogant, but no, he couldn’t remember that, not here! Miles Fleschner sometimes wished he had nothing to do with this church. Was St Botulph’s cursed? One parson had lost his wits and fled to an abbey. Would Parson John, all tremulous and fearful, follow suit? The parson had asked Fleschner to join him in the sacristy three hours after the sext bell. There was still work to be done: pyxes, Little Marys, chalices, monstrances and cruets to be sealed in the heavy satin-lined parish fosser; candle wax, clothes, vestments, incense, charcoal and other items to be inventoried. St Botulph’s was under interdict — sealed until reconsecrated. No longer was it the home of the Seraphim, the Lords of Light, but the prowling place of demons and earthbound souls, all those poor unfortunates barbarously slain then laid out like chunks of bloodied meat along the nave.
Miles Fleschner paused under the outstretched branches of a yew tree and stared fearfully up through its ancient branches. The day was dying; soon it would be the hour of the bat, the screech-owl. He startled as he heard a sound from the church and cautiously approached the battered but rehung corpse door. Parson John had said he would leave it ajar, off the latch. Fleschner stepped around the remains of the fierce battle, pushed open the door and went into the clammy, cold darkness. Only the poor light trickling through the lancet windows pierced the gloom. The nave was a place of shifting shadows. He heard a sound and turned. A figure darted out of the door leading from the sacristy into the sanctuary.
‘Who. .?’ Fleschner chilled with terror.
The figure disappeared back into the sacristy. Like a dream-walker Fleschner moved slowly forward. The sound of a door slamming shut made him start, and a sweaty fear gripped him. He wanted to turn and run. He fumbled at the dagger beneath his cloak and drew the blade. He was so nervous he could scarely put one foot in front of the other. He listened and peered around; the light was swiftly fading, the shadows lengthening from the corners where they lurked.
‘Who is there?’ he called out. He looked back down the church, where a slant of light lit up the great carved bowl of the baptismal font. ‘Who is there?’ he repeated. A groan like that of some petrified, disembodied soul echoed down the nave. Fleschner, legs shaking, sweat bathing his face, slowly climbed the sanctuary steps and glanced around, throat dry. This was his church, yet the carved, contorted face of demons, gargoyles and babewyns seemed to glare fiercely down at him. He pushed open the door to the sacristy, a dark room containing chests, stools, aumbries and the great vesting table. The air reeked strangely of wax and some other foul odour, as if a mound of refuse had been disturbed. Again the groan. He whirled around. Parson John was staring up at him in terror. Fleschner crouched down.
‘Father!’ He glanced in horror at the red cut on the priest’s forehead.
‘Release me, my feet,’ gasped Parson John, pushing himself forward.
Fleschner immediately cut the bonds about the priest’s ankles, then sawed at the cords around his wrists.
‘I came in here, I wanted to pray for my father, I heard of his death.’ Parson John kicked his ankles free of the tangled ropes. ‘I was here in the sacristy when I was pushed. .’
‘Father?’
‘I was pushed.’ Parson John pointed to the bruises on his head and face. ‘I was bound and gagged. All I saw and heard was a shadowy figure breathing noisily.’
‘How did he get in?’
Parson John grasped Fleschner’s shoulder. ‘Miles, for the love of God, that doesn’t matter. He carried a sack, which he took into the church. Then he came back. He drew his dagger and started to carve something on my forehead, then he must have heard you. He went out, came back then fled into the cemetery. I managed to break free of the gang. I must see. .’ The priest, all confused, lurched to his feet and, followed by the still trembling parish clerk, went into the sanctuary and down the nave.
Fleschner swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had, as he later told his wife, a presentiment of evil. Some great malignancy was lurking in the gathering murk. Both men walked slowly, fearfully, their footsteps echoing ominously. Fleschner wished he’d brought a lamp or candle. When they reached the far end of the church, Parson John went towards the still battered main door, while Fleschner rested against the great bowl of the baptismal font. A strange smell pricked his nostrils. Had the font been polluted? He glanced down, then gagged in horror as he saw the two severed heads, eyes half closed, nestling at the bottom of the huge bowl.
Corbett sat in the murder chamber at the Angel’s Salutation; that was what he called the room. He leaned back on the stool, eyes half closed. Across the floor, beneath the window, sprawled the corpses of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. The Friar of the Sack, the same who’d shriven the felons executed at St Botulph’s, was busy reciting the words of absolution. What did happen, Corbett wondered, to souls after death? Did the life essence of these two criminals still hover here in this chilly, dusty chamber? Did they plead for mercy? Did they wait for others to come and lead them? To what? The Friar of the Sack rose to his feet and crossed himself.
‘It’s done, Sir Hugh, their souls have gone to God and I must sate my appetite.’
Corbett smiled and handed over a silver piece. The friar bit the coin, grinned, sketched a blessing and went to join the rest gathered in the taproom downstairs, where the delicious details of these heinous slaying were being greedily picked at and sifted. An old beggar woman had offered to sing the song of mourning and was now doing so, the lugubrious noise echoing up the stairs. In between verses her companion, a cunning man, loudly declared that the beating heart of a mole would be sure protection against malignant chattering ghosts and offered, for a certain price, to get one for Minehost. The two whores, Robinbreast and Catchseed, were slurping their tankards of ale, smiling gratefully through their tears for the coins and free drinks offered by those who wanted to relish the gory details. Both whores wailed how the spirits of the two dead men hung close, ghosts in wolfskins. They could, they were sure, remember the details of the slaughterer, ‘dark in all things’, who’d slid silent as a viper into that dreadful chamber.
Corbett had questioned both the prostitutes and the others, but had learnt little except how the killer had declared himself to be Boniface Ippegrave, that he was of ragged appearance, his face ‘the colour of boxwood, with a look of dark-robed night about him’. In truth the two whores were more frightened of the King’s man, the royal clerk. Dressed in black, Corbett, had swept into the tavern, his heavy cloak folded over one arm, spurs jingling on his riding boots. His battle belt with its scabbarded sword and dagger made him ominous enough, but he also carried the royal warrant and wore the King’s seal ring on his right hand. The whores had been deeply unsettled by the clerk’s steady gaze, his black hair swept back, face all watchful, as Catchseed whispered, ‘A king’s hawk come to brood.’