The tavern stood in its grounds behind a grey ragstone wall entered by an ornamental wooden gatehouse with a chamber above boasting mullioned glass; this gave the hostelry the impression of being a wealthy manor house. The old porter waved us into a slightly sloping, broad cobbled bailey. Stables stretched along three sides; on the fourth, facing us, was the magnificent tavern. In honey-coloured Cotswold stone, it rose three storeys high with a black-and-white-painted wooden gallery around the top one. The roof was of gleaming red tile, whilst the front of the building boasted windows of coloured glass above wide steps sweeping up to a grandiose front door. On either side of this hung broad painted signs showing the great King Solomon seated at table pondering some mystery. You can still go there today. The tavern is not as magnificent as it used to be, but any who have survived my tale will tell you about the great mystery from the spring of 1308. Inside, the taproom was as spacious as a lord’s hall, with its raftered ceiling. Yawning hearths were built into the side walls, each with a flue and stack. The floor was of polished dark planks coated with crushed herbs; none of the foul, soggy rushes of dirty alehouses. Tables stood in the window embrasures overlooking the herb and flower gardens, whilst the great common table stretched at least five yards across the centre of the room. A welcoming place. The whitewashed walls were covered with crude yet vivid paintings on stretched linen over wooden backing, all depicting scenes from the life of Solomon. Other notices proclaimed the price of food:
A man came out of the kitchen, from which white steam curled, wafting the most delicious smells. He wiped his hands on his leather apron and waved us to a window seat, offering ‘hot sheep’s feet, enriched with pepper and saffron sauce’ as the delicacy of the day.
‘Edmund Lascelles?’ I demanded.
The man babbled the rest of the day’s menu, scratched his balding head and pointed to a narrow staircase in the far corner.
‘Second gallery, fourth chamber, under the sign of the ram. He is probably still asleep. The maid couldn’t wake him.’
We thanked the taverner and went up the staircase on to the dark gallery. Five chambers stood there; above each of the oaken doors was a carved astrological sign. We stopped beneath that of the ram and knocked hard, pushing down on the handle. No answer, no sound, nothing but the creak of wood and the faint noises of the tavern. Mystery has its own perfume or smell; perhaps it’s the passing of the years: that juddering of the belly, the slight quickening of the heart. Pax-Bread wouldn’t answer. Why? Demontaigu, who’d acted almost like a dream-walker since we’d left Westminster, now stirred himself, hammering at the door and rattling the handle. I felt the wood; the door hung solid. I crouched down and ran my hand along the gap between wood and floor; the door was at least three inches thick. We returned to the taproom. Mine Host was not alarmed by my news, more eager to return to his smoke-filled kitchen. I produced Isabella’s seal. The tavern master smiled as if he was a mainour: a thief caught red-handed. He stood staring around at his few customers: a lick-penny trader with his tray of cheap laces, caps, pin cases, rosaries and chains; a limner man and his white-muzzled grey-hound; two carters and an old woman with her pet duck. I remember them all quite vividly. I was still most vigilant for Close Eyes from the barge.
‘There won’t be many customers yet,’ mine host muttered.
‘Do you have another key?’ Demontaigu asked.
‘Yes, yes.’ Mine Host hurried away. He went into the kitchen, came out and, ignoring us, went straight up the stairs by himself. We heard a crashing, faint oaths, then he returned.
‘I cannot!’ He shook his head. ‘Master Lascelles must have drawn across the bolts, but come. .’
He led us through the kitchen, past tables swimming in blood, chopped vegetables, pieces of gristle and meat, and out into the broad gardens. Few flowers yet blossomed there. The air was rich from the compost that coated the soil. The garden could be entered by a wicket gate at either side. Mine Host hurried to one of these, put his fingers to his lips and whistled. He was joined by three of his ostlers. A brief conversation ensued, then one of them crossed the garden and returned with a long siege ladder, a pole with rungs on either side. This was laid securely against the brickwork under the fourth window and one of the ostlers, encouraged by my promise of a reward, climbed gingerly up. He pulled at the shutter; it wouldn’t open, so he shouted down for further guidance. Mine Host breathed in deeply and closed his eyes.
‘May Michael and all his angels help us,’ he whispered. ‘You see, mistress, the door is locked and bolted — it would take a battering ram to clear it of its hinges. Sometimes this does happen. We have had travellers, particularly pilgrims, die on us and we have to gain entry from outside. The shutters cover a window that is broad, beyond it a leather curtain to keep out draughts.’ He shouted at the ostler to come down. He did so, nimble as a squirrel. Mine Host returned to the kitchens and brought back a long, thin cutting knife. He gave careful instructions to the ostler, who went back up the ladder, wedged the knife between the shutters, prised open the bar beyond and, with a yell of triumph, pulled back the wooden slats and climbed in.
A short while later he leaned his head out.
‘Nothing!’ he yelled. ‘Nothing at all, come and see.’
We hurried back inside and up the staircase. By the time we reached the chamber, the door was flung open. We went in. The chamber looked unoccupied; the key still hung in the inside lock. I glanced around. A large room, neatly furnished, with a bed, chests, coffers, an aumbry, table and stool. I walked across to the lavarium. The water looked clean, the napkin unruffled. I sat on the bed and studied every inch of that room: the polished wooden floor with its thin turkey rugs of dark blue, the clothes pegs on the wall either side of the door. Mine Host was equally bemused. He sat down on the stool and stared around.
‘It is as if he was never here,’ he whispered. ‘And yet. .’
‘And yet what?’ I asked.
‘Master Lascelles arrived late yesterday afternoon. He stabled his horse in a yard not far from here. He left his saddle there but brought his saddlebags, belt and cloak. He seemed personable enough. He paid half a mark, hired this chamber and went upstairs. A little later he came down, sat at the common table, broke his hunger on bread, cheese and ham with a pot of ale, then returned to his room.’ He lifted a hand, walked to the door and shouted a name.
I heard a pattering on the gallery outside. A tousle-haired boy clad in smoke-stained rags, his coal-spotted face shining with oil, came hurtling into the chamber. He stopped abruptly and gazed around.
‘This is Spit Boy,’ Mine Host announced, ‘also our messenger.’ He winked at me. ‘Spit Boy knows every corner and runnel in the ward, aye and beyond!’ He chattered at the boy in the patois of the slums. Spit Boy, arms rigid either side of him, replied in a sing-song voice.
Demontaigu, who had been studying the door, moved silently across to inspect the window embrasure deep in the wall and the shutters now flung wide open. He hoisted himself up and looked out. Mine Host gestured at Spit Boy to remain quiet and turned back to me.