and trying to persuade her oafish swain to hazard a few coins at dice. At last I got bored and sat back, sipping from a black jack of ale and remembering what we had learnt from Selkirk's confession.
[Oh, I wish my chaplain would stop interrupting. I'll tell him what it said in due course!]
I could scarcely believe it and wondered what had become of the knight Selkirk mentioned, Sir John Harrington. I also relished my own subtle trickery and hoped its victim would fall meekly into the prepared trap. Suddenly I recalled my mother and one of her favourite sayings, a quotation from the Psalms: 'He fell into a snare which he had prepared for others.' I took another gulp from the black jack of ale and hoped this would not happen to me. Once again I scrutinised what I'd planned. No, the plot was primed. All we had to do was keep our nerve.
After a while Benjamin returned. His face looked white and drawn but his eyes were feverish with excitement.
'Where have you been?' I snapped.
He stared innocently back.
'To see the Queen, of course.'
I groaned. 'What for, Master? We agreed to leave that fat bitch well alone.'
Benjamin grimaced. 'I had to, Roger,' he muttered. 'You have been thinking of Selkirk's confession?'
I nodded.
'Well, all I did was ask her about Sir John Harrington, a Scottish knight who fought with her husband.' He grinned. 'Let's be on our way!
'I also told Doctor Agrippa about our meeting place,' he muttered as we slipped down a darkened alleyway.
'Was that wise?' I asked.
'We shall see,' he replied. 'As you said, Roger, Agrippa may be the murderer so he must know where the last act of the play is to take place.'
'And the rest?'
Benjamin stopped. 'They will find out, Roger, so we must make sure we are ready.'
We lodged in a small tavern just off Poor Jewry and slept late the following morning. Benjamin went about his business and I seized the opportunity to go about mine. I went to a scrivener in Mincing Lane off Eastcheap, who, for a price, wrote out my message in a good clerkly hand. I also drew three gold pieces from a merchant in Lombard Street and he agreed to send my small package, sealed in a leather wallet, to the Tower. Next I bought an hour candle, a great thick wax article divided neatly into twelve divisions, and went back to our lodgings to clean the swords and daggers and ensure that the arbalest was in good working order. Just before dusk we slipped out of our chamber, made our way up Aldgate Street, across the stinking City ditch into Portsoken, and then turned south across the wasteland towards the ruins of St Theodore's Church.
In day time this had been sombre; in the cold darkness it was positively eerie. Dark-feathered birds rustled at the top of broken pillars, an owl hooted from the surrounding trees, and the silence was broken now and again by the long mournful howl of a dog from a nearby farm.
[A wise hag once told me to be wary of ruined churches. They draw in those restless spirits who have not yet gone to heaven or hell but spend their time in Purgatory on the wastelands of the earth.
Of course, my little chaplain chuckles and titters. As I have said, he doesn't believe in ghosts. He should go to the ruined priories and monasteries, now shells of their former glory, thanks to Bluff Hal – he'll find ghosts enough there. Or walk along the moon-swept galleries of Hampton Court and hear the ghost of Catherine Howard scream as she did in life when Henry's guards came to arrest her.]
Anyway, in that ruined church, Benjamin and I set the scene for the final act. We crept down to the crypt. I fastened the hour candle on top of one of the tombs, struck a tinder, and the thick, white wick flared into life. Benjamin then emptied charcoal at the foot of a tomb and, taking a flame, blew the coals into life. We looked around, pronounced ourselves satisfied and left the crypt, making sure the door remained ajar. From the top of the steps, we could see the light from the candle and the charcoal glow invitingly through the darkness.
We hid ourselves deep in the shadows, growing accustomed to the eerie, mournful sounds of the night. The clouds broke and a full moon bathed the ruins of the church in a ghostly light. At one time I tensed, whispering that I had heard a noise. I crouched, ears straining, but heard nothing else. More time passed and, just as I was about to fall into a deep warm sleep, I heard a sound under the ruined archway. I nudged Benjamin awake and turned to watch a dark, cowled figure scurry like a spider up the nave and scuffle down the steps. Benjamin made to rise but I held him back.
'What time do you think it is?' I asked.
'About eight or nine o'clock!' he hissed. 'Why, what does it matter? Roger, what have you done?'
'Stay awhile,' I murmured.
We heard a movement from the person in the crypt as if he was about to remount the steps. Another shape, catlike, crept up the nave. Benjamin craned forward.
'As I thought!' he hissed. 'But who's down there already?'
I just looked away and smiled. The second figure slipped down the stairs. We heard the crypt door open and an angry shout followed by a terrible abrupt scream.
'Come on!' Benjamin ordered and, taking the loaded crossbows, we ran to the stairs.
Inside the crypt lay a figure, tossed like a bundle of rags in the corner. A pool of blood was forming around the body from the great wound caused by the dagger embedded deep in the chest. The dead face was turned away from us. As we entered the other man whirled round, the hood slipping off his head.
'Melford!' Benjamin exclaimed.
The mercenary's face was alive with excitement, like all killers' just after they have tasted blood.
'Master Benjamin and young Shallot!' he murmured. 'How good of you to come.' His hand crept towards the crossbow on top of the tomb next to the candle. He nodded to the corpse. 'Was he one of you?' he asked.
'Who?'
Melford went over and, grasping the corpse by the hair, half-dragged the body up to reveal the haggard, horror-stricken face of Scawsby.
'Secretly,' Melford said, letting the body fall with a crash, 'he must have been one of you. He came from the same town, didn't he?'
Benjamin glanced sideways at me but I watched Melford as he sauntered back to the tomb, getting as close as possible to the arbalest resting there. He smiled wolfishly.
'Or perhaps he wasn't. Perhaps I came down here and found you red-handed, guilty of his murder. Now, what would the Lord Cardinal say to that?'
'Melford!' I shouted.
The mercenary turned. Even as he grasped the crossbow, I brought up my own, releasing the catch. The bolt took the mercenary full in the chest just under the neck. He tottered towards me, his hands going up as if to beseech some favour.
'Why?' he muttered even as the blood swilled into his mouth and bubbled at his lips.
'You're a killer,' I replied. 'And you talk too much!'
Melford's eyes opened, he coughed and the blood gushed out of both mouth and nose. He pitched forward on to the crypt floor.
Benjamin went across and examined both corpses.
'Dead!' he announced quietly. He looked up. 'And you are responsible, Roger.'
I placed another bolt in the crossbow.
'Melford was an assassin's tool. He was as guilty, perhaps even more so, than any man hanged at Tyburn.'
'Did you want Scawsby's death so badly?'
'Yes,' I answered. 'But not as badly as God did or my mother's ghost. Scawsby was a murderer. He killed my parents and nearly had me hanged. As long as he was alive I would never be safe. Nor,' I added, 'would you or
