The Relic Murders by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online

relics? I mean real ones?' 'I have heard of the Orb of Charlemagne,' I replied.
    He narrowed his eyes. 'Aye, and I've heard about the true cross. Who told you about the Orb?'
    'My master,' I retorted, deciding to name drop. 'Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to Cardinal Wolsey.'
    'I couldn't care if he was nephew to the Great Cham!' He raised one hand in mock benediction, a sign of dismissal. I picked up my saddlebags and walked to the door. 'Shallot?’ I turned. Boscombe was smiling.
    'On second thoughts, I'll rent you the chamber. But keep it clean and no fighting!'
    I spent that first day at the Flickering Lamp lying on my back staring up at the rafters, trying to discover what had happened: going back to that chamber where the Great Mouth had lain sweating on her bed. Had she been poisoned before I arrived? I shook my head. No, her two brats would be very careful. They'd have all the servants and cooks ready to take the oath that the only thing to have passed Mistress Poppleton's lips was the cup of watered wine I gave her. The woman had been poisoned, I was sure of that. But how? By her sons? But for what reason? I wished Benjamin was back but, there again, crying over spilt milk is not one of my failings. My busy mind turned like a ferret in a rabbit warren as to how I could sell my relics.
    Now, I had been down on my luck in London before. The last time was when the sweating sickness had raged like some storm around the streets, but now all was quiet. Of course I could have gone to court but the Poppletons would be searching for me there so, the next morning, I took my bag of relics, bought a tray off a journeyman and began to wander the streets selling my wares. Now, you young people, don't misunderstand me. I enjoyed what I did and I loved London. Oh, it was good to be back with the foists and the naps, the prigs and the dummerers, the counterfeit-men, the cranks, the roaring lads and bully boys; the swaggering thieves, the bucks in buckram, the punks in taffeta, the whores in their garish wigs and colourful dresses. I tell you this, such rogues do not live long but they live well and I rarely got to bed before dawn. I have a silver tongue and, provided I keep my face shaved and clean, I can look as honest as a nun at prayer. Soon I began to make a profit but then things turned sour like milk left out in the sun.
    The London underworld is full of flotsam and jetsam. You live your life and pick up the cards Mistress Fortune deals out. Like the rest of the scum I floated on a dirty pool. I'd forgotten about the pikes that swim deep in the darkness. One afternoon I returned to the Flickering Lamp, where Boscombe stood behind his barrels, peering across at me as if I was a sheriff's tipstaff come to arrest him. The taproom was half full, men squatted quietly around the tables.
    'What have we here?' I swaggered in, a silver piece between my fingers. 'Master taverner, a leg of chicken and a capon. Ale by the quart!'
    A figure came out of the shadows. He was dressed in white from head to toe: white hose, white boots, white doublet, white coat, a band of white silk around his neck. However, if his clothes were strange, his face could only be described as hideous. One eye was missing, and a small glass ball took its place: the other contained as much malice and evil as you'd ever see in a thousand eyes. The skin of his long face was tawny, his bloodless lips were pitted with a strange blue dye whilst, instead of a nose, he had a silver cone held on by straps tied at the back of his head. His black hair, receding on his scalp which was also pitted with blue, hung in coils to his shoulders. He carried no weapons, only a silver topstick which he tapped on the wooden floorboards as he walked. I abruptly realised that many of the strangers at the tables around me were part of his retinue. I had not seen any of them before. These weren't cranks and counterfeit-men but killers; mean-eyed, narrow-mouthed and armed to the teeth with swords and