The Gallows Murders by Paul Doherty

organised the letter's dispatch to Windsor.' He cocked his head to one side. ‘You are here, Master Daunbey, about the letter?'
Benjamin smiled.
    'Good,' Spurge declared in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. There can be no more pretence, can there?'
    'Excuse me!' That's me, old Shallot. I was always tactful! The ever-faithful servant. Benjamin allowed me to question others as vigorously as himself, but Kemble didn't know this. He darted a look at me and sniffed as if I was something which had crawled out of his nose. He whispered into Spurge's ear, in that loud, insulting way, asking who I was.
    Benjamin tapped the table with the rings on his fingers. 'Master Shallot is my trusted servant in these matters,' he said quietly. He is well known to the King and My Lord Cardinal.'
    (My master, God bless him, never lied. What he didn't say was what I was known for!)
    Kemble's manner changed in a twinkling of an eye. 'Continue with your question, Master Shallot.' He leaned against the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling as if he secretly wished he or I were elsewhere.
    'This letter,' I said. 'It claims to have been drawn up, signed and sealed at the Tower, but how do we know it was?'
    Vetch leaned forward. 'Master Shallot, there's no debate about that. My lord constable found it on his desk on the morning of the twenty-ninth of July. You have heard of the sweating sickness in London?'
'I suffered from it and recovered.'
    Then you are truly blessed,' Vetch answered kindly. "However, from the middle of July until two days ago, the twentieth of August, the Tower was sealed. All gates were closed and padlocked: the drawbridge raised and portcullis lowered. No man nor animal was allowed in. None of the garrison was allowed out: it was our only way of keeping the sickness out. Sir Edward commanded the Tower as if it was a castle under siege.' He shrugged. 'As it was, by Death itself.'
    Kemble pointed to a desk in the far corner. 'I had been to Mass at St John's Chapel,' he explained. 'My chamber was always left open. When I returned, the letter was lying on that table.'
    'If it was addressed to the King, why did you open it?' I asked.
'If you look at the reverse,' Kemble retorted, 'you'll notice one phrase: u de pars du Roi", "from the hands of the King". I thought it was a letter from Our Sovereign Lord, so I opened it. At first I thought it was some madcap nonsense, a jest, but when I finished reading it and examined the seals...' He shrugged. ‘You can imagine my terror. Thank God Vetch and Spurge were here to help!'
    'It's the only time we opened a Tower gate,' Vetch explained. We sent out our fastest rider to Windsor. On his return, he had to wait in St Catherine's Hospital until the Tower was re-opened.'
    'So you see, Master Shallot,' Kemble spoke up, 'no one could have brought the letter into the Tower. Moreover, it stands to reason that only a man of some learning and education could buy the parchment and write in such a courtly hand.'
    'And there's no one else who could be the writer?' I asked.
    Vetch intervened. 'Well, as I said, there's Sir Edward, myself and Reginald. However, we also have a garrison of professional soldiers. We do not inquire too closely into their backgrounds: former priests, monks, clerks. Anyway -' he shrugged - 'all were locked in the Tower with us. It's quite possible one of them could have written the letter. Sir Edward's chamber is always open.' He grinned. 'What's the use of guarding galleries and passageways when you are protected by a moat, two curtain walls and a dozen towers, all protected by archers and men-at-arms?'
'Who else is here?' Benjamin asked.
    'Well, the mint is empty. The clerks and treasurers follow the King to Windsor,' Kemble explained. We had a clerk of the stores, Philip Allardyce. He was our only victim of the sweating sickness. He came back one night after roistering in a tavern in Petty Wales. He fell ill and died: his body was collected by the death-cart for the lime