The Gallows Murders

bed, I suddenly remembered. Now listen, I am well past my ninety-third year. I have lived a life full of mischief. I have met murder in the silken boudoirs of courtesans, the sewers of Rome, the perfume-filled gardens of Istanbul. I have been pursued through icy forests and fought for my life in the ruins of burning cities; but I never forgot the Tower! That narrow, bloody palace of secrets with its stone-walled chambers, secret passageways and hidden rooms! The execution ground of the Great Beast, the mouldwarp, that imp of Satan, His most diabolical Majesty, King Henry VIII of England! Oh yes, I remember the Tower and how, so many years ago, in the summer of 1523, I and my master Benjamin Daunbey, gentle, dark-haired, serene-faced Benjamin, nephew to the great Cardinal Wolsey, probed its secrets. Oh, that dreadful hot summer when the sweating sickness raged in London and the most cunning of murderers was on the loose! Now I sit here, at the centre of my maze, squeezing the tits of Margot and Phoebe, sipping the finest claret as I prepare to dictate my memoirs. My chaplain is impatient to begin. He always hates these diversions. Oh yes he does, the little tickle-bum! I also know he is sitting there trying to pluck up enough courage to ask me permission to name his marriage day. Oh, I have met his betrothed: face like an angel she has. Eyes as round as saucers, they suit her nature! I wager she has been in more laps than a napkin. Or, to misquote the good book, 'She has been tried and found wanton'. No, no, I tease him. I have seen him walking her through the trees.
    ‘Why do you do that?' I asked. 'Is she a flower which grows wild in the woods?'
    'You can never tell about a woman,' my chaplain quips back. 'In her case,' I retort, 'it's charitable not to.'
    Oh, I tease. I am sure she's a delightful maid and I have fixed the marriage date for Michaelmas. See how excited he grows! His little bottom twitching! His shoulders shaking! The little bugger had better not be laughing at me. He stares innocently over his shoulder but I know him for what he is. Any man who has two chins must have two faces! No, no, I am cruel to my little chaplain. If he left me, I'd miss him, particularly his sermons on Sunday.
    Now, I’ll be honest, I don't belong to the Reformed Faith. I am still a Catholic and hear Mass secretly in my private chamber. There I hide the statue that I rescued from Walsingham, carved in ancient wood, the Mother of God holding her child. I make sure candles burn constantly before it. Anyway, as the law says, I have to attend Sunday morning service in the manor church, so I trot along. I sit in my pew in front of the pulpit and spend most of my time smiling at any pretty face. I'm always armed with a catapult and try to take care of the rats which, every so often, try to scurry across the sanctuary floor. You see, the little bastards live in the church, feasting on the candlewax. Now my theory is that usually they hide, but my chaplain is such a windbag and his sermons so long that the rats give up all hope that he’ll ever shut up, and so take their chances out in the open against my catapult. As soon as one pops out, a small black pebble goes whirling through the air. The congregation love it. My chaplain never notices.
    Indeed, I have tried everything. Once I fired my pistol and the silly bugger still droned on, so I tried a different ruse. Now, some of these prating parsons begin their sermons with a text or a sermon: my chaplain's no different. I thought I should indulge in a little audience participation. You know, the same sort of thing we do at the Globe, when Will Shakespeare's Macbeth appears, the lean-faced villain. I love going to see him and take all the rotten fruit I can, then, with the rest of the audience, throw it at the murderous rogue. Marvellous occasions! Last time I did it, Macbeth picked up the fruit and threw it back! Journeying home afterwards, I had a sweet thought: my chaplain's sermons are no shorter than any of Will Shakespeare's plays, so why shouldn't the audience be allowed to join in?
    The next Sunday, up he gets, straight as a pole in the pulpit. Why?’ he began lugubriously, 'do people call me a Christian?'
    'Because they know sweet bugger-all about you!' I shouted back.
    It made little difference, so I sat in my pew, arms crossed, glaring at him. An hour must have passed. I slept for a while, drank a little of the wine I always take with me, and suddenly saw a fresh