'Who's there?' I called. I stood up and walked slowly across. 'Who's there?' I repeated.
I drew closer. I stopped and blinked, believing my mind or eyes were playing tricks on me. In the candlelight a face, framed by long, straggly hair, peered at me, two hands on either side of the tomb, as if someone was hiding behind it and peering above it. I realised what I was looking at. Someone had severed the head of the scrivener I had met in St Paul's Cathedral. Both the head and hands of Richard Notley had been cut from his body and placed on the tomb, garishly illuminated by the lighted candles like some macabre child's game on Samain Eve. Oh horrors! Oh bloody murder! For a while I stood rooted to the spot. I could do nothing but stare at that ghastly head, the half-open eyes and blood-encrusted lips, with the hands on either side. I gave a scream which must have frightened even that bloody owl before I fled like a greyhound across the graveyard. I tripped on a grave and fell flat on my face. I got up. For a while I was lost. I screamed for the boy or to find the door to the church. In the darkness around me, someone gave a low and chilling laugh. I turned round, screaming abuse as I walked backwards. My elbow caught something. I darted around and, with a sob of satisfaction, threw myself into the church, slamming the door behind me. I ran towards the other side door but then the candles in front of the Lady statue were abruptly extinguished. I reached the door; it was locked, the bolts pushed fast across.
Oh Lord, then the whistling began. A most chilling though mundane sound, like a labourer going about his work: a man immersed in his task and happy to do it. The whistling drew nearer. Sobbing and crying, I fled back through the darkness towards the corpse door. A crossbow quarrel zipped by my head, smacking into the wall of the church. I stumbled over a bench, bruising my shins and legs. The whistling began again. I heard another click and a crossbow quarrel cut the air above me.
Imagine poor Shallot! Weep for old Roger! For his legs shaking like leaves in a storm; for his belly rolling like a drum; for the tears which scalded his eyes; for the sheer, bone-wrenching terror which sent me crashing around that church like a pea in a barrel. And, all the time, came that dreadful whistling. I flitted around in the dark like a bat, the assassin following me. Oh, that's what I hate about killers - although, at the same time, it has been my salvation on many occasion - assassins enjoy their work. They like to see their victims suffer and recognise their power, accept they are going to die. It's true, isn't it? Those murders that take place in a family, the product of strong drink or hot blood, are quick and sudden like a brawl in a tavern over a dice or a wench. However, the born killer, the man who lives on human blood, wants his victim to know that death is about to stretch out its cold, hard hand! All I can say is, thank God! For, if they play such a game, it at least gives you a chance for the good Lord or his Holy Father, or some angel of light to intervene. On that night they did. As I hid behind the high altar there was sudden pounding on the corpse door. Angry voices were raised. I crouched, promising the good Lord everything he wanted: a life of fasting, of chastity, of bread and water. I heard the bolts of the side door being drawn. The assassin, fearful of being trapped himself, slipped out into the night. I ran across to the corpse door and drew back the bolts: outside, holding a sconce torch, were two venerable, but very aggrieved, friars.
'What's going on here?' one of them shouted. 'This is a house of God, not some tavern! Why are the doors locked? Compline bell hasn't sounded!'
'I was trapped,' I replied.
'Trapped? Who trapped you?'
I was too terrified to explain. I emptied the contents of my purse into their hands, stumbled back through the church, out into the lane and back up to the Flickering Lamp. I ignored Boscombe's curious gaze but pounded on my master's door. He threw it open and I almost collapsed into his arms. After two cups of claret and a meat pie, I felt better and told my master what had happened. He was too kind to upbraid me for my foolishness in going alone but listened very carefully.
'The Slaughterer has struck.' He pulled the shutters across the window and drew the bar down. 'The Slaughterer is sending us a message.'
'But why kill Notley?'
'Oh, the scrivener was punished. People like ourselves, Roger, should know nothing about the Slaughterer or how to hire him. He obviously suspected that we might return with some soldiers, and that Master Notley might have been asked to visit the Tower and forced to confess all he did now about this terrible assassin. So Notley had to die and the Slaughterer used his corpse to send us a grisly message. Now, Roger—' Benjamin pulled his stool closer. 'I have been studying everything that has happened since my arrival in London. You have told me a little about your own adventures. However, this time I want you to go back to the beginning. Tell me everything with whatever detail you can recall. Take your time.'