The Assassin's Riddle (14 page)

‘Come, come.’ Cranston tapped the young man’s knee. ‘Master Alcest, I may look like a madcap to you with my red face, bristling whiskers and protuberant stomach but I’m not a fool: there must have been another reason.’

‘I had confidence in him,’ the clerk replied.

‘Did you often go there?’

‘Yes I did. Sometimes, in my earlier days at the Chancery, Drayton would give me a loan or change money.’

‘And the day you visited him. What happened?’

‘I was there only a short while and then I left.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing, Sir John, and before you put your accusation into words, I couldn’t care whether Drayton lived or died and the same applies to Chapler. When he was killed, I was roistering at the Dancing Pig.’

‘Ah yes, with young Clarice.’

‘I was with her all night,’ Alcest replied. He got to his feet. ‘And now, unless you have further questions?’

‘Why do you think your colleagues have been murdered?’ Athelstan asked abruptly. ‘And why the puzzles?’

‘Brother Athelstan, if I knew that I would tell both you and Sir John immediately.’

Alcest walked out. They heard him climb the stairs.

Cranston patted his stomach. ‘Some refreshment, Brother? Let’s collect our thoughts. Sit upon the ground and make an account of what has happened.’

Athelstan also felt hungry. He had not yet broken his fast. So he joined Sir John at an adjoining tavern, the Golden Goose, a spacious eating house on the corner of Shoe Lane and Farringdon Ward. The taproom was singular in that customers were able to hire small booths; these were closed off from the rest by a small door, with benches which faced each other across a large oaken table. They took one of these: Sir John ordered brawn soup, capon pies and two blackjacks of ale. Once the dishes had arrived, Cranston took his horn spoon from his wallet and ate with relish. Athelstan knew any sensible conversation would be impossible until the coroner declared himself refreshed, sat back, the blackjack of ale in his hands, eyes half closed and murmured his thanks to God for such a delicious meal. Once they had both finished, the coroner, demanding his blackjack be refilled, tapped his fleshy nose and smiled beatifically at the friar.

‘Come on, Athelstan, get that quill and parchment out. Let’s make an account of all these murders.’

Athelstan did so, sharpening his quill and smoothing out the piece of vellum with the pumice stone. He sighed in exasperation when he found his inkhorn almost empty but the landlord had one to hire.

‘I am ready, Sir John.’

The coroner put his blackjack of ale down.

‘Primo.’

Athelstan began to write.

‘Master Drayton, an avaricious moneylender, is found brutally murdered in his counting house. The bag of silver he was preparing to hand over to the Regent is stolen.’ Cranston paused. ‘Along with other items including the two gold pieces Alcest allegedly brought to change. Secundo, Drayton’s corpse is found in a locked chamber. The door was bolted and secured from the inside. There are no secret entrances. So how did the murderer kill him with a cross-bow bolt and steal the silver? Tertio, the rest of the house was found locked and barred, except the window used by the clerks to break in the following morning. Quarto, the two clerks Flinstead and Stablegate have a hand in this villainy but they can prove that they were elsewhere. Even if they were formally accused, we could not explain how the murders were carried out. Anything else, Athelstan?’

‘Quinto,’ the friar quipped back. ‘Alcest visited Drayton days before he died. He wanted to exchange gold for silver. We also know there’s some connection between Alcest and Drayton but it’s tenuous and the clerk’s explanation is not convincing. I believe Alcest used the gold pieces as a pretext to visit the moneylender but we were right not to pursue this matter: we have no proof to the contrary and Drayton’s dead.’

‘There’s the question of the gold.’

‘True, Sir John, but possessing two gold pieces is not a crime for a clerk of the Green Wax. Alcest claims it was his turn to pay, the others will corroborate that and his explanation makes sense: the young ladies would have to be paid, not to mention the landlord of the Dancing Pig.’ Athelstan put his quill down and rubbed his fingers. ‘So far, Sir John, the only firm suspicion we have is that the far wall in Drayton’s chamber might hold a clue to how our money-lender was brutally killed.’ He sighed. ‘But I could be clutching at straws.’

Cranston’s face became glum. ‘The way things look, Brother, we will not arrest our murderers and the Regent won’t get his silver. Now, let’s move to the clerks.’ He waved his hand despondently. ‘You list what we know.’

Athelstan sat back. ‘First, we know Chapler was murdered just after sunset. He visited St Thomas à Becket’s chapel on London Bridge. The murderer knew he’d be there. He struck Chapler on the back of the head then tossed his body into the Thames where the Fisher of Men found it. Secondly, all those who knew Chapler appear to have been elsewhere. The clerks were roistering at the Dancing Pig. Master Lesures did not join them. However, I doubt if our noble Master of the Rolls had the strength to strike anyone, let alone lift a young man’s body over the rail of London Bridge. The only other person who knew Chapler was his sister Alison. She was in Epping, about to leave for London because of her concern about her brother. Thirdly . . .’

‘Thirdly,’ Cranston intervened, ‘we have the death of Peslep. He was killed sitting on a latrine. We know he was followed by this mysterious young man, cloaked, cowled and spurred. Fourthly,’ the coroner continued, ‘there’s Ollerton’s death. Now,’ Cranston held up his hand. ‘It was well known that Chapler liked to visit St Thomas’s chapel. Peslep always broke his fast in that tavern at that particular time whilst it was customary for the clerks of the Green Wax to drink a cup of malmsey late in the afternoon. Therefore, whoever murdered these three men had intimate knowledge of their habits and customs.’

‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There’s also the question of the riddles. Alcest’s companions apparently loved to pose each other riddles for the rest to solve. The assassin knows this and, so far, we’ve had three. The one about a king fighting his enemies but in the end both victors and vanquished lying together in the same place. The second, how does it go, Sir John? My first is like a selfish brother, whilst the one delivered after Ollerton’s death declares: “My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror”.’ Athelstan abruptly clapped his hands, alarmed at Sir John’s heavy-lidded look. ‘Come on, Sir John, concentrate with that brain as sharp as a razor, that wit as speedy as a swooping hawk.’

‘I was just thinking, Brother,’ Cranston replied crossly. He sat up. ‘What would happen if Father Prior told you to leave St Erconwald’s?’

Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Now come, Sir John, that’s not the matter in hand. Have you sent that note to Flaxwith?’

‘Yes, yes, I did.’ The coroner shifted on the bench. ‘I paid a chapman a penny before we met Alcest.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Then, Sir John, no brooding! We have murderers to seize, the King’s justice to be done.’ He poked the coroner in the ribs. ‘And the Regent’s silver to get back!’

By the time they returned to Drayton’s house, Flaxwith had arrived with two bruising individuals, each carrying a huge mallet.

‘Right, my lovely lads!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to knock a wall down.’

The house was unlocked and they went down the gloomy passageway into the counting house where, at Cranston’s command, both men set to with gusto. They smashed their mallets against the wall, the sound echoing like drumbeats through the room which soon filled with dust that tickled the nose and throat.

‘Despite the sound it’s not solid,’ one of them shouted, standing back and resting.

Cranston, his muffler up over his mouth, went to inspect. ‘You are not even through yet.’

‘Sir John, you grasp villains by the neck and, I wager, you can see one across a crowded room. I know walls: there’s something behind this.’

Athelstan, who had been carrying out another fruitless scrutiny of the door, came over to join them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a small chamber behind this, Brother. This wall’s new.’

‘Could there be any secret door or gate?’ Cranston asked.

The burly labourer laughed. ‘No, Sir John, the wall’s solid, well, at least until we are finished with it!’

They set to again, giving a cry of triumph as the first bricks fell loose. The labourer picked one up, pointing to the mortar. ‘This wasn’t done by a mason, Sir John, but someone who knew a little building. The mortar is thick, slapped on. That’s why whoever built this wall covered it with plaster and whitewash.’

Cranston peered through the gap into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he murmured.

The labourers returned to their task. More bricks fell away. An entrance was formed. Athelstan took a battered tallow candle from its iron spigot, Sir John struck a tinder and they went into the secret chamber. The dust-filled darkness made Athelstan shiver as he protected the flame by cupping his hand. He held the candle up and exclaimed in surprise. In the far corner lay a skeleton. He hurried across, followed by Cranston and the labourers. Athelstan, silently praying, crouched down by the grisly remains. In the glow of the smelly candle he carefully studied the skeleton which sat half propped up against the wall. The bones were still white and hard; tattered clothing still clung to it. Athelstan could tell by the dusty shreds that the skeleton belonged to a woman. He continued his examination, ignoring the exclamations of the labourers. He put his hand out, felt round the skeleton and picked up a battered pewter cup and platter.

‘In sweet heaven’s name!’

He took the candle and searched the rest of the chamber but found nothing. Chilled by the silent, eerie atmosphere, he walked back into the counting house.

‘Who do you think it is?’ Cranston asked, following him out.

‘Well, the house has always belonged to Drayton,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No one could wall up another human being without his knowledge so it’s logical to deduce that he was responsible, therefore those might be the poor remains of his wife. She clearly didn’t leave Drayton. I suspect she baited and taunted her husband until he grew tired of her. He probably gave her drugged wine, brought her down here and walled her up alive. God rest her!’ he breathed. ‘She must have taken days to die.’

Cranston thanked and dismissed the labourers, giving each a coin. The coroner then shouted for Flaxwith. The bailiff came hurrying down, his dog loping behind him, though Samson had the sense to stay well out of Cranston’s path.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘There’s a skeleton in there.’ The coroner jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Have it removed. Tell the vicar of St Mary Le Bow the city will bear the cost of its burial. Don’t look so frightened, Henry, she’s been dead for years. Now, do you have news for me?’

‘Oh yes.’ Flaxwith stared distractedly over Sir John’s shoulder as if he expected the skeleton to come walking out of the room towards him.

‘Well, come on, man!’

‘First, Sir John,’ Flaxwith gabbled, ‘we are keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict guard and she does not suspect it. We have heard little rumours that the Vicar of Hell is much smitten by little Clarice there.’

‘And?’

‘Stablegate and Flinstead were seen carousing the night Drayton was murdered. According to witnesses they drank until they were stupid. They never returned here. The same goes for those clerks at the Dancing Pig. Mine host says that after they retired to the upper chambers he saw neither hide nor hair of them till dawn. Finally, Sir John,’ Flaxwith spread his hands, ‘I have a friend who works in the muniment room at the Tower.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We checked the subsidy rolls of 1380 for Epping in Essex. They list Edwin and Alison Chapler. Edwin is described as a clerk, Alison a seamstress. Apparently both are quite wealthy.’

‘Very good.’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Oh, before you go,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Sir John, perhaps we could have a small mummer’s play?’

A bemused Cranston and Flaxwith followed Athelstan back into the dusty counting office.

‘Now,’ Athelstan began, ‘I’ll pretend to be Drayton.’ He held up his writing bag. ‘This is the Regent’s silver. Sir John, how am I killed?’

Sir John pointed to Athelstan’s chest.

‘Right,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m dying. I fall to the ground. In my death throes, in my guilt, I remember the woman I have walled up alive so I crawl towards the hall, praying for forgiveness. That explains why we found Drayton in the position he was, but the problem remains. If the two clerks killed Drayton, how did they get out of the chamber?’ Athelstan pointed to the door. ‘Locking and bolting that from inside? If Drayton had locked himself in,’ Athelstan continued, ‘then how could the clerks enter the chamber and kill him?’

‘We’ve been through all this,’ Cranston grumbled.

‘No, listen, Sir John: we now know the only way into this room is through the door.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Cranston said irritably. ‘And it was locked and bolted.’

‘Sir John, Master Henry, if you would oblige me.’

Athelstan walked towards where the huge door lay against the wall. ‘Is it possible for you to hold that up?’

Swearing and grumbling under their breaths, both men obliged, pulling the huge door away from the wall. Athelstan approached it. He pulled down the small trap to look through the eye grille; he stood there for a while then looked round the door.

‘Can we put this bloody thing down?’ Cranston gasped.

‘Yes, Sir John.’

Both men pushed the door back against the wall.

‘Well, Brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m not sure, Sir John. Master Flaxwith, do you know a good carpenter?’

‘Aye, there’s Laveck in Stinking Alley.’

‘Bring him here,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘I want this door examined from top to bottom, the grille, the locks, the bolts, the bosses, everything. I don’t care what damage is done.’ He nudged Cranston in the ribs. ‘Tell him the city will pay the costs. If it doesn’t, the Regent certainly will. Provide him with ale and bread, but he is not to leave this house until his task is finished and both I and Sir John have returned to question him.’