The Assassin's Riddle (17 page)

Athelstan explained the three riddles and how each of them was a reference to the first letter of the surname of the murdered clerks. Alcest and Napham became even more subdued, especially as Athelstan explained how there was little connection between the murder of Chapler and the other three clerks.

‘This makes us wonder,’ Athelstan concluded. ‘We have Peslep, Ollerton, Elflain: P O E. If we add the first letters of Napham and Alcest the word
poena
is formed, the Latin for punishment. Now,’ Athelstan leaned his hands on the table, ‘what have you five clerks done to deserve such punishment?’

Napham began to shake but Alcest abruptly got to his feet and, taking his Chancery ring off, threw it on the table.

‘Pray, sir, what’s the matter?’ Cranston barked.

‘I’m a royal clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Alcest declared. ‘I work for the Crown. I am being threatened. Accordingly, unless we take the appropriate measures, both I and Master Napham will also be brutally killed whilst you, Sir John, fumble around!’

‘And so?’ Athelstan played with the Chancery ring lying on the table.

‘Sir John will tell you the custom.’ Napham also took his ring off. ‘In times of great danger royal clerks can demand the Crown’s protection.’

‘Of course!’ Cranston breathed. ‘And where will you go, sir?’

‘To the Tower, of course.’

Alcest picked up both rings and slipped them into his pouch. ‘I will go to the Constable of the Tower and demand that we be housed there.’ He jabbed a finger at Cranston. ‘Until you, the coroner of this city, discovers who the assassin is!’

Alcest, followed by Napham, walked to the door. ‘We will both stay in the Tower from where we will petition the Regent for his protection and complain about the bumbling doings of a drunken coroner!’

Cranston sprang to his feet. ‘And you, sir, can go down to hell and ask the Lord Satan for protection. If you seek it in the Tower, then go! Yet you have still not answered our questions.’ The coroner continued. ‘Why are you and your companions being hunted and killed? What have you done to merit such terrible punishment?’ He smiled bleakly. ‘My Lord Regent will be interested in your reply, as will I.’ He glanced at the Master of the Rolls. ‘Lesures, will you join them?’

‘No, no, my post is here!’

‘Good,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Master Alcest, you will be in the Tower by the morning, yes? I can visit you there.’

The two clerks were already pushing their way out of the door, slamming it behind them. Cranston took out his wineskin and swallowed a generous mouthful.

‘They should be careful,’ Athelstan warned. ‘They are not yet in the Tower and the assassin still hunts them!’

Athelstan left Cranston in Cheapside. The coroner was growing tired, rubbing his face and murmuring about Lady Maude and the poppets. The day was drawing on. The market bell was tolling and already carts and barrows were being refilled as peasants prepared to leave the city before sunset. The air was ripe with rotting fruit and vegetables as Athelstan made his way along the streets. A beggar boy, for a penny, took him to the Silver Lute tavern, a broad-fronted hostelry with a small gatehouse which dominated its spacious cobbled yard. Athelstan walked into the taproom. The taverner, a great leather apron round him, came hurrying up, a cheerful, merry-eyed fellow.

‘Yes, yes,’ he declared, scratching his bald pate. ‘Mistress Alison Chapler is here.’

A tapster was sent to fetch her.

‘I’ll have a pot of ale,’ Athelstan requested. ‘And a few moments of your time, sir.’

The taverner brought him a quart but shook his hand at the proffered coin. ‘No, Brother, remember me at Mass. Now, what do you want?’

Athelstan described what Alison had told him: the taverner scratched his cheek.

‘It’s true,’ he replied. ‘Mistress Alison asked me to keep an eye for anyone who came to the tavern asking for her, especially a young man, cowled and cloaked, with spurs on his boots. She seemed fearful of him.’

‘And you saw such a person?’

‘Well, yes. Once today and once yesterday. My counting house overlooks the yard so I can keep an eye on anyone who comes in under the gateway. I saw this young man twice. If Mistress Alison had not asked me to watch, I would not have noticed him at all.’

‘Do you know who he was or where he came from?’

The taverner shook his head. ‘The first time I didn’t mention it but after I saw him today I told Mistress Alison. She became frightened. She said she was leaving, asked me to present my bill, which I have done.’

‘Yes, she’s leaving with me.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘She’s going to stay with a friend in Southwark.’

The taverner was about to question him further but Alison and the tapster, carrying bulky saddlebags, came downstairs into the taproom. She and Athelstan made their farewells, the boy taking them out to the yard. He saddled a gentle-looking palfrey, across which Athelstan threw the baggage. Alison wrapped the reins round her hand and they left, in the direction of London Bridge.

At first they walked in silence. Alison seemed fascinated by the different sights: a woman accused of scolding standing in the thews; two sorry pickpockets standing nearby, their fingers clasped in the stocks, their hose round their ankles. A legion of beggars of every description, some genuine, others fraudulent. A group of mailed horsemen rode by, forcing everyone into the doorways of shops and houses. These were followed by an elegant young man with a hooded falcon on his wrist; two verderers followed swiftly behind. On the rods over their shoulders hung the gutted corpses of hares, pheasants and quail.

‘Some lord returning from the hunt,’ Athelstan observed. He watched the horsemen retreat in a jingle of harness. ‘This man you saw,’ he continued, ‘the one who wore spurs and was seen when Peslep was killed. Do you think he is hunting you?’

Alison stopped and stroked the muzzle of her horse who snickered and pushed at her. She took a small apple out of her pocket; the palfrey greedily seized it, shaking his head in pleasure. They moved on.

‘I asked you a question, mistress.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she replied. ‘Edwin did not talk very much about the other clerks. I don’t think he liked them: he considered Peslep was a lecher, Ollerton a glutton.’

‘And Alcest?’

‘Ah, that’s what frightened me, Brother. On one occasion I am sure Edwin called him a fop who liked to wear spurs on his boots for effect.’ She glanced sloe-eyed at Athelstan. ‘Has he ever, since this business began, worn spurs?’ She glimpsed the surprise in Athelstan’s face. ‘I thought Lesures or one of the others would remark on that.’

Athelstan paused. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Brother, I simply repeat what I heard.’

Athelstan stared around. Across the lane was a small alehouse. He told Alison to wait and went over. The owner, a small, wiry-haired man, recognised him.

‘You are thirsty, Brother?’

‘No, no.’Athelstan paused. ‘Er . . .’

‘Haman.’

‘Ah yes, Haman. I wonder if you would do me a favour?’ Athelstan’s hand went to his purse but Haman gently knocked it away. ‘I wonder if you, or one of your boys, would go to the house of Sir Jack Cranston. You know where he lives?’

The ale-keeper nodded.

‘Tell him to search out Master Tibault, he’ll know what I mean. He must ask Tibault which of the clerks liked to wear spurs.’

Haman looked perplexed. Athelstan made him repeat the message until he had it by heart. Then he rejoined Alison.

‘Was that important, Brother?’

‘Yes, yes, it was but . . .’ The friar touched her gently on the elbow. ‘Not enough to hang a man.’

‘Someone will hang,’ she replied. ‘Won’t they, Brother? All those dreadful deaths: Ollerton poisoned; Peslep killed on a latrine with his hose about his ankles.’

‘And Elflain,’ Athelstan added. ‘Earlier today he was killed by a crossbow bolt.’

He crossed himself and they continued on. At the corner of Lombard Street, near the Cornmarket, Athelstan stopped and stared back.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied but he was unsure. When he had crossed over to see Haman, Athelstan was certain he had glimpsed a figure behind him. He shook his head.

They went down an alleyway which led out to Gracechurch Street and London Bridge. The houses on either side towered over to block out the sunlight; the runnel was gloomy, filled with offal. The contents of chamber pots stained the walls on either side, the stench reminding Athelstan of the city ditch near Cock Lane. The palfrey became skittish, picking its way daintily over the bloated corpse of a dead cat. Alison took out a nosegay and held it to her face. Athelstan was about to apologise bitterly regretting taking this short cut, when two figures stepped out of a shabby doorway. They were dressed like rifflers, the masked foot-pads who preyed on the unwary in the warren of London’s alleyways. One was short, the other tall; battered leather masks covered their faces, their heads were concealed by pointed hoods. Each carried a stabbing dirk in one hand, a cudgel in the other.

Alison stopped. Athelstan patted her on the arm and, plucking up his courage, walked forward.

‘I am Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. This young lady and myself have little wealth.’

‘Stay where you are!’ the taller of the two ordered, his voice gruff behind the mask.

‘Why do you stop us?’ Alison shouted.

‘Keep your tongue still, pretty one,’ the smaller one replied in a high, ready voice.

Athelstan peered at the diminutive footpad. He recalled Cranston’s words to him earlier in the day.

‘You are William the Weasel, aren’t you? One of the parishioners of the Vicar of Hell.’

The little man backed away as if Athelstan had slapped him. The taller one was disconcerted, coughing and muttering behind his mask.

‘Sir John would not be very pleased,’ Athelstan took another step forward, ‘to hear that William the Weasel dared to rob the coroner’s secretarius and friend.’

‘We are not here to rob you,’ the little man screeched back.

Athelstan smiled; these two would-be footpads were not as terrifying as they appeared. ‘Well, why are you here?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you stop a priest and a young lady going about their proper business!’

‘Tush, tush, Brother!’ the taller man replied. ‘We would ask you to give Sir John a message from the Vicar of Hell.’

‘What message?’

‘The Vicar of Hell is angry. He has an affair of the heart with young Clarice. He objects to Sir John keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict surveillance. My Lord Coroner should be careful.’

‘I’ll tell him to be so,’ Athelstan responded. ‘But, as you know, Sir John does not frighten easily.’

‘We bring other messages.’ There was now a note of desperation in the Weasel’s voice.

‘Then you’d better hurry: we haven’t all the time in the day to stand in this stinking alleyway.’

‘Tell the lord coroner,’ the Weasel was almost pleading, ‘that the Vicar of Hell sends his compliments and that he had no hand in the dreadful murders at the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

Athelstan sighed. Sir John was right! There was some connection between the Vicar of hell and these clerks. Now London’s most famous outlaw was trying to distance himself from the horrid murders taking place.

The two figures disappeared. Athelstan came back and patted Alison on the shoulder. He was pleased the young woman was not shaken by the encounter. ‘You do not frighten easily, mistress?’

‘No, Brother, I do not.’

They walked on down to London Bridge. City guards were already taking up their positions, chatting merrily to Robert Burdon, the little gatehouse keeper. He was busy combing the hair of three severed heads laid out on the table, before placing them on pikes which would jut out over the river.

‘I like things to be tidy and neat,’ he shouted as Athelstan passed by. The friar sketched a hasty blessing and hurried on.

In the middle of the bridge Alison stopped and stared across at the small chapel dedicated to Thomas à Becket. Tears filled her eyes and she bit her lip. ‘If only,’ she whispered, ‘if only, if only I’d been there, Brother.’

Athelstan gently led her on, trying to cheer the girl with his chatter. They entered Southwark, now coming alive as the sun began to set and the stallholders set up their evening market. One of the traders called him over.

‘Come, buy something, Brother Athelstan, needles, pins, a bit of cloth. A new leather bridle for your horse?’

‘I’m in a hurry,’ Athelstan replied.

‘Oh yes, of course. Everyone’s heard of the great miracle at St Erconwald’s. I’ve been there myself and paid a groat. Tell your parishioners I’ve lovely things to sell, cheap at the price.’

‘They are not his to sell,’ Athelstan murmured as they walked on. ‘Oh, they are not thieves, Mistress Alison. As Sir John Cranston often remarks, it’s just that they find it difficult to tell the difference between their property and everyone else’s!’

As Alison and Athelstan threaded their way through the alleyways of Southwark, Thomas Napham, clerk of the Green Wax, was also hurrying home. Napham was highly anxious. He did not trust Alcest but he recognised that he was in great danger. That little friar whom they had mocked was as sharp as a razor, and someone was killing his colleagues, hinting that he knew what they were guilty of. Napham had given in to Alcest’s urging. He would leave the Chancery, collect a few belongings and make his way downriver to the Tower. He’d be safe there and, by all that was holy, he would never leave that narrow, well-guarded place until the assassin was caught. He paused in the entrance to his lodgings and peered through the gloom. Was someone there? A door opened further down the passageway; another tenant emerged, a journeyman apprenticed to a clothier in Cheapside.

‘Have you been here all day?’ Napham asked abruptly.

‘Why, yes, I have, working on my master’s accounts.’

‘Has anyone come here inquiring after me?’

‘Not that I know of but, there again, I am a journeyman not the doorkeeper!’

Napham unlocked the door to his chamber and pushed it open. He failed to see the scrap of parchment nailed to the wall above the door. Instead, he stopped and savoured the sweet smell from the herb pots placed around the room. ‘You have nothing to fear,’ he whispered.