The Assassin's Riddle (20 page)

‘We caught him,’ one of the little men shouted, jumping up and down, his wizened face bright with pleasure. ‘Sir John, we caught him creeping downstairs. I sees him kiss the girl. I’ve never seen a beldame kiss like that!’

Cranston, ignoring the Vicar of Hell, congratulated the scrimperers who danced around like children, clutching at the coins he tossed into their outstretched hands. Athelstan gazed in astonishment. The scrimperers were like children suddenly grown old, nut-brown faces, bright eyes, but their features seemed out of joint, like children wearing masks at some mummers’ play. Their dress only emphasised this: motley rags, small leather boots, each armed with dirk or poniard no bigger than a man’s hand.

‘You’re a clever bastard!’ the Vicar of Hell bawled.

Cranston grinned. ‘It was the only way, sir. Get the scrimperers through the cracks and into the house. They broke in through a window at the back.’

‘We watched the stairs and passageways,’ one of them shouted. ‘No one ever noticed us.’

‘And if they had,’ another added, ‘we’d have been gone before they caught us.’

‘Went in early this morning before dawn. A busy house, Sir John, a molly shop if there ever was one. Young girls coming and going, footsteps in the gallery, cups of wine and squeals of laughter.’ The leader of the scrimperers beat his little glove against his thigh, raising small puffs of dust.

‘But now you are finished,’ Cranston declared proudly. ‘It’s to the Guildhall for all of you. Seek out the chief beadle. He’ll also give you coins, some provisions. Here . . .’ He took one of the small seals he always carried in his purse and handed it to the mannikin. ‘Just show that and all will be well.’

The scrimperers disappeared, shouting and laughing like children. Cranston snapped his fingers. Flaxwith pushed the Vicar back into the cavernous taproom of Dame Broadsheet’s house. The atmosphere was sombre. Dame Broadsheet stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand covering her mouth. Behind her the girls had gathered, gaping at this great coroner and his illustrious prisoner. Scullions and tapsters appeared from behind doors. Cranston, enjoying himself, strode into the centre of the room.

‘A cup of your best claret, Dame Broadsheet. I mean your best, no droppings from the vat.’

This was brought in the twinkling of an eye. Cranston toasted the Vicar of Hell. ‘How many years is it, sir, three or four since I tried to lay you by the heels? It’s Newgate for you, my lad, and then before the King’s Justices at Westminster. You,’ Cranston grinned evilly at Dame Broadsheet, ‘and your accomplices. It is a felony to harbour a known criminal.’

‘They didn’t know I was here,’ the Vicar of Hell retorted.

‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked, coming forward.

‘I have no name, Father. Once, like you, I was in Holy Orders. Now I’m a leaf on life’s stream and, by the looks of it, soon washed up. Father, intercede with Sir John. These good ladies have nothing to do with me.’

‘Not even Clarice?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I had a visit from William the Weasel. I know you are moonstruck over the girl.’ He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Why were you so eager to distance yourself from the murder of the clerks of the Green Wax?’

The Vicar of Hell looked away. ‘Not here, Father.’ His lips hardly moved. ‘There’s a time and place.’ He glanced up, his eyes full of mischief, so boyish that Athelstan’s heart warmed to him. ‘I may even throw some light on the great miracle at St Erconwald’s.’

‘But not here?’

‘No, Father, not here.’

Athelstan looked over his shoulder at Cranston, who nodded.

‘Take him away!’

And the Vicar of Hell, head held high, was pushed out into the street. Cranston clapped his hands and called Dame Broadsheet over. ‘I want to talk with one of your girls, Clarice.’

The pert little girl came over, all coy and simpering. Cranston gestured at Athelstan. ‘You have questions for our young lady?’

Athelstan stared into the girl’s beautiful blue eyes. She reminded him so much of Cecily the courtesan, he could have sworn they were twins. Dame Broadsheet hovered anxiously behind her.

‘Do you remember?’ he asked. ‘That night with the clerks at the Dancing Pig?’

Clarice nodded.

‘Remember what you told me? How the young man you were with, Alcest, never left your bed the whole night through. You were lying, weren’t you?’

Clarice looked over her shoulder at Dame Broadsheet.

‘Answer, girl!’ Cranston thundered. ‘Or I’ll have you and this whole establishment in the common room at the Fleet!’

The mention of one of London’s worst hellholes sent Dame Broadsheet and all her girls aflutter.

‘I woke up,’ the young girl replied. ‘I saw Alcest put something in my drink so I spilt it on the rushes. I pretended to sleep. He left me, dressing quickly, and went out through a window. Our chamber was at the back of the Dancing Pig. Alcest climbed down. He must have been gone an hour and a half, then he came back; that’s all I know.’

‘And that’s all we need to know.’

Athelstan stepped back. ‘Sir John, what happens to these ladies and their house is a matter for the law, but young Clarice has been most helpful.’

Cranston thrust the wine cup back into Dame Broadsheet’s hands. ‘I shall think about matters,’ he declared sonorously. ‘I shall reflect and ponder, Dame Broadsheet. I shall have words with our young Vicar of Hell and then I’ll make a judgement.’

Dame Broadsheet sank to her knees, hand clasped. ‘Sir John, you have a heart as big as your frame. My house and all that is in it,’ she simpered, ‘are forever at your disposal.’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Cranston snapped. ‘If the Lady Maude heard that, you and everything in this place would be put on board ship and sent to the Great Cham of Tartary.’

He glanced balefully round and, followed by Athelstan and Flaxwith, left the taproom. Once they were out of the alleyway, Cranston shook Flaxwith’s hand.

‘A good morning’s work, Henry. Good man! The Vicar of Hell arrested. Dame Broadsheet knows the difference between right and wrong whilst Master Alcest is in for some interesting questions.’ He stretched till his muscles cracked. ‘Now, be a good lad, Henry, and go back to the Guildhall. There’s a chest in my chamber; the key is in the corner under the statue of the Virgin and Child. Unlock it and bring my second wineskin.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘Where to now, Brother?’

‘Master Drayton’s house,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Perhaps Henry and two of his burliest boys could call on Flinstead and Stablegate? They, too, have questions to answer.’ Athelstan looked up at the sky. ‘But in the meantime, Sir John, I would like to have words with Master Tibault Lesures.’

The Master of the Rolls was even more agitated than last time when he came down the stairs. ‘Oh, Sir John!’ he wailed. ‘I have heard about Master Napham’s death and Alcest is in the Tower!’

‘He can bloody well stay there.’

Cranston pushed the Master of the Rolls into the chamber. Once inside, Lesures, his hands outstretched, gazed beseechingly at Brother Athelstan. ‘I have committed no crime,’ he said, but the friar glimpsed the calculating look in his eyes.

‘Come, come, Master Tibault’ Athelstan walked over. ‘You know more than you admit. Master Alcest, what mischief did he get up to? And, more importantly, sir, how did he become cock of the roost here?’ Athelstan stared into Lesures’ old shrewd eyes. ‘To do evil, sir, is not just a matter of committing a sin: it’s also turning your head and pretending you don’t see.’

‘I don’t know what they did,’ Master Tibault stuttered.

‘What I am more interested in,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘is how they made you turn your head. Now, you can answer here or, perhaps, accompany us to the Tower. We’re going there to interrogate Master Alcest. He doesn’t know it yet, so it’s best if we kept it a secret.’

Tibault breathed in. ‘Two years ago,’ he began, sitting down, ‘Alcest found out my little secret. There’s a house in Cross Street,’ he smiled bleakly at Cranston, ‘within bowshot of the priory of St John of Jerusalem. It’s beyond the city limits. You can drink there with . . .’

‘With young men?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, Brother, so tactfully put.’

‘And Alcest found out?’

‘Yes, Alcest found out. He did not threaten me, he just said it was our little secret.’

‘And in return?’

‘In return nothing, Brother.’ Tibault grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘I swear,’ he declared hoarsely, ‘I know nothing of what they did.’

‘But you had suspicions?’

‘Oh yes. Now and again, during the day, Alcest would leave. He would meet with different people in this tavern or that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘On one occasion I followed him. Sometimes, when the clerks thought I was gone, I would eavesdrop on their chatter. They would talk in whispers.’ Lesures gabbled on. ‘Once I heard Alcest and Peslep having angry words with Chapler: he was indignant about something. Afterwards, they kept well away from him. On another occasion, when the doors had been left slightly ajar, I came upstairs in my slippers. Chapler was absent because of the gripes in his stomach. The clerks were gathering together at the far end of the room. They were discussing money matters. Alcest seemed to be defending himself.’

‘Did you learn anything else?’

‘They appeared to be accusing Alcest of keeping monies due to them but the matter seems to have been resolved.’

‘And did they mention any names?’

Lesures closed his eyes.

‘Come on, sir!’ Cranston barked.

‘Once I heard them talk of the Vicar of Hell.’

‘And you,’ Cranston poked him in the chest, ‘know who the Vicar of Hell is, sir. A well-known outlaw.’

Tibault’s face was as white as wax.

‘You’d best confess all,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I also heard them mention the usurer who was murdered.’

‘Drayton?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. Alcest knew one of his clerks, a man called Stablegate.’

Sir John and Athelstan stood in the parlour of Drayton’s house. The coroner kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for Flaxwith’s arrival.

‘Lesures is still hiding something,’ Athelstan remarked.

‘Oh, I am sure he is, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘Whichever way he jumps he’s in trouble. The Master of the Rolls is supposed to exercise better control over his clerks. A corrupt man,’ he continued. ‘Soft and treacherous. Lesures likes to have his cake and eat it. I intend to return to the matter in due course. Now, Brother, you have a solution to this matter?’

‘I think so, Sir John, but I am going to need the cooperation of our two clerks. Which of them do you think is the more amenable?’

Cranston pulled a face. ‘Stablegate’s as hard as steel.’

‘Then the stage is set,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Come on, Sir John, let’s walk on to it!’

They went down the gloomy passageway, the smell of mildew and corruption stronger than ever. Athelstan paused and stared into the darkness.

‘This is a cold and dismal place, Sir John. It reeks of evil. What will happen to this house when we are finished?’

‘The property of the Crown,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Regent will sell it and make a profit.’

‘It needs to be exorcised and blessed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Ghosts still linger here.’

The door of the counting house had been rehung but Athelstan noticed how an iron stud just beneath the grille had been loosened. The bolt on the inside was quick to the touch and easy to turn. He beckoned Sir John in and closed the door. Athelstan pulled down the grille and stared through it as if searching for something.

Cranston heard a sound and sighed. ‘Here comes Flaxwith with my miraculous wineskin. He’s also brought our guests.’

Athelstan opened the door. Flaxwith, hot-faced, thrust the wineskin into Sir John’s hand. Behind him the two clerks stood sullen-eyed. Athelstan studied them carefully. Sir John was right: Stablegate was obdurate but Flinstead’s lower lip quivered, eyes constantly blinking. Athelstan made his decision.

‘Henry, take Master Stablegate back to the parlour and keep him there. Flinstead can stay with me for a while.’

Flaxwith beckoned. Stablegate was about to refuse but Samson, who had been sniffing further up the gallery, now made his appearance; he growled at the clerk who hastened to obey. Once they had gone, Athelstan beckoned Flinstead forward.

‘A clever murder, eh, master clerk?’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Oh, yes you do,’ Athelstan replied. He winked at Cranston who stood, wineskin in one hand, watching him intently. Athelstan took Flinstead by the arm and led him to the iron-studded door. ‘Now, sir, look at this: here’s a door to match all doors. Strongly hinged . . .’

Flinstead kept looking over his shoulder at the damage done to the far wall.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Athelstan declared. ‘This room had secrets, Master Flinstead. No hidden passageways or oubliettes but it did have secrets known only to Master Drayton and, of course, you and Stablegate.’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’

‘Then let me explain. Drayton was a miser, a usurer, a hard taskmaster. He kept you under the whip. Most of his monies were kept out of this house well away from greedy fingers. However, you and Stablegate heard that the Lombards were bringing down a bag of silver, thousands of pounds. So you laid your plans. How could you murder Master Drayton and yet scream innocence of any crime? If you secretly filched it and Drayton lived, how far could you flee? If you openly stole it, and Drayton died, you’d be cast as outlaws who would never get as far as Dover. So you plotted very carefully. In the days before the arrival of the silver,’ Athelstan continued, walking to the door, ‘you worked at one of these bosses. The sharpened pieces face the outside but you noticed that the door’s one weakness is that these bosses are screwed in by clasps on the inside.’

Athelstan pointed to one just beneath the grille. ‘You worked at this. Whenever Drayton was away from his office, you strove to loosen the clasp on the inside. It wouldn’t take long. The clasp was loosened, the steel boss could be removed. You then cleaned it, coating it with oil so that it no longer stuck into the wood and could be moved in and out whenever you wished.’ Athelstan paused and stared into Flinstead’s face, white as a sheet and covered in a sheen of sweat. ‘Ah, Master Flinstead,’ he whispered, ‘I have the truth of it, your face tells me all.’