The Assassin's Riddle

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother, I must return to Lady Maude and the poppets. There’s business waiting for me at the Guildhall . . .’

  ‘In other words you are hungry so want a pie and a blackjack of ale at the Holy Lamb of God?’

  Cranston grinned. ‘You are a miracle, Brother, a reader of minds!’

  ‘No, Sir John, your stomach’s rolling like a drum.’

  ‘Oh, so it is!’

  ‘But you’ll be in Southwark by Vespers, Sir John?’

  ‘Of course, Brother.’ Cranston rubbed his hands. ‘I’ve always yearned to meet the Sanctus Man and I also want to study this precious relic of yours.’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ Athelstan protested but Sir John was already striding off, raising his hand in farewell.

  Athelstan watched the coroner waddling away like some fat-bellied cog making its way along the Thames. ‘God bless you, Sir John,’ he murmured.

  Athelstan paused before continuing: a line of strumpets, their heads bald as eggs, had been caught soliciting within the city boundaries. They were now being led through the city, a bagpiper going before them, his screeching music silencing the din all around. The whores in their smocks, roped together, were escorted by a bailiff who carried a fish basket full of their scarlet or red wigs whilst behind them a boy beat a drum; a legion of urchins followed to see what mischief they could stir up. After that came other rogues: felons, nightwalkers, thieves and pickpockets, all lashed to the tails of carts, their hose pulled down about their ankles whilst a sweating bailiff birched them with thin strips of ash.

  At last the sorry procession passed by and Athelstan went along on to London Bridge, making his way under the shops and houses built on either side. He paused at the chapel of St Thomas à Becket and entered its cool darkness. He sat just within the doorway, quiet as a mouse, staring at the huge crucifix which hung over the high altar. He was sure Chapler had been killed here. He must tell Father Prior that so the church could be reconsecrated and hallowed. He closed his eyes and said a prayer for Chapler and the other victims, as well as one for Sir John and himself. He just hoped that the Sanctus Man would help to clear up the mischief at St Erconwald’s.

  Athelstan left the chapel. He crossed the bridge and entered Southwark and made his way up through the maze of alleyways towards St Erconwald’s. He’d prayed for a miracle, that Watkin and company might have come to their senses, but he found the situation worse than he even dared imagine. Booths had been set up near the steps of the church and other relic-sellers had made their appearance, their tawdry goods piled high on trays slung round their necks. Cecily the courtesan was talking to a sallow-faced young man just within the cemetery gates where Watkin and Tab the tinker stood guard.

  Athelstan boiled with rage. ‘Sir, can I have that?’

  He turned to a surprised pilgrim who carried a long ash pole. The man blinked, opened his mouth to protest but Athelstan already had the pole and was striding towards the church, swinging it from left to right, sending the chapmen and relic-sellers scattering. The young man, busy with Cecily, caught the rage in Athelstan’s face and loped like a greyhound for the mouth of the nearest alleyway; those waiting to be allowed into the graveyard thought again and stepped back nervously.

  ‘Now, now, Brother.’ Watkin pushed his chest out. Athelstan could see he had been drinking some of the profits. ‘Now, now, Brother, fair is fair!’

  ‘This is the house of God!’ Athelstan shouted, throwing the staff which Watkin deftly caught.

  ‘Keep the relic-sellers, and the rest who prey on human greed and weakness, well away from the porch of my church!’

  ‘Father, you should bless our relic’

  ‘Oh, I am going to bless it.’ Athelstan walked back, poking his finger at Watkin. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Make sure that you and the rest are here when the bell for Vespers tolls and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.’

  He went to the stable where Philomel leaned against the wall, chewing as lazily as he always did. Athelstan chatted to him then went across to the priest’s house; it was tidy and clean. Bonaventure had apparently gone hunting.

  ‘Or to visit that bloody relic!’ Athelstan murmured to himself.

  He sat down on a stool and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply to calm himself. He drank a little ale, ate some bread and cheese, then went up into the loft where he sat on the edge of his bed reading through Richard of Wallingford’s work, admiring the skilful sketches and drawings.

  ‘When this business is over,’ Athelstan declared loudly, ‘I’m going to ask Father Prior for a little holiday. I’m going to St Albans to see Wallingford’s clock.’

  He closed the book and sighed. He dared not approach Father Prior: he was still deeply uneasy about Brother Niall’s recent visit. There was something in the air, something was about to happen which would change his life. He lay down on his bed and thought of Alcest. Athelstan was sure he was a murderer, but guilty of which deaths? Athelstan, slowly but surely, went through all the circumstances. Something was wrong! He didn’t need to write it down, he could list the problems in his mind. He had a solution but did he have the proof?

  ‘I’ll have to wait,’ he muttered. He felt Bonaventura, who had appeared silently from somewhere, jump on the bed beside him. ‘Let’s sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s sleep, at least for a while.’

  Athelstan was woken by a loud knocking on the door and his name being called. Getting up, he wearily went down the steps and unlocked the door. Benedicta and Alison Chapler stood there.

  ‘Come in! Come in!’

  He sat them down at the table and served them cups of ale and some of the bread and cheese left over from what he had eaten earlier.

  ‘Brother,’ Alison began. ‘I apologise but I’ve come to say goodbye.’

  ‘You are leaving now?’

  ‘No, early in the morning. I’m taking the road to Epping. My brother’s murderer? You’ve apprehended him?’

  ‘Alcest is under arrest at the Tower,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There are further questions he may be asked but . . .’ He smiled at her.

  ‘Tomorrow morning you may go. I am sure Sir John will not detain you.’

  ‘Watkin told us about your temper,’ Benedicta intervened.

  ‘Watkin is going to feel more of my temper,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Benedicta, it may interest you, so stay until the Vespers bell rings. You, too, Mistress Alison. Perhaps you can tell the story in Epping. Will you stay there when you return?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Her sweet face smiled back. ‘Or perhaps I’ll return to Norfolk.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, then changed the subject. ‘Do you know about Master Lesures?’

  ‘The Master of the Rolls!’ Alison made a face. ‘Edwin said he liked small boys. He was lazy and inefficient and didn’t care very much. A frightened man, but Alcest ruled him and the rest like a cock rules the roost.’

  ‘And he was right.’

  Athelstan went across to the window and realised he had slept longer than he’d thought. For a while he sat with the women, Alison chattering about Mass offerings for the soul of her dead brother.

  Athelstan half listened. He felt tired, slightly weary, and started when Cranston burst through the door, bellowing greetings at Benedicta and Alison.

  ‘Has the bugger arrived?’ he roared, picking up the jug of ale and drinking from it.

  ‘If you are referring to the Sanctus Man,’ Athelstan said crossly, ‘no, sir, he has not.’

  ‘Well, he’ll soon be here. Listen now!’ Cranston took off his beaver hat and cocked his head. ‘Any moment now, Brother.’

  Sure enough, Athelstan caught the sound of the bells of St Mary Overy tolling across Southwark calling the faithful, and there weren’t many, to evening Vespers. Benedicta and Alison caught the coroner’s mood and, when the tolling stopped, sat up expectantly.

  ‘He won’t come,’ Cranston moaned. ‘I bet the Vicar of Hell is out of the city and into the woods.’

  Athelstan look
ed towards the door and jumped. Somehow a figure had slipped through and stood standing on the threshold like a ghost.

  ‘The Sanctus Man?’ Athelstan asked.

  He watched fascinated as his visitor, dressed completely in grey, hose, tunic and cloak, walked silently across to meet him, hands outstretched.

  ‘Brother Athelstan.’ His voice was low and caressing.

  Athelstan took the soft hand and shook it.

  ‘I am the Sanctus Man.’

  Cranston gaped in astonishment at this legendary figure of London’s underworld: a cheerful, cherub-faced man with crinkling eyes and rosy red cheeks.

  ‘Sir John, you look surprised.’

  Cranston gripped the man’s hand: the Sanctus Man’s grasp was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Don’t squeeze so hard, my Lord Coroner,’ the Sanctus Man pleaded. ‘My fingers are my trade.’

  ‘Your fingers will lead you to the gallows one day,’ Cranston replied gruffly.

  ‘Now, now, Sir John, all I do is part rich fools from their money!’

  ‘They still talk about your sale of the crown of thorns,’ Cranston declared. ‘I saw a set, even down to the bloodstains.’

  ‘A work of art,’ the Sanctus Man replied. ‘A veritable work of art. After all, what is a relic? People want to see what they want and I am here. To help the faithful in their devotions,’ he continued, ‘to concentrate their minds on things supernatural.’

  ‘As well as enrich yourself?’

  ‘A labourer is worthy of his hire, Sir John.’ The Sanctus Man now turned. ‘And these lovely ladies?’

  Athelstan made the introductions. He was scarcely finished when there was a knock on the door and Watkin staggered in.

  ‘Well, Father, we’re ready,’ he announced swaying slightly as if the floor was beginning to move. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Good evening, Watkin.’ Cranston brought his hand down on the dung-collector’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you know your manners, aren’t we friends?’

  Watkin belched noisily and squirmed in Sir John’s grip.

  ‘This is a friend of mine,’ said Athelstan, bringing the Sanctus Man forward. ‘He would like to see your miraculous crucifix.’

  ‘It’s not for sale.’ Watkin glared at Athelstan’s visitor suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to buy it, sir. But come on, the evening is drawing on and time is money.’

  ‘Is the cemetery cleared?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘It is, Father,’ Watkin replied.

  Athelstan led the way out, across the yard and in through the lych-gate. The miraculous crucifix at the far end stood on a specially made altar of bricks and clods of earth; these were almost covered with lighted candles, placed there by the visitors.

  ‘It looks the part,’ Cranston murmured. ‘You can even see the red streaks of blood above a sea of fire.’

  The Sanctus Man walked forward and, before Watkin or any parishioner could stop him, he knocked a few candles aside, picked up the crucifix and brought it down.

  ‘Put it back!’ Pike the ditcher bellowed to a chorus of shouts and threats.

  ‘Stand away!’ Cranston warned.

  The Sanctus Man studied the crucifix carefully. Athelstan glanced at the streaks of blood now covering the face and body of the Saviour. ‘It is blood,’ he declared.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ the Sanctus Man replied.

  ‘How did they do it?’

  The Sanctus Man examined the figure and the cross itself. ‘There is no secret lever or clasp,’ he murmured. He tapped the figure. ‘And this is solid. Good wood.’ He glanced round the group. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful night,’ he declared surprisingly and pointed up to the sky. ‘A balmy evening.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Hig the pigman shouted.

  ‘I just said it was a very pleasant evening. However, if it had been raining or snowing . . .’ He stared closely at the eyes of the crucified Christ carefully. ‘Who carved this?’

  Huddle the painter shuffled forward sheepishly, turning sideways as if he didn’t want to meet Athelstan’s eye.

  ‘You are a very good artist.’ The Sanctus Man smiled at him. ‘But tell me, sir, would the miracle have occurred if it had been raining or snowing?’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’ Cranston asked.

  The Sanctus Man handed the crucifix to Athelstan. He took a gold coin out of his purse. ‘A fortune,’ he breathed. ‘More gold than you’ll ever see in your life. It’s yours, on one condition. Brother Athelstan . . .’ He didn’t turn but kept his hand outstretched. ‘As I came here I passed the Piebald tavern. This is what we’ll do. I will put this crucifix into a vat of ice-cold water. The good landlord will have one. When it is taken out first thing tomorrow morning the bleeding should have stopped. If I come back and it hasn’t, this gold will belong to your parishioners. I shall also declare the relic to be one of the greatest in Christendom. I will pay,’ his voice rose, ‘five hundred pounds to make it mine. Well?’

  Huddle shuffled his feet and looked away. Watkin and Pike the ditcher began to edge back into the crowd of parishioners. Their confederates and lieutenants, Tab the tinker, Hig the pigman and Cecily, seemed to have lost interest.

  ‘Come! Come!’ the Sanctus Man cried. ‘Are you saying the Good God would allow a great miracle to be stopped by a barrel of water and a dusty cellar?’ He put the gold back in his pouch.

  ‘What trickery is this?’ Athelstan stepped forward and grabbed Huddle by his jerkin. The painter, his face pallid, looked over his shoulder searching for Watkin. ‘Tell your priest! Come on, tell your priest!’

  ‘I shall tell you how it’s done,’ the Sanctus Man proclaimed. ‘Let him go, Brother.’ He pushed the crucifix into Athelstan’s hands. ‘Look at the eyes, Brother. You can’t see it but there are very small holes. Inside each wound there will be such a cavity. Now the hole is covered up with a glaze of wax the blood should really have dried but Huddle mixed a potion to keep the blood slightly fresh.’

  Athelstan nodded, quietly marvelling at the trickery.

  ‘Now, if the crucifix had been hung in a cold church,’ the Sanctus Man continued, enjoying himself, ‘the wax would harden, and inside the cavity both the blood and the tincture would eventually dry. The longer it was left, the harder it would become.’

  ‘The candles!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘When the crucifix was put up near the baptismal font, candles were lit. The iron spigots were on a level with the Saviour’s body’

  ‘The heat would liquefy the blood and the tincture,’ the Sanctus Man explained. ‘And you have a crucified Jesus who bleeds.’

  ‘But so much blood!’ Cranston exclaimed.

  ‘The cavities can always be refilled.’

  Athelstan walked towards his now cowed parishioners. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Why this knavery? Are you so short of pennies? Must you cause such mischief, petty blasphemy, trickery!’

  ‘Tell him,’ Huddle cried at Watkin. ‘Father,’ the painter continued, ‘I confess it was my idea. A painter in Genoa had done something similar, a sailor told me whilst I was dining in the Piebald tavern. I told Watkin . . .’

  The parishioners stepped away from the dung-collector, who began noisily to protest.

  ‘You always insist on being leader of the parish council!’ Pike shouted treacherously. ‘Tell Father the truth!’

  Watkin stepped forward like a little boy. ‘We did it for you, Father,’ he declared, shrugging his leather-garbed shoulders. ‘Oh, I admit, Father, I have spent some of the money on refreshments . . .’

  ‘That’s a crime!’ Cranston bellowed.

  Athelstan gestured for silence. ‘Did you know, Benedicta?’ he asked quietly.

  She shook her head. ‘I think you should ask them why: I have a faint suspicion.’

  ‘We’ve heard you were leaving,’ Watkin blurted out. ‘Sir John here, in his cups at the Piebald tavern, was mourning the fact, after you and he had returned from that bloody business at Westminster.’


  ‘And?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘We were going to give the money to you,’ Watkin declared defiantly.

  ‘I beg your . . .!’

  ‘Oh, not as a bribe,’ Tab the tinker added anxiously. ‘We were going to ask you to take it to the Regent, honestly, Sir John, give it to him as a gift.’ He wetted his lips. ‘If not the Regent, the mayor, some alderman: anyone with influence with Father Prior.’

  Athelstan confronted his parishioners. ‘Don’t lie,’ he warned.

  ‘We are not, Father,’ they all chorused back.

  ‘Do you all swear,’ Athelstan raised his voice, ‘that that was the reason you did it? Swear on the cross and the lives of your children?’

  The parishioners now roared their assent.

  ‘But you still did wrong,’ Athelstan declared, shaking his head. ‘You did very wrong and restitution has to be made.’ He thrust the crucifix into Huddle’s hands. ‘Burn this!’ he ordered. ‘You will tell the curiosity-seekers that the candles caught the wood. God’s fire burnt it.’

  ‘I’ll do it now, Father.’

  Huddle loped off, the crucifix under his arm, to the small brick enclosure behind the church where Athelstan made a bonfire of materials no longer needed.

  ‘Sir John will collect all the money,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Every single penny. He will keep it in trust and give it to one of the almshouses in the city. For the rest, I must thank . . .’ He turned but the Sanctus Man had disappeared, going as quietly as he came.

  ‘Sir John! Sir John!’ Flaxwith, covered in sweat, came hobbling through the cemetery gates, Samson, tongue out, running beside him. ‘You must come now, Sir John, to the Tower! The clerk, Alcest, he’s had a seizure! Master Colebrooke says it was unexpected.’

  Athelstan rapped out a few orders to Watkin and Benedicta.

  ‘I’ll take you across,’ Moleskin the boatman volunteered.

  Sir John accepted the offer and within a few minutes they were all hurrying along the alleyways of Southwark down to the waterside. They clambered into Moleskin’s boat, Samson immediately going to stand in the prow, jaws half open, eyes closed, enjoying the cool evening breezes.