The Assassin's riddle smoba-7

by Paul Doherty

‘You are right, Father,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘But one of the dung-collectors had served as a soldier, knocking down doors in France. He told us to concentrate on the hinges, so we did. Fair smashed them loose and the door gave way. Inside we found Drayton on the floor. We haven’t moved the corpse, a crossbow bolt deep in his chest and the silver’s gone.’

  ‘How much silver?’

  ‘According to the ledger, at least five thousand good pounds sterling.’

  Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘Good Lord, what else have you learnt?’

  ‘Well, the two clerks, Stablegate and Flinstead, left the house, as they always did, just before Vespers last night. Once they had gone, Master Drayton locked and bolted the doors: that was well known, Sir John, he let no one in and no one ever came out.’

  Athelstan rose and played with the wooden cross hanging on a cord round his neck.

  ‘So, Master Flaxwith.’ He smiled at the bailiff. ‘According to you, here is a man who bolted and locked himself in his treasure house but he never went out and would allow no one in. In the morning the doors and windows are still bolted and shuttered. Downstairs the strongroom is still locked and secure but, inside, our moneylender is dead and his silver gone.’

  ‘In a word, yes.’

  ‘And there are no secret entrances, passageways or postern gates?’

  ‘None whatsoever, Father. You’ve seen the house, it’s built of stone, one of the few houses round here that are: that’s why Drayton bought it.’

  ‘And the strongroom?’

  ‘See for yourself, Father,’ Flaxwith retorted. ‘It’s a square of stone. The ceilings are plaster but that’s unbroken, the walls are of pure stone as is the floor. If Drayton wanted fresh air he’d simply open the door. Father, I know house-breakers. They go through a window as quickly as a priest into a brothel…’ He abruptly stopped. ‘I mean a ferret down a hole: it would take a nightwalker hours to break into that strongroom.’

  ‘Then let’s see it.’

  Flaxwith rose and led them out of the chamber. Cranston grasped Athelstan by the arm. ‘Brother, you are well?’

  ‘Why, of course, Sir John. Rather sleepy, I…’

  ‘You never slept last night, did you?’ Cranston accused. ‘You were on that tower studying your bloody stars again, weren’t you?’

  Athelstan smiled apologetically. ‘Yes, Sir John, I was.’

  ‘It’s nothing else, is it?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean Father Prior has not written to you about relieving you of your duties at St Erconwald’s and sending you to the Halls of Oxford?’

  Athelstan seized Cranston’s huge podgy hand and squeezed it. ‘Sir John, Father Prior asked me a month ago if I would like such a move. I replied I would not.’

  Cranston hid his relief. He loved his wife, Lady Maude, his twin sons, the ‘poppets’, his dogs Gog and Magog, but especially this gentle friar with his sharp brain and dry sense of humour. Cranston had served as a soldier, as well as a coroner, for many a year. He’d met many men but, as he told the Lady Maude, ‘I can number my friends on one hand and still have enough fingers left to make a rude gesture at the Regent. Athelstan’s my friend.’ Cranston stared mournfully at the friar.

  ‘You won’t go to Oxford, will you, Brother?’

  ‘No, Sir John. I am going down to the strongroom.’

  Athelstan stared round the paltry parlour. ‘This is a subtle murder, Sir John, but why are you here?’ He added, ‘Why are you so anxious about it?’

  ‘Drayton usually kept his money with the Lombards,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Frescobaldi and the Bardi brothers in Leadenhall Street. He drew most of it out: he was about to give our most noble Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, a loan of five thousand pounds silver.’

  Athelstan sighed.

  ‘So you see, Brother, Gaunt couldn’t give a fig if Drayton is in heaven or hell. He wants that silver, particularly now as Drayton has no heirs and he won’t have to pay it back. He also wants the thief captured. As you know, my dear monk…’

  ‘Friar, Sir John!’

  ‘As you know, my dear friar, no one upsets our Regent and walks away scot-free.’ Cranston paused as he heard Flaxwith calling. ‘We’d best go, Brother.’

  They went out into the passageway, dingy and gloomy, smelling of tallow fat, boiled oil and other unsavoury odours.

  ‘Flaxwith found the chamber pot upstairs full of stools,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Drayton was as dirty as he was mean.’

  At the top of the steps Flaxwith was waiting with a cresset torch. ‘Sir John, what about Samson?’ the bailiff pleaded.

  ‘Bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘Henry, your dog will live for eternity, which is more than I can say for myself if we don’t get this silver back.’

  Flaxwith shrugged and led them down the narrow stone steps. At the bottom, the huge door he had described was leaning against the wall. Flaxwith led them into the counting house and put the torch in a cresset holder.

  Athelstan stared down at the corpse sprawled on the stone floor. A pool of blood had seeped out, and now ran in rivulets down the paving stones. He crouched down and stared pityingly at Drayton’s scrawny features: the eyes closed in death, the blood-encrusted mouth sagging. He felt the neck; the skin was cold and clammy. Athelstan closed his eyes; he prayed that Christ, in His infinite compassion, would have mercy on this man who had lived beneath his dignity and died like a dog. He turned the body over. Drayton was dressed in a shabby jerkin and hose. The battered boots looked rather pathetic on his spindly legs; he had no chain round his neck nor rings on his fingers. Athelstan wondered what pleasure this man had ever found in life.

  ‘Was he a bachelor?’ he asked.

  ‘He was married once,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘But many years ago, after the peace of Bretigny with France, his wife upped and left him. Who can blame her? He had no other family or kinsfolk.’

  Athelstan examined the wound inflicted by the crossbow bolt: the quarrel had entered deep into Drayton’s skinny, narrow chest. He then sat back and studied the bloodstain further down the room near the door. He hitched his robe and edged along the paving stones.

  ‘What’s the matter, brother?’

  Athelstan pointed to the doorway. ‘The blood begins at least a foot from that: this is where Drayton first fell.’ He turned and pointed to the far wall. ‘Now, here’s a man who is dying, the door is bolted and locked, yes?’

  Flaxwith agreed.

  ‘Over there,’ Athelstan pointed, ‘is Drayton’s desk, the place where he did all his business. Where he’d sit and marvel at the wealth he had amassed.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But he doesn’t try and go towards the door or his desk but to the far wall. Why?’

  He walked across and, pulling out his dagger, tapped at the whitewashed bricks. ‘They sound solid enough to me,’ he declared. ‘Listen, Athelstan.’

  Cranston tapped the wall again, up and down; the only response was a dull thud. ‘There’s no secret passageway,’ he asserted, resheathing his dagger.

  ‘Perhaps Drayton was delirious?’ Flaxwith commented.

  ‘It does prove one thing,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘The door must have been still locked and bolted, otherwise the poor man would have crawled towards it.’ He got up, wiping his hand on the black mantle over his white robe. He stared round the chamber. ‘You are correct, Master Flaxwith, a square of pure stone and plaster.’

  Athelstan walked around: there was the counting desk against one wall and a boxed chair with cushions. On the desk were weighing scales, scraps of parchment, quills, inkhorns and a coffer, its clasp broken. Athelstan studied this and realised it must have been so for years. Inside there was nothing but strips of wax and more quills. The rest of the room was bare and gaunt.

  ‘Not even a crucifix,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Drayton must have been a very close and narrow soul.’

  For a while all three searched the square musty chamber.

  ‘Not even a rat could break in
here,’ Cranston declared, mopping his brow and taking another swig from his miraculous wineskin.

  ‘Except through the door,’ Athelstan pronounced. ‘It’s time we examined it.’

  They took the torch from the wall and scrutinised the door. Athelstan’s curiosity grew. The wood was at least nine inches thick, the hinges were of steel. He could tell from the three bolts and two locks, with keys still inside, that the door must have been secure when it was broken down. He studied the metal bosses. On the outside these were conical-shaped, fitting into the wood with a clasp on the inside. He felt some of these but they were all tightly secure. The only opening was a small grille high in the door, about six inches across and six inches high. He pulled at the wooden flap which covered it.

  ‘Was this up or down?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘It’s hanging down now. Perhaps all the force we used knocked it loose?’

  Athelstan stared at the small grille. It was broad enough for a man to see out but the bars were so close together it would be difficult to slip even a dagger through, let alone a crossbow bolt. Athelstan went back to the great steel bosses and began testing each of these.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Cranston asked curiously.

  ‘I want to see if any are loose,’ Athelstan replied. ‘They are fitted into the door by clasps.’

  ‘I did that myself,’ Flaxwith declared triumphantly. ‘Father, there’s none loose.’

  And if there was,’ Cranston intervened, ‘surely it would have shaken free when Master Flaxwith and his colleagues were hammering at the door?’

  Athelstan grudgingly conceded and scratched his head. ‘Therefore the problem still remains,’ he said. He walked back into the counting house. ‘Master Drayton would have his silver here, yes?’

  Cranston agreed.

  ‘What puzzles me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that the assassin had to kill our moneylender, take the money and escape. Yes? In the ordinary course of events the door should have been left open but, instead, Drayton is inside, the door barred and secured. So, if the robbers struck first and took the silver from the room, why is the door closed?’

  And if it is closed,’ Cranston finished, ‘how did the robbers enter in the first place, kill Drayton, steal his silver and get out, leaving the door barred and locked from the inside?’

  ‘Precisely, Sir John, the perfect conundrum.’

  ‘What is more,’ Flaxwith added, ‘they not only stole the silver but also any loose coins. Moreover, Drayton’s clerks claim two silver candlesticks and a gold pendant are missing.’

  Athelstan sat down on the stool and stared at the corpse.

  ‘How?’ he murmured. ‘In or out?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin.

  ‘Well, I can understand them killing Drayton and taking the silver but how did they get in and out? That door is better than a wall of steel. There are no gaps or breaks. If they’d approached the door, Drayton would have left the flap down. He was safe behind the grille. He would have refused to open the door. Now I could understand a man like Drayton letting in a clerk or a friend.’ He glanced at Flaxwith. ‘You are sure the key was in the lock, the bolts were drawn?’

  ‘It’s the first thing I checked,’ the bailiff retorted, jumping from foot to foot. ‘Oh please, Sir John, may I see my dog? Samson begins to pine if he’s away from me.’

  ‘Oh, go and see the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Give it my best regards!’

  Flaxwith almost ran from the room.

  ‘And there’s another problem,’ Athelstan went on. ‘How did the assassin get in and out of the house without forcing a door or window?’

  ‘Bloody mysterious!’ Cranston took another slurp from the miraculous wineskin.

  ‘The clerks are still here?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Oh yes, Brother. They are waiting upstairs.’

  They left the chamber and went up to meet them. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to Master Philip Stablegate and his colleague James Flinstead. Oh, they were pleasant enough. They rose politely as he entered. They were of personable appearance, hair neatly cropped, their faces clean-shaven and washed. They were dressed in sober apparel, dark tunics and hose. Stablegate was fair-haired, pleasant-faced, ever ready to smile. Flinstead was darker, rather dour. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt repelled. Clever men, he thought, full of mockery. Both clerks made little attempt to hide their amusement at what they considered the coroner’s antics. Cranston waved at them to sit down, then he helped Athelstan pull a rather shabby bench across to sit opposite them. Athelstan placed his writing bag between his sandalled feet and waited patiently as Sir John took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. The coroner closed his eyes and burped with pleasure. Stablegate dropped his head and sniggered. Cranston, wobbling on the bench, put the stopper back in. He must have caught the mockery.

  ‘You are Master Drayton’s clerks?’ he began harshly. ‘You were the last to see him alive?’

  ‘We left just before Vespers,’ Flinstead replied.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Same as always,’ Flinstead said pointedly. ‘You are…?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’

  ‘And my secretarius,’ Cranston boomed.

  ‘Do you suspect us of this crime?’

  ‘Why should I?’ Athelstan replied.

  Flinstead seemed a little nonplussed.

  ‘Please,’ Athelstan said. ‘Answer my question. What happened last night?’

  ‘We finished the day as usual,’ Stablegate answered. ‘We were in our writing office, a small chamber, no more than a garret, further down the passageway. Master Drayton came up as usual to usher us out. And before you ask, Brother, no, he didn’t trust us, he didn’t trust anyone. We went out into the street. Master Drayton bade us goodnight, as surly as ever. Then he slammed the door shut, we heard the bolts being drawn and the locks turned.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘As usual, we went drinking at the Dancing Pig, a tavern in St Martin’s Lane just near the Shambles.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘When the curfew bell rang from St Mary Le Bow, we left for our lodgings in Grubb Street off Cripplegate. We share a chamber there.’

  ‘Mistress Aldous, our landlady, will confirm that we came home much the worse for wear. We slept till dawn, rose and came back here.’

  ‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘The same as every morning, Father. We’d knock, pull the bell. Master Drayton would come shuffling down the passageway and let us in.’

  ‘But this morning was different?’

  ‘Yes it was, Father. We hammered and rang the bell to raise the dead.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Then Flaxwith came along. The rest you know.’

  ‘What do I know?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

  ‘Well, we tried the shutters at the windows. The front and back doors were locked and barred as usual.’

  ‘And so you broke in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Stablegate replied. ‘I climbed on James’s shoulders.’

  He tapped the hilt of his dagger. ‘I pushed this through a crack in the shutters and lifted the bar.’

  Sir John was falling asleep now, head nodding forward, mouth open. Stablegate hid his smirk behind his hand.

  ‘In which case…’ Athelstan’s voice rose as he stood up.

  Sir John, startled, also staggered to his feet. The coroner stood, feet apart, and blinked, breathing in noisily through his nose. He saw the two clerks laughing. Athelstan closed his eyes.

  ‘Do you find me amusing, sirs?’ Cranston’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt. He took a step forward, white moustache and whiskers bristling, fierce blue eyes popping. ‘Do you find old Jack amusing? Because my poppets woke me before dawn? And old Jack has had a few mouthfuls of wine? Now, let me tell you, sirs,’ he continued, breathing wine fumes into their now frightened faces. ‘Old Jack is no
t the fool he appears to be: “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick”. The poet was thinking of old Jack Cranston when he wrote that.’ He lifted a finger. ‘You say you live with Mistress Aldous in Grubb Street near Cripplegate?’

  ‘Yes,’ Flinstead replied, rather surprised that Sir John, who’d apparently been asleep, had still heard this.

  ‘I know Mistress Aldous,’ Cranston continued. ‘Five times she has appeared before my bench on charges of soliciting, of keeping a bawdyhouse, a molly shop.’

  ‘There’s no one there now,’ Stablegate retorted.

  ‘Just you two lovely boys and Mistress Aldous, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘Now let me tell you,’ the coroner went on threateningly. ‘Don’t laugh at old Jack. A horrible murder has been done and the Crown’s silver has been stolen.’

  ‘We don’t know about that.’

  ‘No, boyo, you don’t. Five thousand pounds intended for the Regent’s coffers. Now it’s gone.’ Cranston brought a large paw down on each of their shoulders and made them wince. ‘Well, my lovelies, let’s see this bloody window.’

  Athelstan, quietly pleased at Cranston’s assertion of his authority, abruptly turned at the door.

  ‘I am sorry.’ He came back. ‘You didn’t know Master Drayton had five thousand pounds in silver at his counting house?’

  ‘He’d never let us handle monies,’ Stablegate retorted. ‘It was one rule he always insisted on. We do know,’ Stablegate continued quickly, ‘that envoys from the Frescobaldi bank visited the house yesterday, though Master Drayton told us to stay in our chamber. He answered the door. We heard a murmur of voices and then they left.’

  Athelstan nodded. ‘And what would happen then?’

  ‘If the bankers brought the money,’ Stablegate replied, ‘knowing Master Drayton, he’d count every coin, sign a receipt and keep the money in his strongroom.’

  ‘Did you like Master Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘No!’ They both answered together.

  ‘He was the devil’s own skinflint,’ Flinstead declared. ‘He made us work from dawn till dusk. At the Angelus time he’d give us some ale, bread and cheese, then it was back to work.’ He tugged at his tunic. At Christmas and Easter we’d get new robes and a silver piece at midsummer. He hardly spoke to us, only visiting us every so often, as quiet as a shadow, to make sure we weren’t wasting his time and money.’