The Assassin's riddle smoba-7

by Paul Doherty

  Alison smiled so dazzlingly at Athelstan that his heart gave a slight skip. It had been a long time since a comely young woman smiled at him like that. He blushed and lowered his head.

  ‘Do you wish to take it back, mistress?’ Cranston continued, glancing sideways at Athelstan, enjoying his secretarius’s discomfort.

  ‘No, Sir John, I do not. Brother Athelstan, it was most kind of you. St Erconwald’s is in Southwark, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, mistress.’ Athelstan didn’t even lift his head.

  ‘I thank you, Brother.’

  ‘What are you doing in London now?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I came to see my brother,’ Alison replied. ‘Ten days ago a journeyman brought me a letter, a short note: Edwin said he felt unwell. I could see he was worried about something. I have it here.’

  She picked up the battered leather saddlebag lying next to her chair, undid the clasp and rummaged amongst the contents. The letter was passed along. Athelstan took it and undid the crisp, square piece of parchment. The writing inside it was beautifully formed: From Edwin Chapler to his sweet and beloved sister Alison. The letter went on to describe that he felt unwell, burdened by certain troubles; that if he was free he would go to visit her but could she not come and see him?

  Athelstan noted it was written ten days earlier; he smiled his thanks and passed it back.

  ‘I arrived this morning,’ Alison continued. ‘My brother had lodgings in St Martin’s Lane near Aldersgate: a mere garret overlooking the city ditch. A rather foulsome place, especially in summer.’

  ‘Quite, quite.’ Cranston nodded understandingly. And so you came here, mistress, and found your brother had been killed?’

  ‘Yes she did.’ Alcest spoke up. ‘We told her, sir, what Havant had told us, that her brother’s corpse had been plucked from the Thames.’

  And now poor Peslep is also slain,’ Napham added.

  ‘Two deaths,’ Cranston trumpeted, eyes rolling. ‘Two royal clerks killed in a matter of days.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s not accident, sirs. We are given to understand that Chapler was killed whilst praying in the chapel of St Thomas a Becket on London Bridge and his body thrown over into the Thames. Peslep was stabbed in the Ink and Pot tavern. To cut a long story short, sirs, the assassin knew where to strike. We have a story of a young man, a stranger, at the Ink and Pot dressed in a cloak, war belt and boots armed with spurs. How many of you here could fit that description?’

  The clerks looked at each other in surprise.

  ‘The lord coroner,’ Athelstan broke in, ‘asked you a question. How many of you might fit this description? Perhaps if you could indicate?’

  Slowly, led by Alcest, each of the clerks held up a hand.

  ‘But,’ Elflain protested, ‘there are countless young men in London who would fit that description.’

  ‘And how many of those young men,’ Athelstan asked, ‘knew that Chapler prayed at St Thomas a Becket or that Peslep frequented the Ink and Pot?’

  ‘You are saying that the killer is one of us?’ Alcest demanded.

  ‘Yes, sir, I am,’ Athelstan replied. And please don’t take offence or stand up to protest your innocence. We are here on the orders of His Grace the regent, John Duke of Lancaster.’ He was pleased to see their smugness and arrogance fade. ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I could temper my words. At this moment, suspicion falls on all of you but, there again, if honesty is your guide and truth your response to our questions, suspicion might fall elsewhere.’

  ‘What questions?’ Ollerton asked.

  Athelstan glanced at Lesures who was sitting open-mouthed. The friar had already concluded that the Master of the Rolls, despite his title, exercised very little control over these young fighting cocks. These clerks earned good silver and were patronised by the great and mighty at court who always needed the services of a good scribe.

  ‘Questions!’ Cranston barked. ‘Questions, sir! Yes, sirs, I will ask you questions, all of you. First, where were you this morning, when Peslep was killed?’

  ‘Oh, for the Love of God, Sir John,’ Alcest replied, his handsome face twisted in disdain. All of us here live in different parts of the city. We arrived here just after Matins. Some of us go to Mass, others stroll the fields of Clerkenwell. Peslep liked to eat, drink and feel the tits of a young tavern wench.’

  And what did Chapler do?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘A dutiful clerk.’ Lesures now spoke up, as if eager to extol the dead man’s virtues. ‘He always went to Mass at St Mary Le Bow and said the Angelus at noon. He was known for his generosity to beggars along Cheapside.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ Athelstan said, imitating Cranston. ‘But none of you can account for where you were and what you were doing this morning when Peslep was killed?’

  The clerks stared at him and shook their heads.

  ‘You have no witnesses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘saying that such and such a person was there at such and such a time?’

  ‘Does any man in London?’ Napham scratched his head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we get up, we wash, we get dressed and we go about our daily duties. We do not keep a faithful check of every minute and every second we spend.’

  ‘Then let us discuss what you were doing three nights ago…’

  Athelstan heard a snore and looked round. Cranston had leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, smacking his lips. The coroner burped gently. The friar stared round the table. The young woman was gazing, fascinated, at Sir John. In ordinary circumstances the rest of the group would have been sniggering, laughing behind their hands, but now the clerks were watchful. They might dismiss Cranston as a drunken buffoon but they watched this little friar with his innocent face and short, barbed questions. It’s all a sham, Athelstan thought. Sitting here in this chamber he had a feeling of sin, heavy and oppressive, of arrogance and secrecy. These men had something to hide; Athelstan was sure the killer was sitting with him.

  ‘Does Sir John sleep a great deal?’ Alcest cocked his head to one side, eyes rounded like that of a child.

  Athelstan caught the sneer in the words. ‘I once saw a lion in the Tower,’ he replied. ‘He used to sprawl in the sand but only a fool would dare wake him. You are not a fool, are you, Master Alcest?’

  The clerk pulled a face and looked away.

  ‘Then let’s return to three nights ago when Chapler was killed,’ Athelstan suggested. He caught Alcest’s glance: the clerk had been waiting for that question to be repeated.

  ‘Three nights ago,’ Alcest replied. ‘At what hour, Brother?’

  ‘What time do you finish here?’

  ‘As soon as the light fades in summertime, but three evenings ago was different. It was the feast of St Edmund, our patron: we left here just before Vespers.’

  ‘And did Chapler go with you?’

  ‘No, no, as usual he went about his own duties.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Go ask mine host of the Dancing Pig. We were there well before sunset. We hired a special chamber for a feast. Certain ladies of the town graced us with their presence.’

  ‘And none of you left?’

  ‘No!’ Ollerton intervened, scratching at the scar on his face. ‘Not one of us left and we can each stand surety for the other. Moreover, mine host at the Dancing Pig will tell you we had no reason to leave.’

  ‘You were there all night?’

  ‘From before dusk until just before dawn.’

  ‘Ah, the poppets! Lovely lads!’ Cranston murmured. ‘Lovely boys, and a cup of claret for myself.’

  Athelstan went red with embarrassment at the sniggers. ‘A king once fought an army,’ he declared hurriedly. ‘And vanquished them but, when the battle was over, victors and vanquished lay together in the same place.’

  The sniggers faded away.

  ‘What on earth?’ Alcest asked.

  ‘My first,’ Athelstan added, remembering the second riddle, ‘is like a selfish brother.’

  ‘Father,
you are speaking in riddles!’

  ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston opened his eyes and leaned forward, rubbing his face, ‘Brother Athelstan is quoting from what we found this morning on the corpse of your dead friend Peslep. Two riddles, sir, eh, what do they mean? Come, sir, tell me.’

  Cranston stretched, flexing muscles and wetting his lips. He would have sipped from the miraculous wineskin but Athelstan kicked his shin under the table.

  ‘Riddles!’ Lesures exclaimed. He glanced round the table, eager to join in this mysterious conversation. ‘Why, sirs,’ Lesures addressed the clerks, ‘you are constantly posing riddles for the others to solve.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Alcest replied. ‘Sir John, you once served as a clerk. Brother Athelstan, you were engaged in your studies, yes?’ Alcest spread his hands. ‘Life can be tedious, even as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. So, yes, we have perfected the art of the riddle. We pose each other riddles and, at the end of the week, the one who has solved the most dines free.’

  ‘Give me an example,’ Athelstan asked.

  Alcest scratched his chin. ‘Tell me, Brother, where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

  Athelstan looked at Sir John, who pulled a face.

  ‘Think, Brother,’ Alcest added teasingly. ‘Where, in any part of the world, is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

  Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled the previous night, standing on St Erconwald’s tower, staring up at the sky. Sometimes he gazed so steadfastly he thought the sky would come down and envelope him whilst the stars, dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open… Athelstan opened his eyes.

  ‘Where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’ he asked.

  Alcest nodded.

  ‘Why, at the bottom of a well,’ Athelstan replied.

  Alcest clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Brother.’

  ‘I have answered the riddle,’ Athelstan pointed out.

  ‘Repeat yours,’ Elflain asked.

  Athelstan did so; the clerks murmured and whispered amongst each other, oblivious to the young woman sitting at the end of the table.

  ‘They are new,’ Napham declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must give us more time.’

  ‘And we will,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘But tell me, sirs, do you know of someone who, for any reason, wanted the deaths of Chapler and Peslep?’

  A chorus of denials greeted his words.

  ‘You are sure of that?’ Cranston insisted.

  ‘Sir John, we are clerks,’ Elflain replied. ‘We come from different parts of the country. We have no family here.’ Elflain waved around. ‘So our companions here, these are our kinsfolk. We would know of any danger which threatened any of us.’

  Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘In which case,’ he lumbered to his feet, ‘none of you, sirs, will be leaving London!’

  ‘We are busy enough,’ Lesures declared primly. ‘No one can leave.’

  Athelstan stared round the Chancery. Each desk had manuscripts covering it. In the far corner were seven cups, red glazed earthenware with a letter inscribed on each. Alcest followed his glance.

  ‘Our drinking cups, Brother.’ His face became sad. ‘Seven, if you include Master Tibault’s. Now Peslep and Chapler are dead, we’ll toast them ceremoniously tonight.’

  ‘It’s our custom,’ Lesures intervened. ‘After working hard at charters and writs, we always finish the day with a cup of malmsey. Tonight we’ll toast our deceased friends.’

  ‘What do you do here?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, his writing bag clasped in his hands.

  ‘This is the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures said in hushed, reverential tones.

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘If I want,’ Cranston explained, ‘to renew a charter, obtain a licence to go overseas, to beg or have the right to enter my father’s property, secure a writ against an enemy, I petition the Chancellor. The Chancellor and his clerks will either approve or reject; if they approve, the writ, charter, or whatever document is needed, will be drawn up and sealed.’

  ‘And that is done here?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Napham replied. ‘And, Brother,’ he pointed to the hour candle fixed on a large iron spigot near the door, ‘we have further work to do.’

  ‘Where did Peslep live?’ Athelstan asked, ignoring the hint to leave.

  ‘In Little Britain, near St Bartholomew’s Priory,’ Alcest replied.

  And Edwin Chapler?’

  ‘He had lodgings near the city ditch.’

  ‘I think we should visit both,’ Athelstan said. He glanced round quickly and caught it, a slight grimace of annoyance on Ollerton’s face, an anxious licking of the lips by Elflain.

  ‘Is that proper?’ Alcest asked.

  ‘I am the King’s coroner,’ Cranston retorted, swaying slightly on his feet. And I know what I can do, sir, and I know what I cannot. I will visit their dwellings.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Let us not forget, sirs: you are clerks of the Green Wax, an important office of state. God knows why your companions were killed but His Grace the Regent has a deep interest in the matter.’ He waved a stubby finger around. ‘Every preacher leaves with a good text, so will I. Two of your comrades are dead. Now that may be the end of the matter but, for all I know, the assassin may wish more, or even all of you, dead. So I beg you to be careful.’ He glanced round, pleased to see these arrogant young men had lost some of their hauteur. ‘I also ask you to think, to reflect. Have you made any enemies? Have the clerks of this office offended someone? Who may nurture a grievance against you? Brother Athelstan, the day draws on.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ Alison picked up her cloak and swung it round her shoulders. ‘I have lodgings at the Silver Lute.’ She added hastily, ‘On the corner of Milk Street.’

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are more than welcome, mistress! Your belongings?’ he asked.

  ‘They are already there,’ she replied.

  The young woman picked up her leather bag and made to swing it over her shoulder. Cranston gallantly took it from her. They made their farewells and left the Chancery. Outside, in the street, Athelstan paused.

  ‘Daydreaming, monk?’

  ‘No, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at Alison. ‘This friar is just thinking. There was something wrong with those young men.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing of substance, just a look, a glance.’

  ‘What makes you say that, Brother?’ Alison asked.

  Cranston brought his hand down on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘Because, mistress, he has the mind of a veritable ferret, always scurrying about for the truth, and, if he’s not doing that, he’s listening to those woebegone parishioners of his or sitting on his tower staring up at the stars.’

  ‘You study the heavens, Father?’

  Athelstan smiled at the young woman’s sweet face. ‘Why yes, and as I walk I’ll tell you about a book I’m reading by a monk called Richard of Wallingford. He was abbot of St Albans…’

  Athelstan, pleased to find someone so avidly interested in the works of astrology and astronomy, briskly chattered on. Cranston, rather sulkily, hung back, now and again muttering to himself about bloody monks and stars or taking an occasional swig from his miraculous wineskin.

  They made their way along Holborn. The crowds had thinned; only the solitary cart, a late arrival at the markets, or the usual travellers, journeymen and chapmen were travelling into the city. Athelstan found Alison a ready listener with a keen interest in the working of astrology and astronomy, particularly in the effect of Saturn on men’s affairs. Only once, as they passed Cock Lane, the usual haunt of prostitutes, did Athelstan stop. Usually the mouth of the alleyway was thronged with whores in garish wigs and even more colourful garb touting for custom. If they ever glimp
sed Sir John, the air would ring with their catcalls and lurid descriptions of what they would do to him. However, this morning the entire area was quiet, not a whore in sight. Instead the alleyway was sealed off by two great timbers placed across the entrance and guarded by a line of archers. These were all dressed in black, a hood of the same colour covering their faces. They were armed with sword and dagger, quivers on their backs; in their hands the longbows were already strung, an arrow notched to the string. Over the wooden barrier someone had draped a piece of white cloth bearing a large red cross with the words ‘Jesu Miserere’ scrawled beneath.

  ‘Lord have mercy on us!’ Cranston whispered. ‘The plague is here!’

  Athelstan felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck; one of the great nightmares of London had returned. Every so often the pestilential miasma would seep into the city. Sometimes it would infect every place; at others, like now, just one alleyway, street or quarter would be blighted. When this happened all the inhabitants were locked and barred in their houses, dying in bed together. Children would cry beside the corpses of their parents; priests would refuse to administer the sacraments, doctors decline to visit; even the gravediggers would not touch the dead.

  ‘The Plague Virgin!’ Alison whispered.

  ‘The what?’ Cranston asked, staring across at the barricades.

  ‘A Norfolk legend,’ the woman replied. ‘The Plague Virgin’s a spectre who flies through the air like a bluish flame and stops at the place of her choice. She then takes human form and goes from house to house anointing doors and windows with her feverish poison. Sometimes you can even glimpse her blood-red scarf fluttering in the wind. If you see or touch it, you die within the day.’

  ‘What does your Richard of Wallingford say about that?’ Cranston asked sardonically.

  ‘Something similar,’ Athelstan replied.

  He made to walk towards the barricades. One of the archers lifted his bow. Athelstan held his hand up in a gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.

  ‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’