The Assassin's riddle smoba-7

by Paul Doherty

  Athelstan sketched a bow in compliment.

  ‘Now, if our good coroner lets me go before the curfew bell, I know someone who can help, provided he can enter and leave Southwark without arrest.’

  ‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘The Sanctus Man. There’s not a false relic he hasn’t sold, not one piece of subtle trickery he hasn’t practised. Let Cranston release me and you be at your church when Vespers rings. If your crucifix is miraculous, the Sanctus Man will tell you.’

  Cranston clapped his hands. ‘Oh, what a day! What a day!’ he crowed. ‘The Vicar of Hell in Newgate and now the Sanctus Man is about to emerge. How I’d love to finger his collar!’

  ‘No, Sir John, you must give me your word that he can come and go without fear,’ Athelstan pleaded.

  ‘Oh, you have my word’ the coroner replied. ‘But the Sanctus Man is another rogue born and bred. He sold Christ’s crown of thorns fifteen times. His ability to make people part with their money is a miracle in itself.’

  ‘At Vespers then?’ the Vicar of Hell insisted.

  Cranston agreed Athelstan sketched a blessing and they walked back through the cavernous passages of Newgate to the jailers’ lodge. Cranston stepped into the keeper’s small office and re-emerged smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘Our Vicar is now free, Brother, or will be, within the hour.’

  ‘Will he keep his word?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Oh yes, for such people their word is their bond. The Sanctus Man will be there. Now for Master Alcest…’

  Cranston and Athelstan made their way along Westchepe, down Friday Street to where barges waited at the wharf. They clambered into one and the wherry men, straining at their oars, pulled the barge into midstream.

  ‘Do you think Alcest will confess?’ Cranston asked, making himself comfortable in the stern.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We know he is guilty of counterfeiting but whether he is an assassin or not…?’ Athelstan sat back and closed his eyes.

  ‘You are not going to sleep, Brother?’

  ‘No, Sir John, I am not. We are approaching London Bridge and when we go under the arches my stomach positively dances.’

  ‘O man of little faith,’ Cranston quipped. ‘Why are you so frightened of death?’

  ‘I am not, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘It’s just drowning I fear.’

  The coroner sat forward, however, and began to exchange pleasantries with the two wherry men, drawing them into good-natured banter. As they approached the bridge, Cranston’s heart skipped a beat: the water was bubbling like oil in a pot as it gushed under the narrow arches of the bridge. The noise became like thunder. Cranston lost his wager with the wherry men for, as they shot through, narrowly missing the starlings or wooden partitions built to buttress the stone pillars, he closed his eyes as everyone did, not opening them until they were out into the quiet water near Botolph’s Wharf. The pace of their journey slowed down. Eventually the barge turned towards the shore, going past the fish markets of Billingsgate, the air rank with the stench of herring, cod, brine and salt. They disembarked at the Woolquay. Above them soared the Tower with its sheer walls, bulwarks, crenellations and bastions. Even on that sunny day the huge fortress had a threatening and forbidding air. Athelstan disliked the place: he had visited it on many occasions, accompanying Sir John in the pursuit of some red-handed murderer.

  ‘A narrow, cruel place,’ he muttered. ‘May St Dominic and all the angels take us swiftly in and out, for death and murder always lurk here.’

  They crossed the drawbridge. Beneath them the moat was filled with dirty green slimy water which stank worse than any midden heap in the city. They went under the black arch of Middle Tower. The huge gateway stood like an open mouth, its teeth the half-lowered iron portcullis. Above them the severed heads of two felons, now rotting under the sun, grinned down at them.

  ‘God defend us,’ Athelstan prayed. ‘From all devils, demons, scorpions and malignant sprites who dwell here!’

  The gateway was guarded by sentries who stood under the narrow vaulted archway seeking shade from the sun.

  ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘I hold the King’s writ and this is my clerk, Brother Athelstan, who for his sins is also parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. A place,’ Cranston paused and grinned at Athelstan, ‘where, as the Sanctus Man will show, virtue and vice rub shoulders and shake hands.’

  In response, one of the sentries hawked and spat, narrowly missing Cranston’s boot. The coroner advanced threateningly towards him. The fellow forced a smile, mumbled an apology and fairly skipped before them, up past Byward Tower. They turned left at the Wakefield, going through another fortified wall and on to Tower Green. Most of the garrison was assembled there: soldiers lying on the grass, their wives at the washtubs, children climbing over the catapults, battering rams, mangonels, huge iron-ringed carts and the other impediments of war. To their right stood the massive half-timbered Great Hall with other rooms built on to it. Here the soldier handed them over to a snivelling red-nosed groom who took them up into the Great Hall. Cranston patted the two rough-haired hunting dogs snuffling amongst the dirty rushes. One of them took this friendliness too far and was about to cock its leg against Sir John but ran off growling when the coroner lashed out with his boot. The hall itself was a vaulting, sombre room with a dirty stone floor and smoke-charred heavy beams. Against the far wall was a fireplace, broad and high enough to roast an ox. The midday meal had just been finished and scullions were clearing the tables on either side of the hall, throwing the pewter and wooden platters into a tub of greasy water which they pushed around on wheels. A group of men stood before the fireplace. The groom hurried over. One of the men, tall and lanky, red-haired with pink-lidded eyes, sauntered over, thumbs stuck into his broad leather belt. He forced a smile as he recognised Cranston and Athelstan.

  ‘Goodmorrow, sirs!’

  ‘Master Colebrooke, isn’t it?’ Athelstan asked, going forward to shake the man’s hand.

  ‘The same, now Constable of the Tower.’ Gilbert Colebrooke preened himself. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘Alcest,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax. He came here seeking shelter.’

  ‘Oh yes, so he did.’ Colebrooke scratched his chin. ‘In a fair fright he was, demanding all his rights. I gave him a chamber high in the Wakefield. What’s this all about, Sir John?’

  ‘Look, sir, you know better than to ask and I’m too astute to tell. I want to see him now!’

  Colebrooke pulled a face. ‘Sir John, you know the rules of war. The Tower is under my direct authority. Any royal official who shelters here has my protection.’

  ‘Of course, Master Gilbert, you can be present when we question him.’ Cranston smiled. ‘I still want to see him now. Or I can take a barge down to the Savoy Palace and tell His Grace the Regent that I am unable to carry out his commands, at least at the Tower.’

  Colebrooke almost ran from the hall. He returned a short while later, Alcest trailing behind, and led Sir John and Athelstan down a corridor into a small, whitewashed room. Athelstan studied Alcest closely. The clerk was dirty and dishevelled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept, whilst a muscle high in his right cheek kept twitching. Cranston waved him to a stool whilst Colebrooke slammed the door and stood with his back to it.

  ‘You find it restful here, Master Alcest?’ Cranston demanded.

  ‘Yes.’ The young man rubbed his eyes.

  ‘You came here late last night?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I had to collect my belongings but, yes, I came just before the gates were closed.’

  ‘Did you go to Southwark?’

  Alcest shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alcest mumbled.

  ‘Neither do we,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Because, sir, you are a liar. Your paramour, Clarice, tells us that on the night Chapler was killed you were not asle
ep with her all night but left and came back.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘What?’ Athelstan declared. ‘Are you going to confess that you put a sleeping potion into her wine which she did not drink? Quick of wit and sharp of eye is Mistress Clarice. Where did you go?’

  Alcest licked his lips. He glanced furtively around as if seeking some bolt-hole.

  ‘Where did you go?’ Cranston demanded.

  ‘I returned to my own lodgings. I forgot the silver. I needed to pay Mistress Broadsheet’s girls.’

  ‘You are a liar,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You slipped along the alleyways to London Bridge. Chapler was well known for going to the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Lonely and deserted after dark, you went there, struck him on the head, pulled his corpse round to the rail and tossed it over, as easy as a leaf falling from a tree.’

  Alcest’s hands went to his face, his legs began to shake.

  ‘You killed Edwin Chapler,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘because Chapler was a man of integrity. He knew about your subtle schemes, the issuing of licences and warrants to the villains and rogues of London’s underworld. The use of false names…’

  ‘Are you going to deny it?’ Cranston asked. ‘There are those like Stablegate and Flinstead who are more than prepared to buy their lives by sending you to the gallows.’

  ‘Where is the money?’ Athelstan asked. ‘The vast profits you and the others made. Collected together, is it in one account? With which goldsmith?’

  Alcest swallowed hard.

  ‘When Sir John and I began our inquiries into this matter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘your companions panicked, didn’t they? Was that what you intended? Did you make the rest hand over their monies to you for safekeeping? Did you object to sharing out your ill-gotten gains and that’s why you plotted to kill them all?’

  ‘No, no!’ Alcest moaned.

  ‘I believe you did,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You are like Stablegate and Flinstead who wanted to get forged licences and letters from you. You are consumed by avarice; the pleasures of the belly and the crotch are your only guiding lights, yet you wanted more.’

  ‘But the riddles,’ Alcest wailed. ‘I wouldn’t leave riddles!’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘I thought you were skilled in the art of the riddle. Moreover, Master Alcest, look at the way these young men died. Peslep sitting on a jakes with his hose about his ankles.’ Athelstan paused and stared at the light streaming through the arrow-slit window. Had he said something wrong?

  ‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Athelstan faltered. He didn’t feel so sure any more. ‘You followed Peslep to that tavern because you knew he went there every day. The same applies to the other murders. You knew their habits, their lifestyle. Did you send Napham back to his lodgings?’

  ‘Well, no, he wanted to go…’

  ‘Didn’t you arrange to meet him before coming to the Tower?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Or did you already know that Napham was going to walk into his chamber and have half his foot taken off by a caltrop? Were you busy in Southwark trying to terrify Mistress Alison, Chapler’s sister? You act like a court fop,’ Athelstan continued, ‘wearing your cloak and spurred boots.’

  Alcest put his arms across his chest and began to rock gently backwards and forwards on the stool.

  ‘You do dress like that, don’t you?’

  Alcest nodded.

  ‘So why did you stop?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘I became frightened,’ the clerk said. ‘When I heard that Peslep had been killed by a man wearing spurs on his boots…’

  ‘So easy, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘The poison in Ollerton’s cup just as you tried to poison Chapler.’

  Alcest lifted his head.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We know about that. Did Elflain tell you he was going to visit Dame Broadsheet? What next? Were you going to arrange some attack on yourself from which you would escape?’

  ‘I’m no murderer!’ Alcest retorted defiantly.

  ‘You are a thief,’ Cranston intervened. ‘You are a felon and an assassin. Master Alcest,’ the coroner intoned, ‘I arrest you for petty treason, homicide, theft, sustaining and nourishing known outlaws and wolfsheads.’ He walked over and, crouching down, stared into Alcest’s face. ‘I shall tell you something, Master Alcest: you will weep and bitterly regret entering this narrow place.’ He winked at Athelstan. ‘It was a mistake, wasn’t it, Master Colebrooke?’ Cranston asked, turning to the Constable.

  Athelstan did not like the sneer on Colebrooke’s face: he was staring at Alcest as a cat would a mouse. The Constable came forward.

  ‘Master Alcest,’ he declared. ‘You are now my prisoner. You fled to the Tower and in the Tower you shall remain.’

  ‘You see,’ Cranston explained as Colebrooke dragged Alcest to his feet. ‘According to ancient law and customs, a felon can receive sanctuary in a church but, if he is found in the royal presence, be it Westminster, Eltham, Sheen or the Tower, he can be arrested and summarily tortured. Master Colebrooke here will help you remember.’

  The Constable was already dragging Alcest to the door, shouting for guards. Within a few minutes the hapless clerk had been bundled out of the room, Colebrooke ordering him to be taken to the dungeons.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘He’ll not confess,’ Cranston replied. ‘And we have to be careful, Brother. If Alcest left the Tower, he might flee to a church, seek sanctuary and, as a royal clerk, claim benefit of clergy.’

  ‘In which case,’ Colebrooke continued, ‘he would demand to be tried by the Church courts. Brother Athelstan, I am afraid you have no choice in the matter. Sir John mentioned the Regent. He will insist that Alcest be closely questioned.’

  ‘But why did he come here?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Why jump from the pot into the fire?’

  ‘Oh come, Brother.’ Cranston went across to the table where the servitors had left their blackjacks of ale. He drank his in one gulp then picked up the one left for Alcest. ‘Our clerk is arrogant, he acts like cock of the walk. He really believed he wouldn’t be arrested.’

  ‘No, no, that’s not true.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Sir John, Master Colebrooke, can I be excused for a while? I need to think, reflect.’

  And without waiting for an answer, lost in his own thoughts, Athelstan left the chamber and went down the stairs.

  ‘Ah well,’ Cranston sighed. He finished the second blackjack and picked up the third. ‘Master Colebrooke, I do not want Alcest to die.’

  The Constable grinned wolfishly. ‘Sir John, he is a traitor and a felon. He has come to the dance floor and dance he must!’

  CHAPTER 13

  Cranston kicked his heels in the chamber. He dozed for a while then got up, threw open the door and went searching for Athelstan. He found him outside Wakefield Tower speaking to Colebrooke and one of the Tower scriveners. The latter listened carefully to what Athelstan was saying, nodded and hurried off.

  ‘Brother, where have you been?’

  ‘Sir John, I apologise. Master Colebrooke, thank you and goodbye.’

  Athelstan slipped his arm through that of the irate coroner. ‘Come, come, Sir John,’ he said soothingly. ‘I was just going about a little business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘In a while, my Lord Coroner, in a while, but the day draws on.’

  They left the Tower, Cranston accompanying Athelstan along Tower Street to Eastcheap. At the corner of Greychurch street, the coroner stopped, drawing Athelstan into the door of an alehouse.

  ‘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 l
ike 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 a 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.