The Assassin's Riddle (23 page)

He unlocked the door, swung it open and, going inside, fixed the sconce torch into a rusting clasp on the wall. The Vicar of Hell sat on a pile of straw in the corner; his ankles and wrists were loaded with chains which were clasped to iron rings in the wall. His face was covered in dirt and a large bruise darkened his right cheek, yet he still smiled cheekily.

‘Sir John, I would rise and bow but . . .’ He spread his hands in a rattle of chains. ‘I suppose you’ve come to tell me that the Bishop of London has decided to reinstate me as a priest or the Regent has issued a pardon?’

‘You’ll hang, me bucko.’ Cranston stood over him. ‘Yet, when you’ve gone, I’ll miss you.’ He waited until the jailer closed the cell door behind him.

‘Am I going to hang?’ the Vicar asked softly and stared piteously at Athelstan. ‘So many psalms yet to be sung. So much claret to be drunk.’ He sighed. ‘There again, I’ve seen the days and all good things must come to an end.’

Cranston stepped back to lean against the wall. Athelstan went over to the door and stared through the grille; the jailer, eavesdropping on the other side, scampered off.

‘You are not a bad man,’ Cranston continued ‘Not a really wicked soul. You are a rogue born and bred. You are attracted to villainy as a cat to cream.’ He lifted a hand. ‘But I swear, I don’t wish to see you hang. Exiled from London, perhaps for two or three years.’ Sir John paused and scratched his chin.

The Vicar of Hell was now all attention. ‘And the terms, Sir John? What are the conditions?’

‘The clerks of the Green Wax.’

‘Oh, Sir John, you couldn’t!’

‘Oh, Sir John, I can,’ Cranston quipped back. ‘What’s so special about them? Most of them are dead and have been replaced, whilst we know enough about Alcest to send him to do the hangman’s dance at Tower Hill or Tyburn.’

‘Agreed.’ The Vicar of Hell sat back in the corner. ‘If I tell you, Sir John, these chains are loosed?’

‘If you tell me,’ Cranston replied, ‘you’ll be a free man by dusk. However, if you are caught in the city again, it’s summary justice: down on your knees, neck against a piece of wood and off goes your head!’

‘It’s like this, Sir John,’ the Vicar began. ‘People like myself have to – how can I put it? – move around. Go to this city or that. Travel beyond the seas. Or, when the fire becomes too hot, seek retirement by gaining a position in some merchant’s household. To do that I need letters, warrants and licences. Now, what am I going to reveal will mean the closing of a loophole much loved by us villains. Tell me, Sir John, if I want such a letter or a licence what have I to do?’

‘Well, you can apply to the mayor, sheriff or Corporation of London.’

‘Yes, yes, Sir John, but you know me, as the good shepherd knows all the black sheep of his flock. So where else can I go?’

‘You could apply to the Chancery but such letters are only written at the behest of the Chancellor.’

‘And it takes time,’ the Vicar of Hell snapped. ‘So what we do is this, Sir John. We take the name of a dead person. We then get a clerk like Alcest to petition the Chancellor on our behalf . . .’

‘Of course,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘And if the petition has the recommendation of a clerk then it goes ahead and there’ll be no delay.’

‘Precisely, Sir John.’

‘So,’ Athelstan said stepping forward ‘if Philip Stablegate wishes to leave the country with a considerable amount of silver, he approaches Alcest. The clerk will then go through the records and extract the name of someone long dead. Let’s call him Richard Martlew. The petition goes to the Chancellor, who will undoubtedly grant it because it’s got a recommendation. Alcest will not even wait for the Chancellor to reply: he will draw up the document, Master Lesures seals it and the letter is issued. There are no forged seals.’

‘In a word, yes,’ Cranston replied. ‘Now, let us say this Martlew decides to leave England by one of the Cinque Ports. The reeve or harbourmaster probably can’t even read. He doesn’t give a fig if Martlew is Stablegate but he is trained to examine the seal. False seals can soon be detected but, if it’s genuine, he won’t even dream of stopping the person concerned.’

‘Isn’t a record kept?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, the petition itself and the Chancellor’s reply endorsing it? And what happens if someone can prove that Richard Martlew is long dead?’

The Vicar of Hell clapped his hands in a crash of chains. ‘What’s the use of that, Brother? Can’t you see the subtlety of the scheme? It was the Chancery office which authorised the letter to be written, not Alcest or Lesures. Moreover, Alcest could easily prove that he thought it
was
Martlew and that he didn’t even dream anything was wrong. He simply received a petition which he endorsed and sent to the Chancellor. Such requests are never refused: the letter, licence or warrant is drawn up and sealed. That’s what Alcest did. And who is going to betray him? To do that would be sealing your own death warrant.’

‘But stop! Surely,’ Athelstan asked, ‘there would be a discrepancy over the date? I mean, it’s issued almost immediately.’

‘No, Brother,’ Cranston retorted. ‘I can now see what our good friend means by a loophole. Let’s say you petitioned the Chancellor to travel to Calais: you put the petition in through Alcest, he would recommend or not recommend. He would also ensure the wrong date, perhaps ten days later, is put on the petition and dispatched to the Chancery Office. The Chancellor doesn’t see it, some clerk in his office simply writes “approved”, or the Latin
placet,
“it pleases”, and then it’s sent back. Alcest, meanwhile, has drawn up the licence, perhaps adding another two days on. Accordingly, a petition which looks as if it was drawn up on the tenth of August and issued, let’s say, on the twenty-second, really only took a day or two. It’s been done before, everybody abuses the system. What Alcest did was not just accept pennies, as other clerks have done for approval of a petition: he knowingly arranged for letters and licences to be issued to wolf-heads, outlaws and counterfeit men. Most clerks would certainly baulk at that. Alcest didn’t.’

‘And that was the source of their wealth?’

‘Of course!’ the Vicar of Hell scoffed. ‘And no one dared betray Alcest. For the first time, Brother, people like myself could travel freely, and protected by the law thanks to him.’

He rattled his chains at Sir John. ‘Alcest and his coven are for the dark, if they haven’t gone there already. Our good coroner here will ensure the Chancery office strikes hard and either closes this loophole or cuts it off. There will also be some interesting times when the Chancellor orders the scrutineers to go through past records. I certainly don’t want it bruited abroad that it was I who betrayed Alcest. I may have my life but Sir John has received very valuable information in return.’

‘Aye, you’re right,’ Cranston sighed. ‘And it would have gone on. Alcest’s replacement would be approached and the offer of gold for a simple letter is very hard to resist.’ He squatted down before the Vicar. ‘Did Lesures know about this?’

‘Oh come, come, Sir John! Lesures is well known for his love of a pretty pair of buttocks. Alcest would have known that.’ He shrugged. ‘Lesures had nothing to fear: there was no forged seal, so he just had to turn a blind eye.’

Athelstan crossed his arms and wondered if Lesures really was the plaintive old man he pretended to be. Or did he have a hand in these deaths? Had he grown tired of Alcest’s blackmailing or did he wish to take over the counterfeiting for himself?

‘And that’s all you can tell us?’ Cranston barked.

‘Do I have my freedom, Sir John?’

‘I’ll leave instructions with the chief jailer. You’ll walk free this evening.’

‘You’ll not let it be known what I told you about Alcest?’

‘No. I’ll keep it as if Athelstan heard it under the seal of confession. However, I don’t want to see your pretty face in London for many a summer.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir John.’ The Vicar of Hell welted his lips. ‘I think it’s time I travelled. Perhaps Clarice can join me. But I have your word I won’t hang?’

Cranston agreed again.

‘And mine,’ Brother Athelstan added, turning to shout for the jailer.

‘You are good men.’

Cranston laughed.

‘You are good men,’ the Vicar of Hell repeated, his face now serious.

For the first time ever Athelstan could see this young man as a priest, celebrating Mass or speaking from the pulpit.

‘I am a villain,’ the Vicar continued, ‘and the world is full of knavery, but neither of you are corrupt. What Alcest and the rest did, well, there’s not a Crown Official who doesn’t take a coin slipped under the counter, but you are different. You are honest as the day is long So I’ll give you two pieces of information free. First, that other clerk, the one who was fished from the Thames?’

‘Chapler?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. He was like you, Sir John. He didn’t take bribes. He never consorted with the whores. All my villains steered well clear of him. They did business with Alcest.’

‘That is interesting,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘Aye, Brother, it is, and I’ve got something for you. I’ve heard about your miraculous crucifix. Even the cut-throats and footpads around Whitefriars are wondering whether to pay it a visit.’

‘But you don’t think it’s a miracle, do you?’

‘No, Brother, I don’t The Good Lord is too busy to visit Southwark. You’re the next thing to Christ that lot will get!’

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.