The Assassin's Riddle (8 page)

‘When?’ Cranston asked.

‘Very early this morning,’ she replied. ‘Just as the bells were tolling for Matins.’

The old woman gave the same description as the maid: a young man, cowled and hooded, spurs clinking on his riding boots. He had kept his face turned away but had given the old crone a coin and who was she to object?

They climbed the rickety stairs, Athelstan wrinkling his nose at the stale odours. Mice scampered before them and the friar wondered what his great tomcat Bonaventure would have made of all this. The door at the top was half open. Athelstan went in first, crossing the room to open the shutters. Despite the house’s decay, this chamber was pleasant, the plaster freshly painted in a light, soothing green. The floor of both the parlour and the small scullery beyond was scrubbed, the furniture was roughly hewn but sturdy and clean. Alison looked around, put her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. Cranston lumbered across. He put one great arm round her.

‘There, there, my girl! There, there! My sister lost her husband. He was killed fighting the Spanish in the Narrow Seas. These things pass. You never forget them. You just live with them.’

Athelstan, sitting on the four-poster bed, caught his breath at Sir John’s words. He felt the same about his brother Francis when, what seemed like an eternity ago, they had both joined the King’s armies in France. Francis had been killed and Athelstan had returned to his novitiate. For his crime of desertion and for having had a hand in his brother’s death, he had paid a terrible price. His parents had died brokenhearted and his order had never forgotten. Now, instead of being a scholar, he was parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, but would he be for much longer?

‘Brother?’

Athelstan shook himself free from his reverie and joined Cranston in his search. They found the usual riddles, letters, lists of provisions, but nothing remarkable. Certainly not the lavish wealth found at Peslep’s. Athelstan came back to where Sir John hugged a quietly weeping Alison.

‘There’s nothing here, Sir John. Nothing at all.’

Cranston dropped his arm and stepped away, catching at Alison’s hand. He cupped her chin gently, lifting her tearful face. ‘I’ll have this room sealed as well,’ he promised. ‘I’ll send a bailiff, a man called Flaxwith, he’s a trusty fellow. He’ll pack all your brother’s possessions away. Store them in chests in the Guildhall.’

The young woman thanked him. ‘I’d best go. As I’ve said, I’m at the Silver Flute on Milk Street. My brother’s possessions should be sent there.’

‘Do you want us to accompany you?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh no. I’ll find my own way.’ She stepped forward and kissed Athelstan lightly on the cheek. ‘If I may, Brother, I’ll come to St Erconwald’s later on to watch over my brother’s corpse.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied.

Alison left. They heard her steps fade away on the stairs.

Cranston rubbed his face. ‘Brother, I need a beef pie: the crust gold and soft, the juices running fresh in my mouth.’ He grasped the friar by the arm. ‘And, by the power given to me, I must ask you to accompany me to the Holy Lamb.’

‘You have no power over Holy Mother Church,’ Athelstan joked.

‘Then come as a friend,’ Cranston whispered.

They found Sir John’s favourite tavern half empty, the air thick with fragrant smells from the buttery beyond. Leif the one-legged beggar was sitting in Sir John’s window seat overlooking the small garden. He leapt up as the coroner came in.

‘Oh, devil’s paps!’ Cranston swore.

The beggar, his red greasy hair pushed back from his white emaciated face, hopped like a grasshopper towards them.

‘Sir John! Sir John! A thousand blessings on you, Brother! Lady Maude has sent me! The table is set. Three cutlets of lamb cooked in rosemary! The twins have been fighting and Gog and Magog have stolen the beef you had hoped to eat this evening. Blaskett your manservant says he needs your key to clean your chamber. Master Flaxwith the bailiff has been looking for you. A young nobleman, Sir Lionel Havant, has called at your house. Two pickpockets have been caught in the market. Osbert your clerk . . .’

‘Shut up!’ Cranston roared, silencing even the clamour in the kitchen. ‘Leif, for the love of God, would you shut up!’

‘Very good, Your Grace.’ Leif bobbed and bowed. ‘I’ll go straight to Lady Maude to tell her you are here but you’ll be home shortly.’

Sir John’s great arm shot out. He grasped Leif’s shoulder. The beggar winced.

‘On second thoughts, Sir John, perhaps if I was given a penny for some ale, I’d sit in the garden and . . .’

He took the penny Sir John thrust into his hand and fled from the taproom. He took his seat above the herb garden, his back half turned; now and again he’d turn the glower in the direction of the coroner. Cranston, however, was now enthroned, rubbing his hands whilst the taverner’s wife fluttered round him like a solicitous chicken.

‘A blackjack of ale,’ Cranston boomed. ‘One of your meat pies, with the onions soft, blending with the meat. A cup of . . .?’ He looked at Athelstan.

‘Watered ale,’ the friar replied.

‘Some ale for my monkish friend and, if you come here, lady, I’ll give you a kiss on those red fat cheeks of yours.’

The landlord’s wife, fluttering and cooing, fled the tap-room for the kitchen.

Athelstan leaned back against the wall. The plaster felt cool on the back of his head. He half listened to Sir John’s chatter. Closing his eyes, he thought of all he had seen this morning. Those two young men: death had sprung like a trap upon them. Alison crying. Those smug clerks of the Green Wax, the sneering faces of Stablegate and Flinstead, and Drayton’s corpse in that lonely counting house. How had that moneylender been killed?

A servant brought Sir John’s pie and ale. Athelstan sipped at his and let the coroner enjoy himself, exclaiming in pleasure at the fragrance of the beef and the sharp sweetness of the onions. Athelstan just prayed that Cranston would not return to the usual questioning: was Father Prior going to send him away from Southwark? Was it true Athelstan was bound for the Halls of Oxford? So, as the coroner wiped his hands on a napkin, Athelstan took the initiative.

‘I really should be going, Sir John. We have a bubbling pot of mystery here. I am sure Stablegate and Flinstead are as guilty as Judas but how they killed poor Drayton is a mystery.’ He sighed. ‘As for the murder of those two clerks of the Green Wax, their deaths are as puzzling as their lives.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston ignored the pun.

‘Well.’ Athelstan cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘Here we have one clerk knocked on the head and thrown in the Thames; the other is stabbed to death whilst sitting on a privy. Riddles are left with the second corpse. Chapler was poor but Peslep rich. And who is this strange young man who apparently knew both of them?’

‘So, what do we do now?’ the coroner asked.

‘Get Flaxwith,’ Athelstan drained his tankard, ‘to check that Stablegate and Flinstead were where they claimed to be. And the same with those clerks of the Green Wax. Did they spend the night at the Dancing Pig? And where was Master Lesures, the Master of the Rolls?’

Anything else?’

‘Yes. Use your authority, Sir John, to question Orifab. Discover the source of Peslep’s wealth.’

Cranston looked at him mournfully. ‘You’ll stay for another blackjack of ale?’

‘No, Sir John, and neither should you. Lady Maude and the poppets are waiting.’

Athelstan rose, sketched a blessing in the air and left the tavern. He pulled the cowl over his head and, wrapping his hands in the sleeves of his gown, made his way through the crowds. He kept his eyes to the ground. As he turned up the Poultry to Walbrooke, he felt hot and sticky and wondered if he should go down to the riverside. Moleskin the boat-man might take him across to Southwark. The river breeze would be cool, fresh, and Athelstan liked its salty tang. Moreover, he was forever curious about what ships came into port. Sometimes, if there was a Venetian caravel, Athelstan would love to seek out the navigator, for there had been whispers in his order that the Venetians owned secret maps and were sailing seas where no English cog would dare to go. Legendary stories, about slipping out through the Pillars of Hercules and, instead of turning north into the Bay of Biscay, sailing south down the west coast of Africa.

Athelstan paused before a small statue of Our Lady placed near the London stone in Candlewick Street. He closed his eyes and said the Ave Maria but he was still distracted. He would love to talk to these navigators. If the earth was flat, why didn’t they ever reach the edge? And were the stars in heaven different the further south they sailed?

A child ran up, smutty-faced. ‘Give me your blessing, Father!’ he piped, jumping from foot to foot.

‘Of course.’ Athelstan pulled back his cowl.

‘A real blessing, Father.’ The young boy’s eyes were bright.

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Because I’ve just nipped my sister,’ the urchin replied. And my mother will beat me but if you’ve given me a blessing . . .’

Athelstan put his hand on the boy’s hot brow. ‘May the Lord bless you and protect you,’ he prayed. ‘May He show you His face and have mercy on you.’ He raised his right hand for the benediction. ‘May He smile on you and give you peace. May the Lord bless you and keep you all the days of your life.’ He still grasped the boy as he dug into his purse and took out a penny. ‘Now, buy your sister some sweet-meats. Give some to her and to your mother. Always be kind and the Lord will be kind to you.’

The young boy grabbed the coin and scampered off. Athelstan felt better. I won’t go to the river, he thought, I’ll go along to see old Harrowtooth.

He continued along Candlewick into Bridge Street. Near the gatehouse he met Master Robert Burdon, the diminutive constable of the bridge and the proud father of nine children. The little fellow was strutting up and down, gazing at long poles which stretched out over the river bearing the heads of executed traitors.

‘Goodmorrow, Master Burdon, do I have permission to cross your bridge?’

‘You carry the warrant of Holy Mother Church,’ Burdon teased tack. ‘Not to mention the lord coroner’s. May the Lord bless his breeches and all that’s within them. What do you really want, Father?’

Athelstan took a deep breath but gagged at the stench from the corrupting pile of rotting fish piled high against the rails of the bridge. Burdon followed his gaze.

‘I know, Father. I’ll throw that lot over as well as the insolent bastard who put it there.’

‘Where does old Harrowtooth live?’ Athelstan asked.

Burdon clicked his fingers. Athelstan followed him along the bridge. He felt that strange sensation he always did: the bridge was really a street with houses and shops on either side, yet he was aware of the rushing water below, caught like some soul between heaven and earth. Burdon stopped at the side door to a clothier and rapped noisily upon it. Harrowtooth, her iron-grey hair streaming about her, flung open the door.

‘Go to hell!’ she screamed when she saw Burdon.

‘Only after you, you foulsome bitch!’ Burdon yelled back.

‘Now, now,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly. ‘Master Burdon, I thank you. Mistress Harrowtooth, a word?’

Burdon skipped away, turning to make an obscene gesture with his middle finger. Harrowtooth was about to reply but Athelstan grasped her hand.

‘Mistress, please, just a few minutes of your time?’

The old woman turned, eyes screwed up against the sun. ‘You are the Dominican from Southwark?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, you can’t. I don’t allow priests in here: thieving magpies they are.’

‘I really won’t steal anything.’ Athelstan held his hands up.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Harrowtooth replied. She pointed across the street. ‘Let’s go down the alleyway, it overlooks the river.’

Athelstan sighed, he had no choice. The alleyway was a sordid, stinking mess, rubbish piled on either side. He was pleased to stand against the rail of the bridge. The breeze was cool and from below he could hear the shouts of the watermen and wherry boys. Further down the river two huge cogs, royal men-of-war, were preparing to leave to patrol the Narrow Seas: bumboats and barges bobbed like little sticks around them.

‘I love this place,’ Harrowtooth said, coming up behind him. ‘My father used to bring me here.’

‘Father?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He was a priest.’ Harrowtooth grinned. ‘Mother died, so he made reparation by going on pilgrimage. The lazy bugger never came back.’

‘Edwin Chapler?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.

‘Ah, the young clerk who was flung over the bridge.’ Harrowtooth sniffed. ‘I sees him, you know. I was probably the last person to see him before he met God.’

‘Except for his murderer,’ Athelstan corrected.

‘Ah yes!’

‘So, what did you see, Mother?’

‘I am not your mother!’ Harrowtooth snapped but then, leaning against the rails, she told Athelstan of how she had visited the chapel of St Thomas, how Chapler had been praying there, how he looked agitated when she left him.

‘And you saw no one else?’

‘No one, father.’

‘Did Chapler often visit St Thomas à Becket?’

‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Sometimes he’d be by himself. I sees him once.’ She hurried on, eyes glinting at the penny in Athelstan’s hand. ‘I sees him, Father. Oh, and by the way, you can call me Mother any time you want. I sees him with a young man, well dressed. Here on the bridge.’

Athelstan pressed for a description but the old woman shook her head. ‘I told you what I can, Father.’

Athelstan handed over the penny. He followed Harrowtooth back across the bridge. She waited for a break in the carts and sumpter ponies being led across and scurried away like a spider hiding from the sunlight. Athelstan made his way to Southwark side. Near the priory of St Mary Overy, Mugwort the bell clerk and Pernell the old Flemish woman, her hair now painted a hideous orange, were standing talking to Amisias the fuller. All three parishioners turned to greet Athelstan. The friar would have liked to stop and ask why they’d had their heads together, talking so animatedly, but he walked on. He passed the house of Simon the carpenter, pleased to see that Tabitha, a widow, her husband recently hanged at Tyburn, seemed to be coping better. Athelstan wondered if the whispers were true, that the deceased carpenter had been too quick with his fists, and regularly beat upon his poor wife.