Текст книги "The Assassin's riddle"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

CHAPTER 12

Athelstan crossed himself and murmured a silent prayer, as he always did when he approached the main gateway of Newgate prison. He and Sir John had just forced themselves through the press as the crowd assembled for Hanging Day. Six footpads who had preyed upon travellers along the old Roman road were now being dispatched as quickly as rats by a farmer. Newgate was a foulsome, horrid place. Athelstan could never decide which was the more offensive, the filth and dirt in which the prisoners were kept or the fawning attitude of the jailers and bailiffs: these smiled falsely and wrung their hands whenever Cranston appeared. Sir John had his own thoughts on the matter: whenever he entered the prison, the coroner never drank, joked or bothered to pass the time with any of its officials.

‘If I had my way,’ he growled as they followed the jailer across the great cobbled yard to the cells, ‘I’d burn this place to the ground, rebuild a new prison and put it under the governance of a good soldier. I’d certainly put an end to that.’ Sir John pointed to an unfortunate who had refused to plead before the Justices; he was stripped, ready to be pressed under a heavy, oaken door until he agreed to plead either guilty or not guilty.

They left the yard and entered a mildewed corridor which ran past cells, veritable hellholes. The air was gloomy and the stench made Athelstan gag. Paltry sconce torches fought against the murky air and Athelstan tried to ignore the terrible din, the oaths, rantings and ravings of mad prisoners and the filthy abuse hurled at the jailer going ahead of them. They passed cell chambers; in one the corpses of executed felons lay like slabs of meat upon a butcher’s stall. These would be placed in iron cages and taken out to be gibbeted along the roads leading into London. In another the corpses of executed criminals who had been hanged, drawn and quartered were being boiled and pickled before being given a coat of tar and placed over the gates of the city.

‘Never come here!’ Cranston warned ‘This is truly the abomination of the desolation. Every time I do,’ he added in a whisper, ‘I pray God will send fire from heaven to consume the place.’

They entered a large room where bailiffs and beadles were drinking or playing checkers or hazard.

‘Good morning, Sir John.’ A pox-faced beadle, one eye hidden beneath a patch, waved them over. The man pointed to the chessboard. ‘Would you like a game, Sir John? King against king, bishop against bishop?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘Some other time and certainly not here.’

They were about to follow the jailer down another narrow passageway when Athelstan stopped.

‘Brother?’

‘Sir John, the first riddle about a king defeating his enemies but, when the battle is over, both victor and vanquished lying in the same place: it describes a game of chess.’

Cranston told the jailer to wait. ‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘A game of chess! What does it prove, Brother?’

Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know, Sir John. I think our assassin sees the murders as a game and, at the same time, is clearly proclaiming that he will play the game, even if he has to end up in the same place as the vanquished.’

‘And that’s the grave,’ Cranston replied. ‘It makes sense, Brother. If Alcest is our assassin, there’s no doubt that he’ll die as well.’

‘But why should Alcest be prepared to put his own life at stake?’

‘That I don’t know, Brother.’ They continued down the passageway until the jailer stopped at a door. ‘At the heart of Newgate, Sir John.’ His chapped, dirty face brightened with malicious glee. ‘The Vicar of Hell deserves the best and the best he will get.’

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.

‘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 asleep 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!’