Текст книги "The Assassin's riddle"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

CHAPTER 7

Cranston and Athelstan were about to leave the counting house when the friar paused in the doorway. He stared up at the rafters, the whitewashed walls on either side and then the one at the far end.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘It concerns me, Sir John. I have been in rooms and houses all over the city, so have you. Have you ever seen a room like this, a perfect square? The walls stand at right angles, as if the chamber was designed by some mathematician.’

‘So?’

‘Well, if you go through the rest of the house it’s shabby, dirty; the rooms are long and narrow, the ceilings sag, the floorboards rise. Here it’s all different, stone-floored, perfectly shaped. Have you noticed something else, Sir John? The walls have been freshly whitewashed.’

Cranston, mystified, followed Athelstan back into the counting house. Sir John gazed around: a bleak chamber, chests, a desk, chairs, a stool and a bench, but no hangings on the wall. Nothing to offset the sharp whiteness.

‘Would Drayton have kept his monies here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Knowing the little I do,’ the coroner replied, ‘I doubt it. He would keep some ready silver but he’d probably store his ill-gotten gains in the vaults or ironbound chests of the Genoese or Venetian bankers. Everyone would know that. Only, occasionally, as on the day he died, would Drayton ask for monies to be moved here.’ Cranston smacked his forehead. ‘And that reminds me: when I was at the Savoy Palace, the Regent assured me that the money was delivered to Drayton. The Fresobaldi would never dream of stealing the silver. It would only give John of Gaunt the pretext for seizing everything they have.’

Athelstan had moved across to the far wall and was tapping at the plaster. ‘Sir John, can I borrow your knife?’

The coroner handed it over and the friar began to chip away at the plaster. At last he gouged a long scar on the wall, raising small clouds of dust. Athelstan cleared the area of plaster with his fingers and scrutinised the red brick beneath.

‘What are you doing, Brother?’

‘Never mind.’

Athelstan moved to the other wall. This time, when he cleared the plaster, the brickwork underneath was a dull grey. The same occurred on the wall behind the desk. Athelstan handed the dagger back and wiped his hands.

‘Sir John. Quod est demonstrandum. ’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Athelstan pointed to the far wall. ‘That’s solid brick but it was built much later than the rest. The brickwork is new but Drayton took great care to ensure it was plastered and painted like the other two walls. He also positioned it carefully so this chamber became a perfect square.’

‘And how does that solve his murder? Could there be a secret entrance?’

‘Perhaps. Here we have a miser who, I supposed, hated spending money. So why should he build another wall but cover it so carefully? What I want you to do, Sir John, is to tell Master Flaxwith to get some of your burly boys here. Have them meet us later on.’

Cranston went across to the desk, seized a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbled a note.

‘Now.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Let’s go and visit Master Alcest!’

At the office of the Chancery of the Green Wax, Cranston and Athelstan saw Alcest by himself in a small downstairs chamber off the main passageway. Alcest had lost a great deal of his arrogance. He was watchful and wary, more respectful to the plump coroner and the little friar who seemed to accompany him everywhere.

‘Why do you wish to see me alone, Sir John? Do you have news of my companions’ killer?’

‘No,’ Cranston answered cheerfully. He took a swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘But I do want to know why you visited Master Drayton days before he was found dead in his counting house. If I were you, young man, I would be prudent and tell the truth.’

Alcest sat down on the stool opposite.

‘You know we had our festivities at the Dancing Pig?’

‘Oh yes. We know about that,’ the coroner replied. ‘I have had a long talk with Dame Broadsheet and even managed a few words with the Vicar of Hell.’

Alcest flinched; try as he might, he found it difficult to hide his unease.

‘You seem troubled by that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Dame Broadsheet I understand. But what would a high-ranking royal clerk have to do with the Vicar of Hell?’

‘We swim in the same pond, Brother,’ Alcest replied cheekily. ‘We work here by day but what we do by night…’

‘Associating with outlaws and wolfsheads,’ Cranston remarked sweetly, ‘is a crime in itself.’

‘I don’t associate with them, Sir John, I merely said we swim in the same pond: alehouses, brothels and cookshops. The Vicar of Hell is notorious,’ Alcest continued. ‘His name has appeared upon the Chancery Rolls under different aliases as the law tries to arrest him for this or that.’

‘Have you and your companions ever met him? Sat down and shared the same table?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Never.’

The reply was too quick. Alcest looked away hurriedly.

‘Ah well, back to Master Drayton,’ Cranston said. ‘You went down to see him, did you not?’

‘Yes, I went down to change gold pieces for silver: the coin Dame Broadsheet demanded to be paid in.’

‘Why there?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why not some tradesman or one of the banking houses? Was there something wrong with your gold?’

‘No, there was not. I obtained the coins from Master Walter Ormskirk, a vintner in Cheapside.’

‘You bank with him?’

‘The little I have, yes, Brother. We took it in turns to pay. On that particular night,’ he hurried on, ‘it was my turn. With Dame Broadsheet your purse has to be full. Money has to be divided. You cannot do that with two gold pieces.’

‘But why not ask for silver from Master Ormskirk?’ Athelstan insisted.

Alcest coloured and shuffled his feet.

‘Why go there out of your way?’

Alcest breathed in. ‘I was assured of getting a better coin from Drayton, you can’t trust some London merchants. The coins they hold, some are counterfeit, others have been recast.’

‘Come, come.’ Cranston tapped the young man’s knee. ‘Master Alcest, I may look like a madcap to you with my red face, bristling whiskers and protuberant stomach but I’m not a fool: there must have been another reason.’

‘I had confidence in him,’ the clerk replied.

‘Did you often go there?’

‘Yes I did. Sometimes, in my earlier days at the Chancery, Drayton would give me a loan or change money.’

‘And the day you visited him. What happened?’

‘I was there only a short while and then I left.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing, Sir John, and before you put your accusation into words, I couldn’t care whether Drayton lived or died and the same applies to Chapler. When he was killed, I was roistering at the Dancing Pig.’

‘Ah yes, with young Clarice.’

‘I was with her all night,’ Alcest replied. He got to his feet. ‘And now, unless you have further questions?’

‘Why do you think your colleagues have been murdered?’ Athelstan asked abruptly. ‘And why the puzzles?’

‘Brother Athelstan, if I knew that I would tell both you and Sir John immediately.’

Alcest walked out. They heard him climb the stairs.

Cranston patted his stomach. ‘Some refreshment, Brother? Let’s collect our thoughts. Sit upon the ground and make an account of what has happened.’

Athelstan also felt hungry. He had not yet broken his fast. So he joined Sir John at an adjoining tavern, the Golden Goose, a spacious eating house on the corner of Shoe Lane and Farringdon Ward. The taproom was singular in that customers were able to hire small booths; these were closed off from the rest by a small door, with benches which faced each other across a large oaken table. They took one of these: Sir John ordered brawn soup, capon pies and two blackjacks of ale. Once the dishes had arrived, Cranston took his horn spoon from his wallet and ate with relish. Athelstan knew any sensible conversation would be impossible until the coroner declared himself refreshed, sat back, the blackjack of ale in his hands, eyes half closed and murmured his thanks to God for such a delicious meal. Once they had both finished, the coroner, demanding his blackjack be refilled, tapped his fleshy nose and smiled beatifically at the friar.

‘Come on, Athelstan, get that quill and parchment out. Let’s make an account of all these murders.’

Athelstan did so, sharpening his quill and smoothing out the piece of vellum with the pumice stone. He sighed in exasperation when he found his inkhorn almost empty but the landlord had one to hire.

‘I am ready, Sir John.’

The coroner put his blackjack of ale down.

‘Primo.’

Athelstan began to write.

‘Master Drayton, an avaricious moneylender, is found brutally murdered in his counting house. The bag of silver he was preparing to hand over to the Regent is stolen.’ Cranston paused. ‘Along with other items including the two gold pieces Alcest allegedly brought to change. Secundo, Drayton’s corpse is found in a locked chamber. The door was bolted and secured from the inside. There are no secret entrances. So how did the murderer kill him with a cross-bow bolt and steal the silver? Tertio, the rest of the house was found locked and barred, except the window used by the clerks to break in the following morning. Quarto, the two clerks Flinstead and Stablegate have a hand in this villainy but they can prove that they were elsewhere. Even if they were formally accused, we could not explain how the murders were carried out. Anything else, Athelstan?’

‘Quinto,’ the friar quipped back. ‘Alcest visited Drayton days before he died. He wanted to exchange gold for silver. We also know there’s some connection between Alcest and Drayton but it’s tenuous and the clerk’s explanation is not convincing. I believe Alcest used the gold pieces as a pretext to visit the moneylender but we were right not to pursue this matter: we have no proof to the contrary and Drayton’s dead.’

‘There’s the question of the gold.’

‘True, Sir John, but possessing two gold pieces is not a crime for a clerk of the Green Wax. Alcest claims it was his turn to pay, the others will corroborate that and his explanation makes sense: the young ladies would have to be paid, not to mention the landlord of the Dancing Pig.’ Athelstan put his quill down and rubbed his fingers. ‘So far, Sir John, the only firm suspicion we have is that the far wall in Drayton’s chamber might hold a clue to how our money-lender was brutally killed.’ He sighed. ‘But I could be clutching at straws.’

Cranston’s face became glum. ‘The way things look, Brother, we will not arrest our murderers and the Regent won’t get his silver. Now, let’s move to the clerks.’ He waved his hand despondently. ‘You list what we know.’

Athelstan sat back. ‘First, we know Chapler was murdered just after sunset. He visited St Thomas a Becket’s chapel on London Bridge. The murderer knew he’d be there. He struck Chapler on the back of the head then tossed his body into the Thames where the Fisher of Men found it. Secondly, all those who knew Chapler appear to have been elsewhere. The clerks were roistering at the Dancing Pig. Master Lesures did not join them. However, I doubt if our noble Master of the Rolls had the strength to strike anyone, let alone lift a young man’s body over the rail of London Bridge. The only other person who knew Chapler was his sister Alison. She was in Epping, about to leave for London because of her concern about her brother. Thirdly…’

‘Thirdly,’ Cranston intervened, ‘we have the death of Peslep. He was killed sitting on a latrine. We know he was followed by this mysterious young man, cloaked, cowled and spurred. Fourthly,’ the coroner continued, ‘there’s Ollerton’s death. Now,’ Cranston held up his hand. ‘It was well known that Chapler liked to visit St Thomas’s chapel. Peslep always broke his fast in that tavern at that particular time whilst it was customary for the clerks of the Green Wax to drink a cup of malmsey late in the afternoon. Therefore, whoever murdered these three men had intimate knowledge of their habits and customs.’

‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There’s also the question of the riddles. Alcest’s companions apparently loved to pose each other riddles for the rest to solve. The assassin knows this and, so far, we’ve had three. The one about a king fighting his enemies but in the end both victors and vanquished lying together in the same place. The second, how does it go, Sir John? My first is like a selfish brother, whilst the one delivered after Ollerton’s death declares: “My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror”.’ Athelstan abruptly clapped his hands, alarmed at Sir John’s heavy-lidded look. ‘Come on, Sir John, concentrate with that brain as sharp as a razor, that wit as speedy as a swooping hawk.’

‘I was just thinking, Brother,’ Cranston replied crossly. He sat up. ‘What would happen if Father Prior told you to leave St Erconwald’s?’

Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Now come, Sir John, that’s not the matter in hand. Have you sent that note to Flaxwith?’

‘Yes, yes, I did.’ The coroner shifted on the bench. ‘I paid a chapman a penny before we met Alcest.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Then, Sir John, no brooding! We have murderers to seize, the King’s justice to be done.’ He poked the coroner in the ribs. ‘And the Regent’s silver to get back!’

By the time they returned to Drayton’s house, Flaxwith had arrived with two bruising individuals, each carrying a huge mallet.

‘Right, my lovely lads!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to knock a wall down.’

The house was unlocked and they went down the gloomy passageway into the counting house where, at Cranston’s command, both men set to with gusto. They smashed their mallets against the wall, the sound echoing like drumbeats through the room which soon filled with dust that tickled the nose and throat.

‘Despite the sound it’s not solid,’ one of them shouted, standing back and resting.

Cranston, his muffler up over his mouth, went to inspect. ‘You are not even through yet.’

‘Sir John, you grasp villains by the neck and, I wager, you can see one across a crowded room. I know walls: there’s something behind this.’

Athelstan, who had been carrying out another fruitless scrutiny of the door, came over to join them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a small chamber behind this, Brother. This wall’s new.’

‘Could there be any secret door or gate?’ Cranston asked.

The burly labourer laughed. ‘No, Sir John, the wall’s solid, well, at least until we are finished with it!’

They set to again, giving a cry of triumph as the first bricks fell loose. The labourer picked one up, pointing to the mortar. ‘This wasn’t done by a mason, Sir John, but someone who knew a little building. The mortar is thick, slapped on. That’s why whoever built this wall covered it with plaster and whitewash.’

Cranston peered through the gap into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he murmured.

The labourers returned to their task. More bricks fell away. An entrance was formed. Athelstan took a battered tallow candle from its iron spigot, Sir John struck a tinder and they went into the secret chamber. The dust-filled darkness made Athelstan shiver as he protected the flame by cupping his hand. He held the candle up and exclaimed in surprise. In the far corner lay a skeleton. He hurried across, followed by Cranston and the labourers. Athelstan, silently praying, crouched down by the grisly remains. In the glow of the smelly candle he carefully studied the skeleton which sat half propped up against the wall. The bones were still white and hard; tattered clothing still clung to it. Athelstan could tell by the dusty shreds that the skeleton belonged to a woman. He continued his examination, ignoring the exclamations of the labourers. He put his hand out, felt round the skeleton and picked up a battered pewter cup and platter.

‘In sweet heaven’s name!’

He took the candle and searched the rest of the chamber but found nothing. Chilled by the silent, eerie atmosphere, he walked back into the counting house.

‘Who do you think it is?’ Cranston asked, following him out.

‘Well, the house has always belonged to Drayton,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No one could wall up another human being without his knowledge so it’s logical to deduce that he was responsible, therefore those might be the poor remains of his wife. She clearly didn’t leave Drayton. I suspect she baited and taunted her husband until he grew tired of her. He probably gave her drugged wine, brought her down here and walled her up alive. God rest her!’ he breathed. ‘She must have taken days to die.’

Cranston thanked and dismissed the labourers, giving each a coin. The coroner then shouted for Flaxwith. The bailiff came hurrying down, his dog loping behind him, though Samson had the sense to stay well out of Cranston’s path.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘There’s a skeleton in there.’ The coroner jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Have it removed. Tell the vicar of St Mary Le Bow the city will bear the cost of its burial. Don’t look so frightened, Henry, she’s been dead for years. Now, do you have news for me?’

‘Oh yes.’ Flaxwith stared distractedly over Sir John’s shoulder as if he expected the skeleton to come walking out of the room towards him.

‘Well, come on, man!’

‘First, Sir John,’ Flaxwith gabbled, ‘we are keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict guard and she does not suspect it. We have heard little rumours that the Vicar of Hell is much smitten by little Clarice there.’

‘And?’

‘Stablegate and Flinstead were seen carousing the night Drayton was murdered. According to witnesses they drank until they were stupid. They never returned here. The same goes for those clerks at the Dancing Pig. Mine host says that after they retired to the upper chambers he saw neither hide nor hair of them till dawn. Finally, Sir John,’ Flaxwith spread his hands, ‘I have a friend who works in the muniment room at the Tower.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We checked the subsidy rolls of 1380 for Epping in Essex. They list Edwin and Alison Chapler. Edwin is described as a clerk, Alison a seamstress. Apparently both are quite wealthy.’

‘Very good.’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Oh, before you go,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Sir John, perhaps we could have a small mummer’s play?’

A bemused Cranston and Flaxwith followed Athelstan back into the dusty counting office.

‘Now,’ Athelstan began, ‘I’ll pretend to be Drayton.’ He held up his writing bag. ‘This is the Regent’s silver. Sir John, how am I killed?’

Sir John pointed to Athelstan’s chest.

‘Right,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m dying. I fall to the ground. In my death throes, in my guilt, I remember the woman I have walled up alive so I crawl towards the hall, praying for forgiveness. That explains why we found Drayton in the position he was, but the problem remains. If the two clerks killed Drayton, how did they get out of the chamber?’ Athelstan pointed to the door. ‘Locking and bolting that from inside? If Drayton had locked himself in,’ Athelstan continued, ‘then how could the clerks enter the chamber and kill him?’

‘We’ve been through all this,’ Cranston grumbled.

‘No, listen, Sir John: we now know the only way into this room is through the door.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Cranston said irritably. ‘And it was locked and bolted.’

‘Sir John, Master Henry, if you would oblige me.’

Athelstan walked towards where the huge door lay against the wall. ‘Is it possible for you to hold that up?’

Swearing and grumbling under their breaths, both men obliged, pulling the huge door away from the wall. Athelstan approached it. He pulled down the small trap to look through the eye grille; he stood there for a while then looked round the door.

‘Can we put this bloody thing down?’ Cranston gasped.

‘Yes, Sir John.’

Both men pushed the door back against the wall.

‘Well, Brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m not sure, Sir John. Master Flaxwith, do you know a good carpenter?’

‘Aye, there’s Laveck in Stinking Alley.’

‘Bring him here,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘I want this door examined from top to bottom, the grille, the locks, the bolts, the bosses, everything. I don’t care what damage is done.’ He nudged Cranston in the ribs. ‘Tell him the city will pay the costs. If it doesn’t, the Regent certainly will. Provide him with ale and bread, but he is not to leave this house until his task is finished and both I and Sir John have returned to question him.’

Flaxwith undid the rope which held Samson tethered and hurried down the passageway.

‘What do you hope to achieve, Brother?’

‘Trickery, Sir John. The world is full of trickery and deceit. Everything is a riddle. Clerks are killed when no one is about. A moneylender is found dead in his locked counting house whilst in Southwark,’ he added bitterly, ‘crucifixes drip with real blood.’

‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘No I don’t, Sir John. But my parishioners do. John, you know the villains and the cunning men of the underworld. How could they do that?’

Cranston sighed. ‘I have knowledge of it,’ he answered. ‘But usually they are fairground tricks, Brother. The blood is wine or paint.’

‘This was real blood,’ Athelstan replied.

‘The men I have arrested,’ Cranston continued, ‘used secret levers or mechanisms.’

‘I don’t think that’s the case here,’ Athelstan said. ‘The crucifix was bleeding when no one was holding it.’

‘What about Huddle?’ Cranston asked.

‘A cunning, subtle painter. What he can do with a paint-brush is beyond me. But why this, eh, Sir John?’ He linked his arm through Cranston’s as they walked down the passageway. As I keep pointing out to you, my Lord Coroner, I am a Dominican. My order, to its eternal shame or credit, has the reputation of being the Domini Canes.’

‘The hounds of God!’ Cranston translated. ‘The Inquisition?’

‘Precisely, Sir John. It is their duty to investigate so-called miracles, question self-confessed prophets. In our library at Blackfriars, there is a book, a record of such investigations. Now, Laveck is coming to examine this door and I have no desire to return to Southwark, so what I propose, Sir John, is that we visit Blackfriars.’ He nipped Cranston’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I have just remembered, Father Prior is on a brief pilgrimage to St Thomas’s shrine at Canterbury.’

Cranston stopped, a stubborn look on his face.

‘Our mother house also has a new cook,’ Athelstan added slyly. ‘A man who can perform miracles with a piece of beef or roast pheasant. Even His Grace the Regent tried to tempt him into the kitchen of the Savoy’

The coroner clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Brother, if you weren’t a Dominican, you’d make a very good tempter. The spirit is willing but the flesh is very weak. Accordingly, my only answer to such temptation is yes.’

Robert Elflain, clerk of the Green Wax, left the Chancery Office and made his way up Holborn towards Fleet Street. It was Wednesday and Elflain was determined that he would spend some part of the day away from the cloying, suspicious attitude of his comrades. Everything had gone wrong. Alcest had sworn that in the end they would have nothing to fear but Elflain was worried. He did not like the fat coroner whilst that sharp-eyed friar seemed to sense something was wrong. Alcest had demanded that they stay together, that no one should wander off, but this was Wednesday and, at Dame Broadsheet’s, Laetitia would be waiting: those soft eyes and even softer skin, that long, sinuous body! Elflain was tense, he needed to burrow his face into her swanlike neck and embrace her body.

He passed Newgate and tried not to look at the scaffold: that would reawaken his fears. If only Chapler had been more accommodating, everything would have gone smoothly! Elflain loosened the collar of his shirt and cursed as he slipped on the offal dripping along the cobbles from the butcher’s stall. On the corner of an alleyway he turned and stared back: was anyone following him? The crowds milled about, grouping round the stalls, haggling with the traders. Elflain heaved a sigh and continued on his journey. When he glimpsed the front of Dame Broadsheet’s house he felt a glow of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He hurried along until he reached the door. Naturally, it was closed and bolted because Dame Broadsheet only had a licence to sell ale in the evening. Elflain groaned. There would be the usual tarrying as he explained to a suspicious porter who he was and why he had come. Dame Broadsheet was ever suspicious of some bailiff or tipstaff trapping her and bringing a charge against her of conducting a house of ill repute.

Elflain banged on the door. Silence. He knocked again.

‘Elflain!’

He turned and stared at the hooded, cowled figure which had appeared like a ghost behind him.

‘What the…?’ Elflain stepped forward but it was too late.

The catch of the small arbalest was sprung and the barbed bolt took him full in the heart, smashing through flesh and bone. The clerk staggered back against the door, writhing in pain. He glimpsed the cowled figure drop a small parchment scroll at his feet and then he died, even as the door swung open.