The Assassin's Riddle (19 page)

Benedicta nodded.

‘And you are going back to your house?’

‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Benedicta agreed. ‘I have had a word with Watkin. He’s going to send Beadle Bladdersniff with two others to watch my door.’

‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir Watkin, knight of the basting spoon.’ He smiled at both women. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay any longer?’

They both made their excuses and left.

Athelstan returned to his study of the scrawled riddle.

‘The last,’ he murmured. ‘What’s discovered at the centre of a maze? Of course, a rood: a crucifix above a rose bower?’ He chewed on his lip. ‘But what does that mean? Another word for maze is labyrinth: R is its central letter.’ Athelstan paused. R the first and the last: he was certain the murderer was exposing his motive:
Revenge!

Sir John Cranston sat in the small chancery at the top of his house in Cheapside. He stared through the unshuttered window watching for the first rays of the rising sun. As always, Sir John had woken early. The Lady Maude lay beside him lost in her dreams whilst, in the adjoining chamber, the two poppets, dressed in their linen nightgowns, sprawled on their cot beds. They looked so much alike: thin blond hair, apple-red cheeks, the firm chin and mouth of their father.

‘Lovely lads!’ Sir John had breathed and smiled as he noticed how they even snored in unison. He had tiptoed further down the gallery, quietly praying under his breath that the poppets would not awake. If they did, and knew Sir John was about, they’d rouse the entire house with their shouts. This was going to be a busy day for Sir John; he had gone down to the kitchen where he had washed, shaved and quickly dressed in the fresh apparel the Lady Maude had laid out the night before. A meat pie in the buttery kept savoury in a linen cloth, and a small jug of watered ale, served as breakfast. Sir John had then knelt and, closing his eyes, said his morning prayers before going up to his chancery.

He now sat with the Coroners’ Roll in front of him though his gaze strayed to the thick manuscript lying to his right: Cranston’s famous treatise, ‘On the Governance of London’. Sir John leaned back on the cushioned chair. He had reached a new chapter, ‘On the keeping of the streets, alleyways and runnels free of all filth’. Cranston had recommended the building of public latrines, strict laws against filling the streets with refuse and the contents of chamber pots. The open sewers would be moved beyond the city limits whilst the dung-collectors would be organised into a guild.

Sir John sighed and returned to more mundane matters, the first entry on the Coroners’ Roll:

On Thursday, the morrow of the feast of St Joachim and St Anne, Richard Crinkler sat on a latrine high in his tenement in a house owned by Owen Brilchard on the corner of Bore Street. The said latrine did break and the aforementioned Richard fell to his death which was not his proper death.

Sir John scratched his cheek. Why did his clerk use such convoluted phrases? And how could a man fall to his death down a latrine? Cranston closed his eyes and recalled the old, rotting mansions in Bore Street.

‘Ah yes,’ he murmured.

He could visualise what had happened to poor old Richard Crinkler. Those great houses had small cupboards which served as stool rooms built into a shaft which ran the whole length of the house. Grinkler had either been half asleep or drunk. The wooden latrine board had broken and so Crinkler fell to his death.

‘Heaven be praised!’ Cranston whispered. ‘We all have to die but sometimes the Good Lord does call us in rather strange ways.’

He started as he heard the bell of St Mary Le Bow begin to toll, the sign that the night curfew was over. He put his quill back in its box and blew out the candle. Grabbing his war belt and cloak he hurried down into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was still deserted. Any beggars, nightwalkers or whores who had been lurking in the mouths of alleyways soon disappeared once they heard the news that the lord coroner was on the streets. Cranston walked down towards St Mary’s. The beacon was still alight in the steeple. Cranston studied the cavernous doorway to the church and smiled as he glimpsed Henry Flaxwith with the ever-vigilant Samson.

‘Good morning, Sir John,’ the bailiff called, grasping the rope holding Samson more tightly.

‘Is everything ready?’ Cranston asked and looked in surprise as a small side door opened and Athelstan came out. ‘Lord, Brother, what are you doing here?’

‘Praying, Sir John, I’ve been praying!’

Athelstan had washed and shaved and wore a new robe but his eyes looked as if he had slept badly or not at all.

‘Is everything well?’

‘Everything, Sir John. I said a very early Mass not long after midnight, when the tumult in the cemetery had died down. I’m too angry with my parishioners to meet them.’ Athelstan breathed in. ‘They can spend a day without their priest.’

‘Don’t judge them too harshly.’ Cranston patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘God knows why they are doing it.’

‘Did you get my message?’ Athelstan asked, abruptly changing the subject.

‘Yes,’ Sir John replied. ‘I went to see Master Lesures: timid as a rabbit, crouching in his chamber. According to him, Alcest sometimes acted the fop and insisted on wearing spurs to his boots.’ Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘And I want to question Alcest further. There’s been another death: Napham.’

‘I thought there might. How did he die?’

‘A caltrop had been hidden among the rushes in his chamber, a huge, jagged affair . . .’

‘A caltrop, Sir John?’

‘They are used against armoured knights,’ Cranston explained, seeing the puzzlement in Athelstan’s face. ‘Steel man-traps, often placed on roads when planning an ambuscade or used to defend a dry ditch during a siege. Simple but terrible, like a rat-trap. The horse or the man puts his foot in and the trap is sprung.’

‘A terrible death,’ Athelstan remarked.

‘It almost severed Napham’s foot,’ Cranston continued. ‘However, in his agony he must have knocked a candle over. It fired the rushes and bedstead in his chamber. The poor man burnt to death. Another tenant noticed the flames and the fire was put out. The chamber was on the ground floor and the floor was made of stone so the fire did not spread too quickly. I went to view Napham’s corpse.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘Nothing more than burnt meat, the horrible caltrop still buried in his foot.’

‘And the assassin?’

‘Probably got in through a downstairs window,’ Cranston replied, ‘to place the caltrop, which can be bought at any ironmongers or armourers.’

‘And the riddle?’

‘Oh yes, Napham didn’t see this when he went into his chamber: it was pinned on the wall above the door. My next,’ Cranston closed his eyes to recall the riddle, ‘my next is like the flesh on the tail of a stag.’ He opened his eyes. ‘N, of course, is the last letter of venison.’

Flaxwith broke in. ‘Sir John, we must be going. The scrimperers will be waiting.’

‘The what?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘The scrimperers.’ Cranston grinned. ‘My lovely little boys from Rat’s Castle. I’m going to catch the Vicar of Hell.’

‘In which case,’ Athelstan said, ‘we can talk as we walk.’

And the coroner, striding across Cheapside, listened attentively as Athelstan told him, not only about William the Weasel’s message, but also of the strange occurrence outside Benedicta’s house the previous evening.

‘Devil’s futtocks!’ Cranston stopped. ‘Devil’s futtocks!’ he repeated.

‘My sentiments exactly, my Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But perhaps I wouldn’t use your words. I’ve been wondering, Sir John, why the Vicar of hell should be so keen to distance himself from the murders amongst the clerks. I also wonder where Master Alcest was last night and why he’s now so interested in Mistress Alison.’

‘Devil’s futtocks!’ Cranston repeated.

‘Sir John?’

‘I forgot my miraculous wineskin.’ Cranston flailed his hands. ‘I knew there was something . . .’

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan felt like roaring in exasperation. ‘Have you heard what I said?’

‘Of course, dear monk.’

‘Friar, Sir John.’

‘Precisely. The Vicar of Hell has sent me a message. You think Alcest is the murderer and he now has an interest in Mistress Alison. I, however, have forgotten my bloody wineskin! Anyway, do you think Alcest is the murderer?’ Cranston asked, hurrying on.

‘I do. I also know how Stablegate and Flinstead killed their master!’

Cranston stopped again; this time Flaxwith and Samson almost crashed into him. The coroner grasped Athelstan by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek.

‘Marvellous monk!’ he bellowed, then hurriedly stepped aside as a window opened and the contents of a chamber pot came spluttering down. The filthy contents narrowly missed them. Cranston shook his fists. ‘I’ll have you arrested!’ he roared.

He hurriedly grabbed Athelstan and pushed him forward as the shutters opened again and another chamber pot was emptied, this time spattering poor Samson who stared up and growled his defiance.

‘The scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Wait a minute.’ Sir John stood aside as a huge dung cart piled high with the previous day’s rubbish made its way down the alleyway.

‘The scrimperers,’ Cranston explained, ‘are a group of very small men. Really, they are dwarves. They live in a house in that mean tangle of alleyways near Whitefriars. I call them the “Lords of Rat’s Castle”. Now, they’re the most godforsaken of people. No one trusts them, no one likes them. Now and again they are hired by some lord or a travelling mummers’ troupe as acrobats or jugglers.’

‘Like Master Burdon on London Bridge?’

‘Oh no.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘These are even smaller. They have the bodies of children and the faces of very old men.’

He jingled his purse. ‘They are not averse to a little housebreaking, stealing through gaps where others cannot get. For some strange reason they like old Jack Cranston and he likes them.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan conceded as they finally stopped on the corner of the alleyway leading up to Dame Broadsheet’s.

‘Now you remember.’ Cranston grinned. ‘Every year, on the feast of St Rahere, Lady Maude and I entertain them to a small banquet in our garden . . .’

‘And you’re going to use them to catch the Vicar of Hell?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes.’ Cranston jabbed a finger towards Flaxwith. ‘Faithful Henry here has had Broadsheet’s house watched day and night. Clarice, the love of our villain’s life, never leaves, yet the Vicar of Hell never comes.’

‘So?’

‘I don’t believe it,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Vicar of Hell eats lambs’ testicles and drinks Spanish wine. He’s as lecherous as a boar in rut. He’s been and gone but I don’t know how.’

‘And the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston stared longingly down at Dame Broadsheet’s placid-looking house.

‘I’m sure the bugger’s there,’ he growled. ‘Henry, are your men on guard?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Where are the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Where Dame Broadsheet and the Vicar of Hell least expect!’

‘I’m glad we came here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I want to have words with young Clarice. I don’t believe Alcest spent the entire night with her when Chapler died.’

‘First things first,’ Cranston murmured.

They must have stood for at least a quarter of an hour. Cranston’s unease became apparent; he shifted from foot to foot, cursing under his breath and patting his cloak where the miraculous wineskin should have been. The streets started to fill. Traders and journeymen; shopkeepers setting up their stalls; heavy-eyed apprentices carrying out merchandise from the storerooms. Debtors, released from the Fleet prison, to spend the day shackled together, begging for a pittance for themselves and others in the debtors’ hole. Two Abraham men danced by, naked as they were born, except for a loincloth, their faces and bodies covered in charcoal dust. They sang and danced. One bore a metal dish with burning charcoal on his head. He announced, to any who would listen, that he and his companion were Gog and Magog and they were going to Sodom and Gomorrah to carry out God’s judgement.

‘You know where that place is?’ one of them screeched at Cranston. ‘Do you, Brother, know the way of the Lord?’

‘Yes, go straight down Cheapside and turn left at the stocks,’ Cranston growled. ‘Now piss off and leave me alone!’

The two Abraham men danced by.

‘Sir John Cranston! Sir John Cranston! God bless you! God bless you and all that’s in your breeches!’

The beggar stopped short as Cranston raised a hamlike fist. ‘Not now, not now, Squirrel Head!’ he snarled.

Squirrel Head deftly caught the coin Cranston threw and disappeared into a nearby pie shop. Cranston looked down the alleyway and stiffened as the doorway opened. A court gallant swaggered out, the door slamming shut behind him. Others followed: a servant carrying buckets, a young lady, her hips swaying provocatively. Athelstan was beginning to despair when suddenly the door swung open again and he gaped at the spectacle that unfolded. An old woman tried to rush out into the street, what appeared to be children hung on to her dusty skirts and plucked at her cloak as she dragged them along. Suddenly the old woman slipped, the grey wig falling off her head.

‘It’s the Vicar!’ Cranston roared. ‘Flaxwith!’

Already the bailiff had released Samson, who sped like an arrow to join the pandemonium. The Vicar of Hell, his disguise now thrown, was desperately fighting off the scrimperers, who buzzed about like flies. Samson gripped his ankle: the Vicar yelped with pain. He slipped on a clod of mud and disappeared in a welter of bodies. Samson, apparently believing his task now done, went for the ankle of one of the bailiffs running to assist. Windows were opened and a crowd began to gather as Cranston and Athelstan hurried down. Flaxwith was wielding his staff. Samson, lured by the sweet cooking smells from Dame Broadsheet’s, had now sped indoors looking for more juicy morsels. Cranston laid about with the flat of his sword until order was imposed. The Vicar of Hell, slightly ridiculous in his ragged dress, his face covered in white chalk, was manacled and bound between two bailiffs. Now and again he would wince at the pain where Samson had bitten him or glower at the scrimperers.