The Assassin's Riddle (3 page)

They took the torch from the wall and scrutinised the door. Athelstan’s curiosity grew. The wood was at least nine inches thick, the hinges were of steel. He could tell from the three bolts and two locks, with keys still inside, that the door must have been secure when it was broken down. He studied the metal bosses. On the outside these were conical-shaped, fitting into the wood with a clasp on the inside. He felt some of these but they were all tightly secure. The only opening was a small grille high in the door, about six inches across and six inches high. He pulled at the wooden flap which covered it.

‘Was this up or down?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘It’s hanging down now. Perhaps all the force we used knocked it loose?’

Athelstan stared at the small grille. It was broad enough for a man to see out but the bars were so close together it would be difficult to slip even a dagger through, let alone a crossbow bolt. Athelstan went back to the great steel bosses and began testing each of these.

‘What are you doing?’ Cranston asked curiously.

‘I want to see if any are loose,’ Athelstan replied. ‘They are fitted into the door by clasps.’

‘I did that myself,’ Flaxwith declared triumphantly. ‘Father, there’s none loose.’

And if there was,’ Cranston intervened, ‘surely it would have shaken free when Master Flaxwith and his colleagues were hammering at the door?’

Athelstan grudgingly conceded and scratched his head. ‘Therefore the problem still remains,’ he said. He walked back into the counting house. ‘Master Drayton would have his silver here, yes?’

Cranston agreed.

‘What puzzles me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that the assassin had to kill our moneylender, take the money and escape. Yes? In the ordinary course of events the door should have been left open but, instead, Drayton is inside, the door barred and secured. So, if the robbers struck first and took the silver from the room, why is the door closed?’

And if it is closed,’ Cranston finished, ‘how did the robbers enter in the first place, kill Drayton, steal his silver and get out, leaving the door barred and locked from the inside?’

‘Precisely, Sir John, the perfect conundrum.’

‘What is more,’ Flaxwith added, ‘they not only stole the silver but also any loose coins. Moreover, Drayton’s clerks claim two silver candlesticks and a gold pendant are missing.’

Athelstan sat down on the stool and stared at the corpse.

‘How?’ he murmured. ‘In or out?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin.

‘Well, I can understand them killing Drayton and taking the silver but how did they get in and out? That door is better than a wall of steel. There are no gaps or breaks. If they’d approached the door, Drayton would have left the flap down. He was safe behind the grille. He would have refused to open the door. Now I could understand a man like Drayton letting in a clerk or a friend.’ He glanced at Flaxwith. ‘You are sure the key was in the lock, the bolts were drawn?’

‘It’s the first thing I checked,’ the bailiff retorted, jumping from foot to foot. ‘Oh please, Sir John, may I see my dog? Samson begins to pine if he’s away from me.’

‘Oh, go and see the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Give it my best regards!’

Flaxwith almost ran from the room.

‘And there’s another problem,’ Athelstan went on. ‘How did the assassin get in and out of the house without forcing a door or window?’

‘Bloody mysterious!’ Cranston took another slurp from the miraculous wineskin.

‘The clerks are still here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, Brother. They are waiting upstairs.’

They left the chamber and went up to meet them. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to Master Philip Stablegate and his colleague James Flinstead. Oh, they were pleasant enough. They rose politely as he entered. They were of personable appearance, hair neatly cropped, their faces clean-shaven and washed. They were dressed in sober apparel, dark tunics and hose. Stablegate was fair-haired, pleasant-faced, ever ready to smile. Flinstead was darker, rather dour. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt repelled. Clever men, he thought, full of mockery. Both clerks made little attempt to hide their amusement at what they considered the coroner’s antics. Cranston waved at them to sit down, then he helped Athelstan pull a rather shabby bench across to sit opposite them. Athelstan placed his writing bag between his sandalled feet and waited patiently as Sir John took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. The coroner closed his eyes and burped with pleasure. Stablegate dropped his head and sniggered. Cranston, wobbling on the bench, put the stopper back in. He must have caught the mockery.

‘You are Master Drayton’s clerks?’ he began harshly. ‘You were the last to see him alive?’

‘We left just before Vespers,’ Flinstead replied.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan asked.

‘Same as always,’ Flinstead said pointedly. ‘You are . . .?’

‘Brother Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’

‘And my secretarius,’ Cranston boomed.

‘Do you suspect us of this crime?’

‘Why should I?’ Athelstan replied.

Flinstead seemed a little nonplussed.

‘Please,’ Athelstan said. ‘Answer my question. What happened last night?’

‘We finished the day as usual,’ Stablegate answered. ‘We were in our writing office, a small chamber, no more than a garret, further down the passageway. Master Drayton came up as usual to usher us out. And before you ask, Brother, no, he didn’t trust us, he didn’t trust anyone. We went out into the street. Master Drayton bade us goodnight, as surly as ever. Then he slammed the door shut, we heard the bolts being drawn and the locks turned.’

‘And then what?’

‘As usual, we went drinking at the Dancing Pig, a tavern in St Martin’s Lane just near the Shambles.’

‘And after that?’

‘When the curfew bell rang from St Mary Le Bow, we left for our lodgings in Grubb Street off Cripplegate. We share a chamber there.’

‘Mistress Aldous, our landlady, will confirm that we came home much the worse for wear. We slept till dawn, rose and came back here.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The same as every morning, Father. We’d knock, pull the bell. Master Drayton would come shuffling down the passageway and let us in.’

‘But this morning was different?’

‘Yes it was, Father. We hammered and rang the bell to raise the dead.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Then Flaxwith came along. The rest you know.’

‘What do I know?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Well, we tried the shutters at the windows. The front and back doors were locked and barred as usual.’

‘And so you broke in?’

‘Yes,’ Stablegate replied. ‘I climbed on James’s shoulders.’

He tapped the hilt of his dagger. ‘I pushed this through a crack in the shutters and lifted the bar.’

Sir John was falling asleep now, head nodding forward, mouth open. Stablegate hid his smirk behind his hand.

‘In which case . . .’ Athelstan’s voice rose as he stood up.

Sir John, startled, also staggered to his feet. The coroner stood, feet apart, and blinked, breathing in noisily through his nose. He saw the two clerks laughing. Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Do you find me amusing, sirs?’ Cranston’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt. He took a step forward, white moustache and whiskers bristling, fierce blue eyes popping. ‘Do you find old Jack amusing? Because my poppets woke me before dawn? And old Jack has had a few mouthfuls of wine? Now, let me tell you, sirs,’ he continued, breathing wine fumes into their now frightened faces. ‘Old Jack is not the fool he appears to be: “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick”. The poet was thinking of old Jack Cranston when he wrote that.’ He lifted a finger. ‘You say you live with Mistress Aldous in Grubb Street near Cripplegate?’

‘Yes,’ Flinstead replied, rather surprised that Sir John, who’d apparently been asleep, had still heard this.

‘I know Mistress Aldous,’ Cranston continued. ‘Five times she has appeared before my bench on charges of soliciting, of keeping a bawdyhouse, a molly shop.’

‘There’s no one there now,’ Stablegate retorted.

‘Just you two lovely boys and Mistress Aldous, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Now let me tell you,’ the coroner went on threateningly. ‘Don’t laugh at old Jack. A horrible murder has been done and the Crown’s silver has been stolen.’

‘We don’t know about that.’

‘No, boyo, you don’t. Five thousand pounds intended for the Regent’s coffers. Now it’s gone.’ Cranston brought a large paw down on each of their shoulders and made them wince. ‘Well, my lovelies, let’s see this bloody window.’

Athelstan, quietly pleased at Cranston’s assertion of his authority, abruptly turned at the door.

‘I am sorry.’ He came back. ‘You didn’t know Master Drayton had five thousand pounds in silver at his counting house?’

‘He’d never let us handle monies,’ Stablegate retorted. ‘It was one rule he always insisted on. We do know,’ Stablegate continued quickly, ‘that envoys from the Frescobaldi bank visited the house yesterday, though Master Drayton told us to stay in our chamber. He answered the door. We heard a murmur of voices and then they left.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘And what would happen then?’

‘If the bankers brought the money,’ Stablegate replied, ‘knowing Master Drayton, he’d count every coin, sign a receipt and keep the money in his strongroom.’

‘Did you like Master Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘No!’ They both answered together.

‘He was the devil’s own skinflint,’ Flinstead declared. ‘He made us work from dawn till dusk. At the Angelus time he’d give us some ale, bread and cheese, then it was back to work.’ He tugged at his tunic. At Christmas and Easter we’d get new robes and a silver piece at midsummer. He hardly spoke to us, only visiting us every so often, as quiet as a shadow, to make sure we weren’t wasting his time and money.’

‘Did he ever talk about friends or family?’

‘Never,’ Stablegate replied. ‘On one occasion I asked him if he had been married and he flew into a terrible rage.’

‘Then what?’

‘He went down the stairs, muttering to himself. We learnt our lesson: we never asked him again.’

‘We had no choice but to work for him,’ Flinstead added. ‘He’d often remind us that London was full of clerks seeking employment. Beggars have no choice, Father.’

Athelstan nodded and opened the door. ‘Then, sirs, let us see this window.’

The two clerks went out before him. They led them down the stairs. Flaxwith was at the bottom, stroking and talking softly to what Athelstan secretly considered the ugliest bull mastiff he’d ever clapped eyes on. As they passed, the dog lifted his head and growled.

‘Now, now,’ Flaxwith whispered. ‘You know Sir John loves you.’

‘I can’t stand the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘He’s tried to have my leg on at least three occasions.’

The clerks led them into a small hall, full of jumble and clutter. The wooden wainscoting was cracked and covered in dust; the air stank of rotting rushes. The musicians’ gallery at the far end was beginning to sag, whilst huge cobwebs hung like banners in the corners. Rats squeaked and squealed in protest and slithered across the floor, angry at this intrusion. The room was dark except for the light which poured through the thrown-back shutters of a broken window.

Athelstan pulled across a stool, told Sir John to hold him steady and climbed up to examine the window. Even a cursory glance told him that the shutters had been forced, the bar gouged by a knife: the flyblown window had been cracked so that the clerk who had entered could put his hand in to pull up the handle of the square door window. Athelstan climbed down.

‘It’s as you say,’ he said. ‘Both window and shutter have been recently forced.’

‘I did that,’ Stablegate declared. His voice took on a desperate plea. ‘Sir John, Father, we know nothing of Bartholomew Drayton’s death or the theft of his silver.’

‘And you have nothing to add?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, Father, we have not.’

‘And what plans do you have for the future?’

Stablegate shrugged, then coughed at the dust swirling from the chamber. ‘Father, what can we do? It will be back to St Paul’s, walking in the middle aisle waiting for some rich merchant to hire us.’

‘Have you applied for any licence to travel either here or beyond the seas?’ Cranston asked.

He was not impressed by the puzzlement in their faces.

‘You know full well what I mean.’ He added, ‘Have you applied to the office of the Chancery of the Green Wax for permission to travel? Yes or no?’

‘No, Sir John.’

Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘Good,’ he purred. ‘Then keep it that way until this matter is finished. You are to stay in your lodgings. You are not to leave London without my written permission.’ He nodded. ‘You may go.’

The two clerks walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them, raising fresh puffs of dust.

‘What do you think, Brother?’ Cranston took the wineskin out. ‘Devil’s futtocks, this is a dry place!’

‘Every place is too dry for you, Sir John.’

Cranston winked, took a swig from the wineskin and patted his stomach. ‘It’s time we had refreshments, Brother, something to soak up the wine. You didn’t answer my questions.’

‘I think they are as guilty as Pilate and Herod,’ Athelstan replied. ‘In my view, Sir John, those two are evil young men who believed they have carried out the perfect crime.’ He sighed. ‘And they may well have.’

‘They killed Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘As God made little apples, Sir John, I believe they are guilty but how they did it is a mystery.’

‘Flaxwith!’ Cranston roared.

The bailiff hurried into the room, Samson trotting behind him, tongue hanging out. He took one look at Sir John’s juicy leg and would have launched himself forward. Flaxwith had the good sense to grab him by the leather collar and scoop him up into his arms.

‘Sir John, Samson and I are at your service.’

‘Bugger him!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to do three things. First, visit the bankers, the Frescobaldi, in Leaden-hall Street. Seek confirmation that they made a delivery of silver here yesterday. Secondly, go to my host at the Dancing Pig: did those two beauties spend last night there? Finally, I want them and their lodgings in Grubb Street watched; if they try to leave London arrest them!’