The Assassin's riddle

CHAPTER 4

‘Would you recognise him again?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh no, sir, just a glimpse then he was gone, Master Peslep with him.’

The young maid left. They went back to their searches. Alison seemed bored. She sat on a quilted cushion, tapping her foot as if impatient to be gone. At last Athelstan found the dead clerk’s writing box. It was locked, so Cranston prised the clasp loose with his dagger and emptied the contents on to the table. Prominent amongst them was a roll of parchment containing a list of riddles. Athelstan scrutinised this.

‘These clerks really love puzzles,’ he murmured.

‘It’s more than a game.’ Alison spoke up. ‘My brother was always talking about it, asking me to search for fresh ones.’

‘And the assassin knew that,’ Athelstan replied. He picked up a smaller scroll, undid it and whistled under his breath. ‘Sir John, look at this.’

Cranston grasped it and studied the list of figures.

‘It’s from Orifab, the goldsmiths in Cheapside,’ he muttered. He looked at the total at the bottom near the date, given some two weeks previously. ‘Master Peslep was a very rich man.’ he remarked. ‘So rich I wonder why he worked as a Chancery clerk.’

‘Many of them are from wealthy families,’ Alison intervened. She came across and peered over Sir John’s shoulder. ‘The younger sons of nobles,’ she continued. ‘Their elder brothers either inherited the estates or entered the Church.’

Cranston tossed the roll back into the box. ‘I’ll tell my bailiffs to come and seal the room,’ he declared. ‘Is there anything else?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Personal effects but nothing remarkable.’

They left the chamber, Cranston turning the lock and telling the maid he would keep the key himself, and went back down into the street. Alison grew silent, hanging back as Cranston and Athelstan made their way through the midmorning crowds towards the city ditch. At last they reached the house where Chapler had lodged, a shabby, two-storeyed tenement which looked as if it had been pushed between the alehouse on one side and a vintner’s shop on the other. The timbers were crooked, the plaster sagging, the white paint flaking and falling like pieces of snow. A garrulous old woman was the doorkeeper; she smiled rheumily at them, chewing on her gums.

Yes, she gabbled. Master Chapler lived here. And the door to his chamber was open. After all, Chapler’s friend had also called.

‘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 ru

‘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 pe

He took the pe

‘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?