The Assassin's riddle

A servant brought Sir John’s pie and ale. Athelstan sipped at his and let the coroner enjoy himself, exclaiming in pleasure at the fragrance of the beef and the sharp sweetness of the onions. Athelstan just prayed that Cranston would not return to the usual questioning: was Father Prior going to send him away from Southwark? Was it true Athelstan was bound for the Halls of Oxford? So, as the coroner wiped his hands on a napkin, Athelstan took the initiative.

‘I really should be going, Sir John. We have a bubbling pot of mystery here. I am sure Stablegate and Flinstead are as guilty as Judas but how they killed poor Drayton is a mystery.’ He sighed. ‘As for the murder of those two clerks of the Green Wax, their deaths are as puzzling as their lives.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston ignored the pun.

‘Well.’ Athelstan cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘Here we have one clerk knocked on the head and thrown in the Thames; the other is stabbed to death whilst sitting on a privy. Riddles are left with the second corpse. Chapler was poor but Peslep rich. And who is this strange young man who apparently knew both of them?’

‘So, what do we do now?’ the coroner asked.

‘Get Flaxwith,’ Athelstan drained his tankard, ‘to check that Stablegate and Flinstead were where they claimed to be. And the same with those clerks of the Green Wax. Did they spend the night at the Dancing Pig? And where was Master Lesures, the Master of the Rolls?’

Anything else?’

‘Yes. Use your authority, Sir John, to question Orifab. Discover the source of Peslep’s wealth.’

Cranston looked at him mournfully. ‘You’ll stay for another blackjack of ale?’

‘No, Sir John, and neither should you. Lady Maude and the poppets are waiting.’

Athelstan rose, sketched a blessing in the air and left the tavern. He pulled the cowl over his head and, wrapping his hands in the sleeves of his gown, made his way through the crowds. He kept his eyes to the ground. As he turned up the Poultry to Walbrooke, he felt hot and sticky and wondered if he should go down to the riverside. Moleskin the boat-man might take him across to Southwark. The river breeze would be cool, fresh, and Athelstan liked its salty tang. Moreover, he was forever curious about what ships came into port. Sometimes, if there was a Venetian caravel, Athelstan would love to seek out the navigator, for there had been whispers in his order that the Venetians owned secret maps and were sailing seas where no English cog would dare to go. Legendary stories, about slipping out through the Pillars of Hercules and, instead of turning north into the Bay of Biscay, sailing south down the west coast of Africa.

Athelstan paused before a small statue of Our Lady placed near the London stone in Candlewick Street. He closed his eyes and said the Ave Maria but he was still distracted. He would love to talk to these navigators. If the earth was flat, why didn’t they ever reach the edge? And were the stars in heaven different the further south they sailed?

A child ran up, smutty-faced. ‘Give me your blessing, Father!’ he piped, jumping from foot to foot.

‘Of course.’ Athelstan pulled back his cowl.

‘A real blessing, Father.’ The young boy’s eyes were bright.

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked curiously.

‘Because I’ve just nipped my sister,’ the urchin replied. And my mother will beat me but if you’ve given me a blessing…’

Athelstan put his hand on the boy’s hot brow. ‘May the Lord bless you and protect you,’ he prayed. ‘May He show you His face and have mercy on you.’ He raised his right hand for the benediction. ‘May He smile on you and give you peace. May the Lord bless you and keep you all the days of your life.’ He still grasped the boy as he dug into his purse and took out a pe

The young boy grabbed the coin and scampered off. Athelstan felt better. I won’t go to the river, he thought, I’ll go along to see old Harrowtooth.

He continued along Candlewick into Bridge Street. Near the gatehouse he met Master Robert Burdon, the diminutive constable of the bridge and the proud father of nine children. The little fellow was strutting up and down, gazing at long poles which stretched out over the river bearing the heads of executed traitors.

‘Goodmorrow, Master Burdon, do I have permission to cross your bridge?’

‘You carry the warrant of Holy Mother Church,’ Burdon teased tack. ‘Not to mention the lord coroner’s. May the Lord bless his breeches and all that’s within them. What do you really want, Father?’

Athelstan took a deep breath but gagged at the stench from the corrupting pile of rotting fish piled high against the rails of the bridge. Burdon followed his gaze.

‘I know, Father. I’ll throw that lot over as well as the insolent bastard who put it there.’

‘Where does old Harrowtooth live?’ Athelstan asked.

Burdon clicked his fingers. Athelstan followed him along the bridge. He felt that strange sensation he always did: the bridge was really a street with houses and shops on either side, yet he was aware of the rushing water below, caught like some soul between heaven and earth. Burdon stopped at the side door to a clothier and rapped noisily upon it. Harrowtooth, her iron-grey hair streaming about her, flung open the door.

‘Go to hell!’ she screamed when she saw Burdon.

‘Only after you, you foulsome bitch!’ Burdon yelled back.

‘Now, now,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly. ‘Master Burdon, I thank you. Mistress Harrowtooth, a word?’

Burdon skipped away, turning to make an obscene gesture with his middle finger. Harrowtooth was about to reply but Athelstan grasped her hand.

‘Mistress, please, just a few minutes of your time?’

The old woman turned, eyes screwed up against the sun. ‘You are the Dominican from Southwark?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, you can’t. I don’t allow priests in here: thieving magpies they are.’

‘I really won’t steal anything.’ Athelstan held his hands up.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Harrowtooth replied. She pointed across the street. ‘Let’s go down the alleyway, it overlooks the river.’

Athelstan sighed, he had no choice. The alleyway was a sordid, stinking mess, rubbish piled on either side. He was pleased to stand against the rail of the bridge. The breeze was cool and from below he could hear the shouts of the watermen and wherry boys. Further down the river two huge cogs, royal men-of-war, were preparing to leave to patrol the Narrow Seas: bumboats and barges bobbed like little sticks around them.

‘I love this place,’ Harrowtooth said, coming up behind him. ‘My father used to bring me here.’

‘Father?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He was a priest.’ Harrowtooth gri

‘Edwin Chapler?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.

‘Ah, the young clerk who was flung over the bridge.’ Harrowtooth sniffed. ‘I sees him, you know. I was probably the last person to see him before he met God.’

‘Except for his murderer,’ Athelstan corrected.

‘Ah yes!’

‘So, what did you see, Mother?’

‘I am not your mother!’ Harrowtooth snapped but then, leaning against the rails, she told Athelstan of how she had visited the chapel of St Thomas, how Chapler had been praying there, how he looked agitated when she left him.

‘And you saw no one else?’

‘No one, father.’

‘Did Chapler often visit St Thomas a Becket?’

‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Sometimes he’d be by himself. I sees him once.’ She hurried on, eyes glinting at the pe

Athelstan pressed for a description but the old woman shook her head. ‘I told you what I can, Father.’