The Assassin's riddle

The bailiff’s face coloured and he shuffled his feet; even Samson seemed to hang his head a little lower.

‘Henry, Henry!’ Cranston chucked the bailiff under his chin with his finger. ‘Don’t say you’ve been dipping your quill in Dame Broadsheet’s inkhorn?’

‘A man gets lonely, Sir John,’ Flaxwith murmured.

‘You have a wife,’ Cranston replied. ‘The beloved Ursula.’

Sheer terror now replaced the confusion in Flaxwith’s face. Cranston recalled Mistress Ursula, a woman built like a donjon, eyes of steel and a tongue like a lash.

‘Oh, Sir John, it’s our secret, isn’t it? The Lady Ursula…’ Flaxwith leaned down and patted Samson, who was cowering even more on hearing Mistress Flaxwith’s name.

‘Yes?’ Cranston asked sweetly.

‘The Lady Ursula,’ Flaxwith swallowed hard, ‘does not like the pleasures of the flesh.’

Cranston recalled his own merry trysts with his lady wife; he patted the man sympathetically on the shoulder.

‘Well, let’s visit Dame Broadsheet. Let’s see what she has to say about our young clerks.’

‘I was supposed to do that,’ Flaxwith grumbled as they walked along.

‘Well, Henry,’ Cranston nudged him playfully, ‘I am going to make sure you leave with me. Oh, by the way, I still want you to find out about Master Drayton’s two clerks, Stablegate and Flinstead. Just where did they spend the night their master was murdered? You’ll enjoy visiting taverns,’ the coroner continued, ‘and so will Samson.’

The mastiff turned its head, lips curled in a soft growl. Cranston smiled tactfully and they continued up Holborn past Cock Lane, still sealed off by royal archers, through the old city wall into Newgate. All the butchers’ stalls had been cleared away but the smell of blood and offal made Samson excited. He pranced around, straining at this morsel or that. Cranston caught a cutpurse who was following two old ladies down to St Mary Le Bow where the bells were clanging for Compline, the beacon light already lit in the belfry. Cranston grabbed the weasel-faced knave by the collar, gave him a whack on the ear and sent him about his business.

‘Do you know, Henry.’ Cranston stopped before the dark, forbidding mass of Newgate prison where people thronged, waiting to pay a visit to their friends inside. ‘If my treatise on the governance of this city was accepted by the Regent, I’d have torches lit along every highway.’

He pointed to the scaffold where the corpses of four felons, hanged earlier in the day, were now being given a coat of tar and pitch. They would then be placed in iron gibbets before being taken out and hanged as a warning at the crossroads leading into London. The two executioners were whistling, happy in their work. Now and again flicking spots of tar at the orange-haired whores who clustered there, the hangmen were impervious to the misery of the dead men’s friends and relatives who patiently waited to see where their beloved ones would be gibbeted.

‘You were going to say, Sir John?’ Flaxwith asked.

‘I’d have all that removed,’ Cranston growled. ‘Come on!’

Dame Broadsheet’s establishment stood in a small, quiet alleyway: a three-storeyed mansion in its own grounds, the bottom floor was an alehouse with a bush strung up over the door. The upper storeys were what Dame Broadsheet called her ‘chapel of repose’, where clients could meet the sweetest professional doxies in London. Flaxwith tied Samson up outside and told him to be a good boy. The dog, his jaws full of offal he had picked up, whimpered back.

The taproom was quiet and very pleasant, the ceiling high, the rushes on the floor clean and supple. The tables were ringed with proper stools, not overturned kegs. Vats and beer barrels stood neatly at one end; hams and bags of onions hung from the rafters and baskets of flowers were placed on window ledges. By the sweet tang from the buttery, Cranston knew Dame Broadsheet’s French cook was busy. He smacked his lips, patted his stomach but kept within the shadows of the doorway, revelling in the sights and sounds. Flaxwith, behind him, kept his hand on his dagger. Dame Broadsheet’s establishment was well known as a retreat for the highwaymen and footpads of the city: Sir John would not be a welcome guest.

Cranston wondered whether to make a grand entrance or rush across and up the stairs at the far end. He decided on the latter. He stared around the taproom. He recognised many of the faces: scrimpers, foists, counterfeit men, cu

‘Oh hell’s jakes, it’s Cranston!’

The young boys playing the rebec, flute and tambour abruptly stopped their soft music. The chatter died. Cranston swaggered into the centre of the room. He pulled off his beaver hat and gave the most mocking bow.

‘Lovely lads and lasses. Good evening. Jack Cranston presents his compliments.’

‘Oh piss off!’ A voice shouted.

Cranston didn’t even bother to look round. ‘It’s Ned, isn’t it? Ned the Limner? I’d keep a tidy tongue in your head, otherwise tomorrow, Ned my lad, I’ll be issuing warrants for your arrest. Charges of contumacy against a King’s officer. Now, now, now!’ Cranston spread his legs and tucked his thumbs into his broad sword belt. ‘Don’t be cruel to old Jack. I’ve got Henry Flaxwith here and a dozen more of his burly boys outside. Not to mention Samson the dog. You know Samson, don’t you? He likes nothing more than to gnaw on a nice juicy ankle.’

‘There’s no need for talk like that, Sir John.’

A lady came down the stairs, her blonde hair coifed under a silver-edged linen veil. Her gown was of dark burgundy, a gold chain round her slender waist. She moved slowly, languorously, head held high like a young noble-woman rather than mistress of a house of ill repute. The skin of her face was smooth, almost golden, the eyes big and smiling. It was the mouth that gave her away: sharp, thin lips, slightly sneering.

Cranston bowed again. ‘Mistress Broadsheet, how pleasant it is to see you.’

‘I’d love to return the compliment, Sir John.’

Cranston noticed her voice suddenly rose. She seemed reluctant to come any further down the stairs but stood holding on to the rail.

Sir John stiffened. ‘So, I’m welcome here?’ he asked curiously.

‘Of course you are, Sir John Cranston. You are coroner of the city. My house is your house…’

That was enough for Cranston. He reached the foot of the stairs in two bounds, brushed by her and reached the top. He heard the sounds of muffled footsteps above him. Despite his weight and tiredness, Sir John went up the next flight as nimble as a monkey, so quick he almost crashed into the man standing there; he held a small arbalest, the winch pulled back, the barbed bolt pointed directly at Sir John’s chest. Cranston paused and stared at the smiling face of the young man. He reminded the coroner of Athelstan: gentle eyes and olive skin under a mop of dark, glossy hair.

‘Well I never, the Vicar of Hell!’ Cranston studied the young man from head to toe, dressed as usual in black leather. Behind him, a young woman, a sheet wrapped round her, peered anxiously at the coroner. ‘Go back to your room, sweet one!’ Cranston called, feeling for his dagger.

‘Now, now, Sir John.’ The young man edged a bit closer. ‘You are not to do anything stupid.’

‘I want you,’ Cranston growled.

‘Wanting and having are two different things, Sir John.’

The Vicar of Hell lifted his arbalest. Sir John flinched but, instead of loosing the quarrel, the Vicar of Hell abruptly pushed Cranston, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.