The Assassin's riddle

CHAPTER 6

Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, was in a terrible rage. He had been sent crashing down the stairs but his pride was hurt more than his bones. The Vicar of Hell, of course, nimble as a squirrel, had scampered off down the gallery and through a window. Sir John knew any pursuit would be futile.

He now stood raging in the taproom; all the customers had fled, frightened by the coroner’s roaring, a fearsome sight with his red face, bristling whiskers and naked dagger. Flaxwith had come rushing in, followed by Samson snarling and biting any available ankle.

Sir John glared at Dame Broadsheet who, despite all her hauteur and poise, now trembled on a stool beneath the coroner’s fearsome gaze.

‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ Cranston roared, hands on hips.

Dame Broadsheet blinked.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m saying,’ Cranston continued. ‘You, madam, will stand in the stews for two days. Your ladies alongside you. This house will be closed down, sealed and all its goods and appurtenances transported to a cellar in the Guildhall!’

Dame Broadsheet stared into the icy blue eyes of Cranston. She knew there would be no bribery for this man of integrity either in cash or kind. However, she knew his weakness: her lower lip quivered and two large tears ran down her cheeks. Cranston swallowed hard, the sign for Dame Broadsheet to put her face in her hands and sob uncontrollably. Like a chorus in a play her young ladies, in different stages of undress, also began to weep, followed by the bully-boys and cross-biters, the cooks, the scullions and the tapsters. Some of the women even fell to their knees, hands clenched beseechingly. Cranston gazed around. Even Samson put his head back and howled mournfully.

‘Oh woe is us, Sir John!’ Dame Broadsheet let her hands fall away from her face. ‘Woe is the day I was born! Oh, Sir John, we are sorry!’

Cranston stared at the beautiful, tear-filled eyes and his rage began to ebb. The wailing grew even louder and Samson, head back and throat stretched, joined in with relish. Flaxwith looked pitiful. Cranston sat down on a stool.

‘Shut up!’ he bellowed. ‘For all that is holy, shut up!’

The wailing stopped. Dame Broadsheet looked tearfully at Sir John from under fluttering eyelids.

‘You are a minx,’ Cranston said.

‘Sir John, you looked so brave,’ she cooed. ‘Dashing upstairs ready for a battle, lance couched.’ She caught the warning look in Cranston’s eyes. ‘A true knight.’ She added hastily, ‘The Lady Maude must be a very fortunate woman.’ She lifted her hand and clicked her fingers. ‘Some refreshment for Sir John: a small meat pie, my Lord Coroner?’

Cranston’s anger disappeared. He moved across to the window seat, Dame Broadsheet with him. She leaned across the table. Somehow the buttons at the top of her dress had come unloosed so, if he had wanted to, Cranston could catch a glimpse of her soft, luxuriant breasts. He coughed, waved his fingers, and Dame Broadsheet, as prudish as a nun, quickly did up the offending buttons. She watched as Cranston bit into the pie and sipped at the wine.

‘I didn’t know he was there,’ she began as Sir John pushed the platter away.

‘Yes you did,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You know who the Vicar of Hell is, Dame Broadsheet: a defrocked priest, a rapscallion, responsible for more cu

‘But he has a heart of gold.’ Dame Broadsheet blinked her eyes. ‘He has a heart of gold, Sir John. He could have hit you with that crossbow bolt.’

‘Well, the Vicar of Hell will have to wait, won’t he?’ Cranston picked up his wine cup and sat back against the wall. ‘But it’s good to hear he’s back in the city. If he’s in London he can be trapped. Last time I heard of him he was organising pilgrimages to St Eadric’s well which, supposedly, lies in the heart of Ashdown Forest: There’s no St Eadric and certainly no well.’

Dame Broadsheet lowered her face to hide her smile.

‘But I’m not here about the Vicar of Hell,’ Cranston continued. ‘And my threats still stand. Your cooperation, madam, or I’ll be back in the morning with the bailiffs.’

‘Cooperation over what?’ she asked archly.

‘Three nights ago,’ Cranston replied, ‘you and some of your ladies were not in residence here but at the Dancing Pig, entertaining clerks from the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

‘Yes, we were there from sunset till dawn,’ she replied. ‘There’s no crime in that. We were guests at a private party.’

‘You are harlots,’ Cranston replied. ‘You say you were there from dawn till dusk?’

She nodded.

‘Well, go on!’ Cranston barked.

‘We arrived before sunset,’ Dame Broadsheet replied. ‘There was myself and four other girls. Roesia, Melgotta, Hilda and Clarice.’

‘I see.’

‘The clerks had hired a private chamber, a large spacious room. A table was laid out and we supped and dined. Afterwards,’ she hurried on, ‘two young boys came up with rebec and tambour. They played tunes and we all danced. This was early on in the evening, it was not yet dark.’

‘And then?’

‘We each went off with our partners. I was with a young man called,’ she closed her eyes, ‘Ollerton.’

‘Ollerton’s dead,’ Cranston declared.

Dame Broadsheet’s eyes flew open in alarm. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes, poisoned by person or persons unknown. And,’ Cranston added flatly, ‘another one, Peslep, was stabbed whilst sitting on the jakes this morning.’

‘Oh Lord save us, Sir John!’

Dame Broadsheet’s fingers flew to her lips. Nevertheless, Cranston caught a sly look in her eyes. He grasped her hands and squeezed them tightly.

‘You know, don’t you?’ he remarked. ‘Don’t act i

‘Sir John!’

‘Yes, you bloody well do!’ Cranston squeezed tighter. ‘Now why should Dame Broadsheet know about the deaths of two clerks, one of whom was killed only a short while ago?’

‘The Vicar of Hell told me.’

‘The Vicar of Hell? And what would he have to do with important clerks in the Chancery of the Green Wax?’

Dame Broadsheet withdrew her hands, her eyes rounded in what she hoped was an i

Cranston sipped from his wine cup. ‘And the night of the festivities?’ he asked.

As I said, Sir John, we feasted and drank and then each of us went to a small garret or chamber with our partner. From what I can gather the clerks were as lusty as cocks in a barnyard. A merry coupling, Sir John!’

‘And in the morning?’

‘I woke up, it must have been before dawn. Ollerton was fast asleep in the sheets beside me. I dressed, collected the rest of the girls and we came back here to rest. After,’ she added quickly, ‘our night’s labours.’

‘Bring the girls here,’ Cranston ordered.

Dame Broadsheet did. All of them were now dressed in long gowns, their hair tidied up under pure white wimples. If it hadn’t been for their laughing eyes and saucy looks, they could have been taken for a group of dutiful novices in a nu

‘Lovely girls,’ Sir John breathed. ‘Who was the leader?’ he asked Dame Broadsheet.

‘The leader, Sir John?’

‘Amongst the clerks? Who organised the night’s festivities?’

‘Why, Alcest.’

‘And who was with him?’

‘I was,’ a young, blonde-haired girl whispered.

Cranston leaned over. ‘Raise your head, girl. You are…?’

‘Clarice, Sir John. Clarice Clutterbuckle.’

Sir John chose to ignore the sniggers: he realised this was no more the young lady’s name than it was his.