The Assassin's riddle

‘But stop! Surely,’ Athelstan asked, ‘there would be a discrepancy over the date? I mean, it’s issued almost immediately.’

‘No, Brother,’ Cranston retorted. ‘I can now see what our good friend means by a loophole. Let’s say you petitioned the Chancellor to travel to Calais: you put the petition in through Alcest, he would recommend or not recommend. He would also ensure the wrong date, perhaps ten days later, is put on the petition and dispatched to the Chancery Office. The Chancellor doesn’t see it, some clerk in his office simply writes “approved”, or the Latin placet, “it pleases”, and then it’s sent back. Alcest, meanwhile, has drawn up the licence, perhaps adding another two days on. Accordingly, a petition which looks as if it was drawn up on the tenth of August and issued, let’s say, on the twenty-second, really only took a day or two. It’s been done before, everybody abuses the system. What Alcest did was not just accept pe

‘And that was the source of their wealth?’

‘Of course!’ the Vicar of Hell scoffed. ‘And no one dared betray Alcest. For the first time, Brother, people like myself could travel freely, and protected by the law thanks to him.’

He rattled his chains at Sir John. ‘Alcest and his coven are for the dark, if they haven’t gone there already. Our good coroner here will ensure the Chancery office strikes hard and either closes this loophole or cuts it off. There will also be some interesting times when the Chancellor orders the scrutineers to go through past records. I certainly don’t want it bruited abroad that it was I who betrayed Alcest. I may have my life but Sir John has received very valuable information in return.’

‘Aye, you’re right,’ Cranston sighed. ‘And it would have gone on. Alcest’s replacement would be approached and the offer of gold for a simple letter is very hard to resist.’ He squatted down before the Vicar. ‘Did Lesures know about this?’

‘Oh come, come, Sir John! Lesures is well known for his love of a pretty pair of buttocks. Alcest would have known that.’ He shrugged. ‘Lesures had nothing to fear: there was no forged seal, so he just had to turn a blind eye.’

Athelstan crossed his arms and wondered if Lesures really was the plaintive old man he pretended to be. Or did he have a hand in these deaths? Had he grown tired of Alcest’s blackmailing or did he wish to take over the counterfeiting for himself?

‘And that’s all you can tell us?’ Cranston barked.

‘Do I have my freedom, Sir John?’

‘I’ll leave instructions with the chief jailer. You’ll walk free this evening.’

‘You’ll not let it be known what I told you about Alcest?’

‘No. I’ll keep it as if Athelstan heard it under the seal of confession. However, I don’t want to see your pretty face in London for many a summer.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir John.’ The Vicar of Hell welted his lips. ‘I think it’s time I travelled. Perhaps Clarice can join me. But I have your word I won’t hang?’

Cranston agreed again.

‘And mine,’ Brother Athelstan added, turning to shout for the jailer.

‘You are good men.’

Cranston laughed.

‘You are good men,’ the Vicar of Hell repeated, his face now serious.

For the first time ever Athelstan could see this young man as a priest, celebrating Mass or speaking from the pulpit.

‘I am a villain,’ the Vicar continued, ‘and the world is full of knavery, but neither of you are corrupt. What Alcest and the rest did, well, there’s not a Crown Official who doesn’t take a coin slipped under the counter, but you are different. You are honest as the day is long So I’ll give you two pieces of information free. First, that other clerk, the one who was fished from the Thames?’

‘Chapler?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. He was like you, Sir John. He didn’t take bribes. He never consorted with the whores. All my villains steered well clear of him. They did business with Alcest.’

‘That is interesting,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘Aye, Brother, it is, and I’ve got something for you. I’ve heard about your miraculous crucifix. Even the cut-throats and footpads around Whitefriars are wondering whether to pay it a visit.’

‘But you don’t think it’s a miracle, do you?’

‘No, Brother, I don’t The Good Lord is too busy to visit Southwark. You’re the next thing to Christ that lot will get!’

Athelstan sketched a bow in compliment.

‘Now, if our good coroner lets me go before the curfew bell, I know someone who can help, provided he can enter and leave Southwark without arrest.’

‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The Sanctus Man. There’s not a false relic he hasn’t sold, not one piece of subtle trickery he hasn’t practised. Let Cranston release me and you be at your church when Vespers rings. If your crucifix is miraculous, the Sanctus Man will tell you.’

Cranston clapped his hands. ‘Oh, what a day! What a day!’ he crowed. ‘The Vicar of Hell in Newgate and now the Sanctus Man is about to emerge. How I’d love to finger his collar!’

‘No, Sir John, you must give me your word that he can come and go without fear,’ Athelstan pleaded.

‘Oh, you have my word’ the coroner replied. ‘But the Sanctus Man is another rogue born and bred. He sold Christ’s crown of thorns fifteen times. His ability to make people part with their money is a miracle in itself.’

‘At Vespers then?’ the Vicar of Hell insisted.

Cranston agreed Athelstan sketched a blessing and they walked back through the cavernous passages of Newgate to the jailers’ lodge. Cranston stepped into the keeper’s small office and re-emerged smiling from ear to ear.

‘Our Vicar is now free, Brother, or will be, within the hour.’

‘Will he keep his word?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, for such people their word is their bond. The Sanctus Man will be there. Now for Master Alcest…’

Cranston and Athelstan made their way along Westchepe, down Friday Street to where barges waited at the wharf. They clambered into one and the wherry men, straining at their oars, pulled the barge into midstream.

‘Do you think Alcest will confess?’ Cranston asked, making himself comfortable in the stern.

‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘We know he is guilty of counterfeiting but whether he is an assassin or not…?’ Athelstan sat back and closed his eyes.

‘You are not going to sleep, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John, I am not. We are approaching London Bridge and when we go under the arches my stomach positively dances.’

‘O man of little faith,’ Cranston quipped. ‘Why are you so frightened of death?’

‘I am not, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘It’s just drowning I fear.’

The coroner sat forward, however, and began to exchange pleasantries with the two wherry men, drawing them into good-natured banter. As they approached the bridge, Cranston’s heart skipped a beat: the water was bubbling like oil in a pot as it gushed under the narrow arches of the bridge. The noise became like thunder. Cranston lost his wager with the wherry men for, as they shot through, narrowly missing the starlings or wooden partitions built to buttress the stone pillars, he closed his eyes as everyone did, not opening them until they were out into the quiet water near Botolph’s Wharf. The pace of their journey slowed down. Eventually the barge turned towards the shore, going past the fish markets of Billingsgate, the air rank with the stench of herring, cod, brine and salt. They disembarked at the Woolquay. Above them soared the Tower with its sheer walls, bulwarks, crenellations and bastions. Even on that su