The Assassin's riddle

Alison, her face drained of colour, just shook her head.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘The jingling you heard was a pair of spurs I borrowed from the landlord of the Piebald tavern. Master Flaxwith went upstairs, tied a bit of string round them and lowered them out of the window. He gave them vigorous shakes so it sounded as if someone wearing spurs was walking up and down. Last night you did the same at Benedicta’s house. From the chamber above her parlour, you lowered those spurs out of the window, gave the string a vigorous twitch, but not before you had left the final riddle, as if it had been pushed under the front door.’

‘I think you are mistaken.’

‘Mistress, I am not. I was very intrigued how, in our discussion with the parish council, you knew all about a Norfolk legend, the “Kitsch Witch”.’

‘Edwin told me about it.’

‘I don’t think so, Mistress Alison. I have little proof of this, but with your art of being a seamstress, your knowledge of morality plays, as well as being so informed about mummers using fake blood, I suspect you are the daughter of travelling people. I believe Edwin met and fell in love with you.’

‘Then why didn’t we marry?’

‘Oh come, come, Alison, or whatever your real name is. You and I know that royal clerks who are married, unless they are very senior in position, do not get the preferment they want. At the same time I don’t know why,’ Athelstan paused and gathered the crumbs from the table, ‘Edwin wanted to keep your past a secret, to give you a new identity. I wonder why?’

‘Brother, I wasn’t in London when some of these men were killed.’

‘Let me start from the begi

‘Cambridge,’ the woman replied.

‘Either there, or shortly afterwards, he met you. You became his sister. A quiet, industrious couple, you moved into the small Essex village of Epping. Edwin would come armed with letters of recommendation, possibly from a Master in Cambridge, and secured a benefice in the Chancery of the Green Wax. You stay in Epping, Edwin takes a paltry chamber overlooking the city ditch but, now and again, you come up to London to meet him. Am I correct, mistress?’

Alison refused to answer.

‘Now, what should have been the begi

‘He was a great man,’ Alison interrupted, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Never once did I see him lift a hand to hurt anyone but yes, Brother, he regarded Alcest and the rest as demons from hell: their gods were their bellies and their cocks!’

‘Chapler told you all about them, didn’t he?’ Athelstan asked. ‘He told you all their little customs and practices. How they dressed, what they drank, which brothel they attended. How they revelled in their wealth and their arrogance. Of course he had scruples, as any righteous man would: those clerks were committing a very serious crime and he, by his silence, was condoning it.’

Alison nodded as she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.

‘I am not too sure what happened then,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But Edwin must have protested, perhaps even threatened them. Alcest and the rest responded with counter-threats and silence until one day they tried to poison him, putting a potion in his malmsey cup at the Chancery.’

‘How did Edwin keep his relationship with Alison so secret?’ Flaxwith, sitting in the corner, called out.

‘As I’ve said,’ Athelstan replied, ‘they kept up the pretence of being brother and sister. Alison would travel to London in man’s dress. A subtle enough game to fool the good people of Epping as well as anyone who knew them in the city. Moreover, it provided extra protection when she travelled. I’ve visited Chapler’s lodgings: they were mean and simple and yet his salary was good.’ Athelstan gestured round the kitchen. ‘Everyone deserves a home: you and Edwin had another chamber, didn’t you? As far away as possible from the Chancery of the Green Wax: beyond the walls at Holywell or to the west of Clerkenwell? However, when Edwin fell ill, you, dressed as a man, visited him in his lodgings. You then realised how serious the situation was: those clerks were going to kill Edwin. You begged him to resign, to leave the Chancery, but Edwin was stubborn and courageous. He recovered and returned to work, so Alcest and the rest decided to kill him. It was well known that Edwin Chapler liked to visit the little church of St Thomas a Becket on London Bridge. Alcest organised a revelry: food, wine, pretty whores, then, cloaked and cowled, he slipped out through the darkness to London Bridge. He lay in wait for Edwin. When the moment was right, Alcest killed him, smashing his skull and tossing his corpse into the Thames.’

Alison lowered her head, her shoulders shaking.

‘The wheels of God,’ Athelstan remarked, ‘move in inex-plicable ways. They thought they could kill a good man, that his death would not be laid at their door. They would all take the oath and have witnesses that when Edwin Chapler died, or at least on the night he disappeared, they were too drunk to walk, never mind kill. They didn’t count on Mistress Alison. You must have still been in London the night Edwin died and, when he didn’t meet you the following day, you sensed what had happened. Your love is so great, isn’t it?’ Athelstan continued. ‘You’d feel it in your soul and so you plotted your revenge.’

‘But I only arrived in London,’ Alison interrupted, lifting her tearstained face, ‘the morning you came to the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

Athelstan looked at Sir John, hoping the coroner would support him in his petty lie.

‘I don’t think so, mistress. Sir John here sent a messenger to Epping. We know you’ve been out of the village for some time. Ah no, you laid your plans very cleverly. On the morning we met, you’d already been busy. Edwin had told you about Peslep’s daily habits. You went to the Ink and Pot tavern dressed as a young man, imitating and mocking Alcest by having spurs on your boots. Peslep went out to the jakes; the tavern was noisy, he was by himself and so you struck. You went across and stabbed him twice, once in the belly and once in the neck whilst his hose was still around his ankles. You knew that.’

Athelstan pushed a blackjack of ale towards her. She sipped from it but her eyes never left his.

‘When I brought you here to Southwark the night we met William the Weasel you remarked on how Peslep had died, stabbed with his hose around his ankles. How did you know that?’

‘You told me.’

‘No, we didn’t, mistress,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘Brother Athelstan and I never tell anyone the exact details of a murder.’

‘Then someone else told me!’

‘No, no, they didn’t.’ Athelstan paused. ‘You also made another mistake: the day I anointed Edwin’s corpse in the death house, you talked not of one assassin but a group. You asked if “they” would be caught and punished. At the time, a slip of the tongue but, as more murders took place and we discovered the villainy of those clerks, I began to wonder.’ Athelstan sipped at his ale. ‘Anyway, you killed Peslep, returned to your private chamber, God knows where it is, changed into a travel-stained dress and made your way to the Silver Lute, as if you had just arrived in London. You then went to the Chancery of the Green Wax. The news of Edwin Chapler’s death had reached there. The clerks informed you, comforting you. They saw you as they saw every woman, a pretty face and an empty head. You are, however, most skilful and sharp-witted, a veritable Salome dancing amongst the i