by Paul Doherty
‘Yes,’ Flinstead replied, rather surprised that Sir John, who’d apparently been asleep, had still heard this.
‘I know Mistress Aldous,’ Cranston continued. ‘Five times she has appeared before my bench on charges of soliciting, of keeping a bawdyhouse, a molly shop.’
‘There’s no one there now,’ Stablegate retorted.
‘Just you two lovely boys and Mistress Aldous, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Now let me tell you,’ the coroner went on threateningly. ‘Don’t laugh at old Jack. A horrible murder has been done and the Crown’s silver has been stolen.’
‘We don’t know about that.’
‘No, boyo, you don’t. Five thousand pounds intended for the Regent’s coffers. Now it’s gone.’ Cranston brought a large paw down on each of their shoulders and made them wince. ‘Well, my lovelies, let’s see this bloody window.’
Athelstan, quietly pleased at Cranston’s assertion of his authority, abruptly turned at the door.
‘I am sorry.’ He came back. ‘You didn’t know Master Drayton had five thousand pounds in silver at his counting house?’
‘He’d never let us handle monies,’ Stablegate retorted. ‘It was one rule he always insisted on. We do know,’ Stablegate continued quickly, ‘that envoys from the Frescobaldi bank visited the house yesterday, though Master Drayton told us to stay in our chamber. He answered the door. We heard a murmur of voices and then they left.’
Athelstan nodded. ‘And what would happen then?’
‘If the bankers brought the money,’ Stablegate replied, ‘knowing Master Drayton, he’d count every coin, sign a receipt and keep the money in his strongroom.’
‘Did you like Master Drayton?’ Cranston asked.
‘No!’ They both answered together.
‘He was the devil’s own skinflint,’ Flinstead declared. ‘He made us work from dawn till dusk. At the Angelus time he’d give us some ale, bread and cheese, then it was back to work.’ He tugged at his tunic. At Christmas and Easter we’d get new robes and a silver piece at midsummer. He hardly spoke to us, only visiting us every so often, as quiet as a shadow, to make sure we weren’t wasting his time and money.’
‘Did he ever talk about friends or family?’
‘Never,’ Stablegate replied. ‘On one occasion I asked him if he had been married and he flew into a terrible rage.’
‘Then what?’
‘He went down the stairs, muttering to himself. We learnt our lesson: we never asked him again.’
‘We had no choice but to work for him,’ Flinstead added. ‘He’d often remind us that London was full of clerks seeking employment. Beggars have no choice, Father.’
Athelstan nodded and opened the door. ‘Then, sirs, let us see this window.’
The two clerks went out before him. They led them down the stairs. Flaxwith was at the bottom, stroking and talking softly to what Athelstan secretly considered the ugliest bull mastiff he’d ever clapped eyes on. As they passed, the dog lifted his head and growled.
‘Now, now,’ Flaxwith whispered. ‘You know Sir John loves you.’
‘I can’t stand the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘He’s tried to have my leg on at least three occasions.’
The clerks led them into a small hall, full of jumble and clutter. The wooden wainscoting was cracked and covered in dust; the air stank of rotting rushes. The musicians’ gallery at the far end was beginning to sag, whilst huge cobwebs hung like banners in the corners. Rats squeaked and squealed in protest and slithered across the floor, angry at this intrusion. The room was dark except for the light which poured through the thrown-back shutters of a broken window.
Athelstan pulled across a stool, told Sir John to hold him steady and climbed up to examine the window. Even a cursory glance told him that the shutters had been forced, the bar gouged by a knife: the flyblown window had been cracked so that the clerk who had entered could put his hand in to pull up the handle of the square door window. Athelstan climbed down.
‘It’s as you say,’ he said. ‘Both window and shutter have been recently forced.’
‘I did that,’ Stablegate declared. His voice took on a desperate plea. ‘Sir John, Father, we know nothing of Bartholomew Drayton’s death or the theft of his silver.’
‘And you have nothing to add?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, Father, we have not.’
‘And what plans do you have for the future?’
Stablegate shrugged, then coughed at the dust swirling from the chamber. ‘Father, what can we do? It will be back to St Paul’s, walking in the middle aisle waiting for some rich merchant to hire us.’
‘Have you applied for any licence to travel either here or beyond the seas?’ Cranston asked.
He was not impressed by the puzzlement in their faces.
‘You know full well what I mean.’ He added, ‘Have you applied to the office of the Chancery of the Green Wax for permission to travel? Yes or no?’
‘No, Sir John.’
Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘Good,’ he purred. ‘Then keep it that way until this matter is finished. You are to stay in your lodgings. You are not to leave London without my written permission.’ He nodded. ‘You may go.’
The two clerks walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them, raising fresh puffs of dust.
‘What do you think, Brother?’ Cranston took the wineskin out. ‘Devil’s futtocks, this is a dry place!’
‘Every place is too dry for you, Sir John.’
Cranston winked, took a swig from the wineskin and patted his stomach. ‘It’s time we had refreshments, Brother, something to soak up the wine. You didn’t answer my questions.’
‘I think they are as guilty as Pilate and Herod,’ Athelstan replied. ‘In my view, Sir John, those two are evil young men who believed they have carried out the perfect crime.’ He sighed. ‘And they may well have.’
‘They killed Drayton?’ Cranston asked.
‘As God made little apples, Sir John, I believe they are guilty but how they did it is a mystery.’
‘Flaxwith!’ Cranston roared.
The bailiff hurried into the room, Samson trotting behind him, tongue hanging out. He took one look at Sir John’s juicy leg and would have launched himself forward. Flaxwith had the good sense to grab him by the leather collar and scoop him up into his arms.
‘Sir John, Samson and I are at your service.’
‘Bugger him!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to do three things. First, visit the bankers, the Frescobaldi, in Leaden-hall Street. Seek confirmation that they made a delivery of silver here yesterday. Secondly, go to my host at the Dancing Pig: did those two beauties spend last night there? Finally, I want them and their lodgings in Grubb Street watched; if they try to leave London arrest them!’
‘For what, Sir John?’
Cranston closed his eyes. ‘For cruelty to your dog.’
CHAPTER 2
As Athelstan and Cranston arrived in Ratcat Lane, Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, swaggered into the Ink and Pot tavern on the corner of Chancery Lane to break his fast. Peslep, a young man of good family and even better prospects, felt all was well with the world. Three nights ago he had dined well and been entertained by the most delicious whore. He was still elated by it all. This morning he had risen, washed and put on new robes ready for another day in the office of the Green Wax. He stood in the taproom of the Ink and Pot and beamed round. He looked through into the back, so happy and contented he did not see the animals: a mongrel dog, a mangy cat, or the scraps of food and stable manure piled high in the midden. Nor did he notice the smell from the privies at the far end of the yard behind a hedge of scrawny bushes. Peslep only saw the sunshine reflected in the puddles, heard the clack of geese and, closing his eyes, savoured the appetising odours from the buttery. He took his usual seat in the far corner and, when Meg the slattern cam
e up, he ordered his usual pot of ale and trauncher of sliced bread, apple and cheese. Peslep, as always, put his hand down Meg’s low-cut bodice and clutched one of her breasts, squeezing it gently.
‘Riper every day, eh, Meg? Soon fresh for the plucking?’
Meg wiped her hair from her grease-stained face and forced a smile. She could not object. Peslep always paid in good silver and, if she protested, the landlord would only cuff her ears until they burnt. Peslep sat munching his apple, listening to the sounds drifting through the tavern. A choir carolling from a nearby church, women gossiping in the street, children shrieking, a lazy cock crowing to greet the dawn, a pedlar crying his wares. From the open work-shops near the Fleet prison came a medley of sounds: planing and hammering, clanging and forging, seething and hissing. Peslep closed his eyes. This was the London he loved.
A guild of beggars entered the tavern and gathered round a table to count the coins they had collected from the crowds coming out of morning Mass. Their leader ordered jugs of wine and hot dishes. Peslep knew they would stay there until all their money was gone and they fell to the floor blind drunk to be fleeced by the wily landlord. One of the beggars pulled a flute from his doublet and began to play. Another took a lute from a bag and struck a few chords; the rest began to sing, beating time on the heavy wooden tables, rattling the jars and wooden plates. Peslep, leaning back, watched them through heavy-lidded eyes. He was pleased with the way life was going: the threatening clouds had receded; all would be well. Peslep intended to buy a new house, perhaps north of Clerkenwell. He opened his eyes as a young man entered the tavern, cowl pulled over his head, the spurs on his boots jingling; a war belt, carrying a sword and dagger, was slung over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and whispered at Meg who hurried off to bring him a blackjack of ale.
The young man sat down. Peslep sniffed contemptuously and glanced away. A court popinjay! One of those foppish young men whom Peslep and his companions openly envied, yet secretly admired, with their wealth and lazy good manners. Alcest even aped them. One day Peslep would be like that. His stomach began to churn. He drained his tankard.
‘Master taverner!’ He rose, snapping his fingers.
The fellow came hurrying out of the buttery with fresh rags which he placed in Peslep’s hand. The routine was always the same. Peslep came to break his fast, he would then go out into the privies and return for one final pottle of ale before going on to work. Peslep walked out into the yard, pinching his nose as he passed the midden. The privies at the far end, behind the scrawny hedgerow, were a series of cubicles set over a ditch. Peslep went inside, pulled down his hose and made himself comfortable.
Clutching the rags, he closed his eyes and sat thinking about the money he had salted away. Suddenly the door opened; Peslep, startled, tried to rise. He glimpsed the young man he had seen in the tavern and the sword aiming straight for his stomach. Peslep could do nothing; the sword was thrust in, turned, out again. Peslep writhed at the sheet of pain even as the swordsman struck once more, driving his pointed weapon deep into Peslep’s neck.
Sir John Cranston and Athelstan had returned to study Master Drayton’s counting house when there was a furious knocking on the front door. They both went up the stairs. Athelstan glimpsed a tall, elegant figure framed against the sunlight. The fellow came forward, jewelled bonnet in his hand; spurs on the heels of his boots jingled musically on the floorboards. He had no sword but one hand rested on the jewelled dagger pressed into his leather sword belt; his cloak of dark saffron was tossed elegantly over one shoulder. Cranston studied the handsome, swarthy face and mocking green eyes; he noticed how the young man’s moustache and beard were clipped in the neat French fashion. A memory stirred.
‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’
‘I sincerely hope so. I asked you a question, sir.’
‘I am Sir Lionel Havant, a member of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster’s household.’
‘Ah, one of John of Gaunt’s boys, aren’t you? One of the Regent’s henchmen?’ Cranston stood, feet apart, studying the man from head to toe. Then he walked forward, hand extended. ‘Oh, don’t take offence, man. I knew your father, Sir Reginald Havant of Crosby in Northampton.’
The young man smiled, then straightened up as if remembering his task. ‘Sir John, it’s good to see you but I come direct from the Regent. He would like his five thousand pounds in silver.’
‘He’ll have to wait!’ Cranston snarled. ‘I am a coroner, not a damn miracle-worker!’
Havant looked at Brother Athelstan who raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Sir Lionel,’ Athelstan intervened, before Cranston got into full stride, ‘we’ve scarce been here long; progress will be made.’
The young knight nodded.
‘And you have a message for us?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, how did you . . .?’
Athelstan pointed to the small scroll tucked into the man’s war belt.
‘Ah yes.’ Havant took it out. ‘Sir John.’ He undid the piece of parchment. ‘His Grace the Regent is also concerned about one of his clerks, Edwin Chapler of the Chancery of the Green Wax. His corpse was fished from the Thames last night. It now lies in the hands of the Fisher of Men. Chapler’s been missing for about two days. His Grace wants you to claim the corpse, pay the fine and investigate the cause of death.’
‘I am too busy for drunken clerks!’ Cranston snapped.
‘He wasn’t drunk, Sir John,’ Havant retorted. ‘Chapler was murdered.’
A few minutes later Cranston, with Athelstan trotting beside him, strode across Cheapside and down Bread Street. The coroner wanted to visit the ‘Barque of St Peter’, the rather eccentric name the Fisher of Men gave to his ‘chapel’ or death house. Cranston pushed himself through the crowds, making his way along the thronged streets. Above and around them the two- or three-storey houses, pinched and narrow, blocked out the sunlight and forced people to knock and push each other in the busy lanes below. The stalls and shops were open. The air dinned with the cries of apprentices, particularly the clothiers, their huge barrows or tables covered with a rich variety of materials: brightly embroidered with brilliantly coloured Brussels linen; English broadcloths; textiles from Louvain and Arras. Further down, along the streets of Trinity, the stalls were stacked high with merchandise from Lebanon to Venice: chests of cinnamon, bags of saffron and gingers; casks full of figs; bitter oranges and exotically scented candied lemon peel. There were crates full of locust pots, almonds and mace; sacks of sugar and pepper; casks of wine; writing tablets and boxes of chalk; leather goods in every shade of brown. Herrings were displayed in open crates beside stacked mounds of fruits and vegetables.
Athelstan would have loved to question Sir John but the noise was absolutely deafening. The coroner was busy shaking his fists at the cheeky apprentices who tried to jump up to catch his arm. Cranston would roar and shake himself as a bear would rage at baiting dogs. Athelstan trailed desolately behind, trying not to pay any attention to the shouts, the haggling and bartering. He was bumped and knocked by peasants, craftsmen and townsfolk. Now and again he would stumble and have to profusely apologise to some lady trying to walk arm in arm with her gentleman. As they went down La Réole, towards Vintry and the less salubrious parts of the city, Athelstan kept his hand on his purse. Here the quacks and fortunetellers had set up their temporary booths and attracted the pickpockets and cutpurses. These always gathered in such places, as quickly as bees round honey or, as Sir John would more caustically put it, ‘flies round a turd’.
At last Athelstan glimpsed the rigging of ships and, on the morning breeze, smelt the fresh, tangy air of the river. Cranston, now in a black mood and taking copious swigs from his miraculous wineskin, turned down an alleyway leading to the Barque of St Peter. A relic-seller came whining up, carrying in his hands a box allegedly contain-ing the toenails of the Pharaoh who had persecuted Moses. Cranston pulled back his cowl.
The Fisher of Men was sitting on a bench outside his chapel. He was surrounded by his strange coven, beggars and lepers, their faces and hands covered with sore open wounds. Some were so disfigured they wore masks. Beside the Fisher of Men stood Icthus. The boy had no eyebrows or eyelids; he looked like a fish and could swim like one. Sir John stopped and bowed: he had great respect for the Fisher of Men.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’
‘And you, my lovelies.’ Cranston smiled whilst Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction.
The Fisher of Men rose, hands by his side, and bowed from the waist. ‘Welcome to our humble church, Sir John.’ His watery eyes shifted. ‘And you, Brother Athelstan. Once again death brings us together.’
‘The corpse of Edwin Chapler?’ Cranston asked.
The Fisher of Men handed his pottle of ale to Icthus, opened the chapel door and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan forward. The inside was a long, narrow shed. Against the far wall a makeshift altar had been set up; on it stood two candlesticks either side of a huge crucifix. On the flanking wall were paintings, crudely drawn with charcoal then filled in with paint. One depicted Jonah being swallowed by the whale. The other showed Christ and his apostles, who looked suspiciously like the Fisher of Men and his coven, sailing in a laden barge across the Sea of Galilee. An eerie place, lit by rushlights and oil lamps. Down either side were tables; on each a corpse, plucked from the Thames, lay underneath a dirty piece of canvas. The air smelt stale and, despite the huge herb pots beneath each table, Athelstan detected the sickening odour of corruption. The Fisher of Men, however, seemed all at home, chattering to himself as he led them forward. He stopped at a table and pulled back the sheet. The corpse of a young man lay sprawled there, his hair, body and clothes soaked in river water, eyes half-open, face a liverish white. Athelstan noticed faint crusts of dried blood on the corners of the mouth.
