by Paul Doherty
‘It was no accident,’ the Fisher of Men intoned. He turned the corpse over.
Athelstan, trying to control his nausea, studied the mass of loose flesh on the back of the young man’s head.
‘Any other wounds?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to his wineskin.
This time Athelstan accepted the coroner’s kind offer and took a deep mouthful himself.
‘None that I could see.’ The Fisher of Men held out his hand. ‘Three shillings, Sir John! Three shillings for pulling a murder victim from the Thames!
‘The Guildhall will pay you,’ Cranston retorted.
The Fisher of Men smiled; his hand remained outstretched. ‘Come, come, Sir John, don’t play cat and mouse with me. If you go to the Guildhall for three shillings, three shillings you’ll get. If I go, I’ll be beaten round the head and rolled down the steps.’
Cranston sighed and handed the money over.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men declared. ‘We know he was Edwin Chapler, his seals of office were found in his pouch. Being a royal clerk, we sent these to the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy.’
‘Anything else?’ Cranston asked.
‘A few coins but . . .’ The Fisher of Men shrugged.
Athelstan turned the corpse over and, kneeling down, began to whisper the words of absolution. The Fisher of Men waited patiently whilst Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over the young man’s face and whispered the Requiem.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men continued. And, knowing the run of the river, I believe he was thrown from London Bridge three evenings ago.’
‘Wouldn’t his body be bruised by the starlings and bridge supports?’
‘No, Sir John, the river runs fast and furious between the arches of the bridge. He was certainly thrown down there: as his body swirled in the water, bits of seaweed became entangled in his clothing. If you climb down and look at the arches underneath the bridge, it’s one of the few parts of the river where seaweed is caught and held.’ The Fisher of Men laughed. ‘But I’m showing off, Sir John. One of my lovely boys out there, he talks to old Harrowtooth, the witch, the wise woman, who lives in a hovel near the city end of the bridge. Three evenings ago she went into the chapel of St Thomas à Becket, and met a young man who matches this man’s description.’
‘Of course,’ Sir John breathed. ‘And behind the chapel is a small, deserted area. It’s well known as a place for suicides. What time did Harrowtooth see him?’
‘Well after Vespers, the sun had disappeared. Very agitated he was, praying just within the porch, as if he didn’t really want to be there.’
‘I know old Harrowtooth,’ Athelstan added. ‘I’ll have a talk with her.’
‘And the corpse?’ the Fisher of Men asked.
‘Keep it for twenty-four hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘If no one claims it, send it to the priest at St Mary Le Bow for interment. There’s a plot in the cemetery there . . . ’
‘I can’t do that,’ the Fisher of Men responded. ‘They refused the last one and will continue to do so until the graveyard is cleared and a new charnel house is built.’
Athelstan stared down at the corpse, full of pity at this young life so brutally wiped out.
‘Send it to St Erconwald’s,’ he declared. ‘If no one wants him, St Erconwald’s will take him.’
Athelstan abruptly turned as the door swung open. Havant, the Fisher of Men’s coven protesting and fluttering like a group of starlings around him, swept into the corpse house.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Don’t say I’m going to see you on the hour every hour, Sir Lionel?’
‘A rash of deaths, Sir John. Another clerk has been murdered.’
‘In the river?’ the Fisher of Men asked hopefully.
Sir Lionel didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. ‘Luke Peslep was killed on the privy at the Ink and Pot tavern: stabbed through the belly and the gullet. The assassin has vanished like smoke.’
‘Robbery?’ Cranston asked.
‘Nothing taken from him except his life, though this was left.’
Havant handed across a dirty piece of parchment; the ink was dark blue, the writing sprawling. Cranston passed it to Athelstan.
‘My eyes are rather bad this morning.’ Cranston’s usual explanation when he’d drunk too much.
Athelstan read it in the light of an oil lamp.
‘Two riddles,’ he said slowly. ‘The first reads: “A king once fought an army. He defeated them but, in the end, victor and vanquished lay in the same place.”’
‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘God only knows,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And here’s the second: “My first is like a selfish brother.” Did this belong to Peslep?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Havant replied. ‘The assassin must have left it on the corpse. You’d best come and see.’
Cranston and Athelstan thanked the Fisher of Men then followed Havant back out into the streets.
The bells of the city were pealing for midmorning prayers. The traders and their customers ignored this invitation, but had taken a rest for something to eat and drink so the crowds were thinner, the alleyways and lanes easier to manage. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tired by the time they reached the Ink and Pot. Havant strode like a giant whilst Sir John, eager to accept the challenge, was intent, as always, on showing that he was a puissant knight able to compete with the youngest and the best. A crowd had assembled outside the Ink and Pot tavern, kept back by archers from the Tower wearing the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt. Havant pushed his way through, spoke to the captain of the guard then led Cranston and Athelstan into the taproom and out across the dirty yard. An archer, gnawing at a chicken bone whilst flirting with Meg the scullion, indicated with his thumb.
‘He’s in there,’ he shouted. ‘The captain pulled up his hose and made him decent. He said no man should be found like that.’
Athelstan opened the door. Peslep was sitting slumped on the privy bench, his jerkin caked in blood from the wound in his neck and the deep sword thrust to his belly.
‘Bring him out,’ he whispered.
Cranston snapped out an order. The archer, assisted by Athelstan, removed the corpse and laid it down upon the cobbles. Athelstan gave absolution and examined the two wounds. He took out the dead man’s purse and emptied the contents out on his hand: there was nothing except a few coins, a pumice stone and a small St Christopher medal.
Athelstan recited the short Office for the Dead, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. The landlord, his face creased in mock sorrow, came out rubbing his hands, eyes rolling heavenwards.
‘Lord have mercy!’ he wailed. ‘Lord have mercy on us all! We’ll all be slain in our beds!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Don’t worry, master taverner, the corpse will be removed. You’ll be back to coining your silver within the hour. Now, what has happened?’
‘I sent a runner to the Tower,’ the taverner gabbled. ‘Because he’s Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
‘You didn’t send the boy to the Tower,’ Meg scoffed.
‘For God’s sake, gather your wits,’ Havant snapped. ‘You sent the boy to the Chancery Office off Fleet Street. I was there when he arrived.’
The landlord fluttered his fingers; he took a dirty rag from his greasy apron and mopped his face. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy! You are right, you are right! I kept thinking we should go to the Tower, maybe the French had landed.’
Cranston grasped the man’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Good friend,’ he said. ‘A royal clerk has been murdered and you are bleating like a lamb.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ the landlord whined.
‘Too busy watching the customers,’ Meg hinted.
Athelstan beckoned her over and slipped a penny into her callused hand. ‘What did you see, girl?’
She sniffed and w
iped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘As normal, Peslep came in here to break his fast. As normal, he squeezed my tits and sat like a prince stuffing his face and then, as normal, he went out into the jakes to relieve himself.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone leave after him. Simon, the ironmaster, went out, bladder full of ale he had. We hears him screaming. The rest you know’
‘Did you see anyone in the tavern this morning? A stranger?’
The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face. ‘We had some beggars,’ she replied. ‘Oh yes, and a young man.’ She opened one eye and pointed at Havant. ‘He was dressed like you. In good clothes. He carried a war belt, long leather riding boots with spurs on.’
Havant smiled bleakly. ‘But it wasn’t me?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied coyly. ‘You are much more handsome than he.’
‘So you saw his face?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He was clean-shaven,’ Meg responded. ‘But no, Father, I really didn’t have a good look. I was too busy.’
Cranston, who had been swaying on his feet, eyes half-closed, smacked his lips noisily. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he declared. ‘Master taverner,’ he took the coins Athelstan had handed over from Peslep’s purse, ‘have the body removed.’
‘Where to?’
‘Your parish church,’ Cranston retorted, grasping the man’s wrist and squeezing it. ‘Tell the priest there that Sir John Cranston sent it for burial.’
The landlord, followed by Meg, strode away.
‘Why were you at the Chancery Office?’ Cranston asked.
Havant shrugged. ‘The Regent’s orders, Sir John. I was to tell them about Chapler’s corpse being discovered.’
And?’
‘They were upset, sad, then the boy arrived from the tavern.’ Havant looked up at the blue sky. ‘Sir John, I must be going.’ He smiled at Athelstan, spun on his heel and walked back into the taproom.
Cranston sat down on a wooden bench and stared glumly at the corpse whilst Athelstan inspected the yard.
‘You won’t find anything,’ the coroner moaned. ‘This one came like a thief in the night.’
Athelstan went to the back of the privies and opened a small wicket gate which led into a mean alleyway. He looked up and down: at the far end a group of children played with a pet toad watched by a mangy cat; at the other, an empty gap between huddled houses led out into a street. Athelstan closed the wicket gate, returned and sat down beside Sir John.
‘Too many killings,’ the coroner murmured. He rubbed his face. ‘Brother Athelstan, I need refreshments.’ He nudged his companion, who was lost in thought. ‘What are you thinking about, monk?’
‘This friar, Sir John, is mystified, not just by Drayton’s death: we have Chapler knocked on the head and thrown over the bridge, and now Peslep is stabbed to death in a privy.’
‘Which means?’ Cranston asked.
‘These clerks were killed by someone who knew all their habits and customs.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘I wager Chapler was accustomed to praying in the chapel of St Thomas à Becket and, as Meg has just told us, Peslep was in the habit of coming here every morning.’
‘And the killer?’
‘That young man,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He came in here with his war belt. He waited till Peslep went out and followed. It would have been easy: Peslep sitting on the jakes, his hose around his ankles; the door is flung open, a thrust to his stomach followed by one to the neck, then the assassin flees down the alleyway. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘We’ll have refreshment soon enough. Let’s go down to the Chancery Office.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Cranston replied.
‘Sir John?’
‘The deaths of the clerks are important, Brother, but the Regent is breathing down my neck. I want to go back to Drayton’s house. I want to search that counting house from top to bottom.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘we are in the city now. Chancery Lane is not far away. Drayton’s murder is due to a subtle mind rather than some secret passageway. Moreover,’ he pulled the scrap of parchment out of his purse, ‘why should these riddles be left? What message did the assassin intend to leave? I believe, Sir John, that Peslep and Chapler were killed by one of their number, another clerk. So arise, Sir John, it’s not yet noon.’
Cranston grudgingly conceded, hiding his bitter disappointment at not being able to buy a juicy meat pie in the Holy Lamb of God. They left the Ink and Pot, Cranston barking orders at the landlord about Peslep’s corpse, and made their way up Cheapside, past the Shambles, the noisy meat market outside Newgate prison, then into Holborn Street. For a while they had to pause: a travelling troupe of players had attracted the crowds, those who loafed about the streets or sprawled on church steps. Anyone who had a measure of free time had flocked on to a piece of nearby wasteland to watch the somersaulting, fire-sprouting, rope-dancing guild of entertainers and jugglers. Garishly dressed whores had also clustered around and, as Sir John Cranston was recognised, the occasional catcall was heard, but the braggart boys, cardsharpers and pickpockets stayed well away from him.
At last Sir John, shouting and waving his hamlike fists, forced a way through. They passed the Bishop of Ely’s inn and entered the lawyers’ quarter, thronged with soberly dressed men in fur-edged robes, clerks and scriveners in dull browns and greens. They turned into Chancery Lane and Cranston stopped before a large, mouldering four-storey house. The windows were dusty, the plaster and woodwork fading and crumbling.
‘It’s been like this,’ Cranston remarked, bringing down the iron knocker in the shape of a quill, ‘since I was a boy’ He wagged a finger at Athelstan. ‘A veritable house of secrets.’
He was about to continue when the door swung open. The man who greeted them was dressed, despite the heat, in a fur-edged robe stretching from neck to slippered feet. In one hand he held an eyeglass, in the other a quill; inkstains covered his fingers. He was balding, with a grey seamed face; his eyes were bright, his nose sharp and pointed like a quill. Bloodless lips puckered in irritation at being disturbed.
‘What business, sirs?’ He scratched his scrawny neck.
‘King’s business,’ Cranston replied, pushing him aside.
‘Well I never, I beg your pardon, sir.’ The man grasped Cranston’s arm.
‘Who are you?’ the coroner barked.
Tibault Lesures, Master of the Rolls. How dare you . . .?’
Cranston gripped his hand. ‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city here on the express orders of the Regent. This monk is Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s and my secretarius.’
‘Then why didn’t you say that in the first place? Lesures’ head came forward like that of an angry chicken. He plucked at the cambric belt round his waist and smiled at Athelstan. ‘You are here about the murders?’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Two young men killed in their prime. Violent times, Father! Satan is always an assassin and there are more sons of Cain than there are of Abel. Ah well, come on.’
He led them along a gloomy passageway, past chambers where scribes and scriveners scratched away, copying or preparing rough drafts of documents.
‘The Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures turned at the foot of the stairs, ‘is on the first gallery. On the second gallery is the Chancery of the Red Wax and on the . . .’
‘Thank you,’ Cranston replied. ‘I once worked in the Chancery myself, Master Tibault.’
‘Did you really?’ Lesures became all friendly.
‘Please!’ Cranston insisted.
Lesures took them up the stairs, along the gallery and into a large furnished room. This was more comfortable than the others they’d passed. Damask cloths and coloured tapestries hung above the wooden wainscoting next to shields bearing the arms of England, France, Scotland and Castille. The floor was of polished wood; high desks and stools were placed neatly around but these were now empty. Four clerks were gathered at the far end of a
long table which ran down the centre of the room. They were grouped round a fair-haired young woman who sat in a chair, her face in her hands.
The young men looked up as Cranston approached. They were all in their early thirties, dressed in jerkin and hose, white shirts with clean, crisp collars coming up under the neck. They were neat, tidy and all wore the Chancery ring on their left hands. Athelstan recalled how the Chancery always recruited the best from the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge: young men of good families. Some of them would enter the Church whilst others, if they won royal favour, would rise to be sheriffs, court bailiffs or royal commissioners.
Lesures introduced them: William Ollerton, small and thickset, his clean-shaven face marred by a scar which ran from his nose down to his mouth. His dark hair was carefully oiled and he wore an earring in one lobe. Quite the dandy, Athelstan thought. Robert Elflain was tall and thin as a spear shaft: arrogant, his face puckered in a permanent expression of disdain, his eyes watchful. Thomas Napham was tall, broad and chubby-faced, his hair not so neatly coifed as the rest, rather nervous, eager to please. Finally, Andrew Alcest, apparently the leader of the group: loose-limbed, rather girlish with his smooth-skinned face and large round eyes. Yet Athelstan sensed mischief, a man who, despite his innocent looks, was attracted to plotting as a cat to mice.
Lesures finished the introductions. The clerks shook Sir John’s hand and that of Athelstan, then stood aside. The young woman, round whom they had been grouped, still sat in the chair, her chin resting on the heel of her hand. She smiled tearfully at Cranston who towered over her. Athelstan was struck by how pleasing her face was, not beautiful but pretty: large grey eyes, sweet mouth, her oval-shaped face still comely despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked tired. Wisps of auburn hair peeped from under the serge-cloth wimple she wore. Athelstan noticed the mud stains on her grey cloak, slung over the arm of the chair, whilst her bodice and dress, clasped close at the neck, looked crumpled and travel-worn. She wore a ring on one finger but otherwise, apart from a silver cross hanging on a chain round her neck, no other jewellery. The friar was fascinated by her fingers, long and very slender; he noticed the indentations around the nails and wondered if she was a woman who had spent her life as an embroiderer or seamstress. Cranston still gazed beatifically down at her until the young woman, rather disconcerted, blinked and turned to Athelstan for help.
