by Paul Doherty
‘Look!’ Cranston cried.
He jabbed a finger and Athelstan read the entry.
‘Alcest came here,’ the friar exclaimed. Two days before his great banquet at the Dancing Pig, but he didn’t ask for a loan, he was changing gold for silver pieces. Now why should Alcest do that, eh?’
Athelstan stared at the door. ‘Sir John, do you think Drayton could have been murdered by our clerks? Could this be the source of their newfound wealth?’
‘It’s possible,’ Cranston replied. ‘But, there again, it wouldn’t explain the deaths amongst them.’
‘But what happened if they were all thieves together,’ Athelstan wondered, ‘and what we are witnessing now is the falling-out?’
Cranston scratched his chin. ‘I’d like to get my hands on the Vicar of Hell,’ he answered. ‘There’s not a mischievous mouse in London which moves without his permission: he could throw some light on this. However, let’s visit our noble clerks and see what Master Alcest has to say.’
CHAPTER 7
Cranston and Athelstan were about to leave the counting house when the friar paused in the doorway. He stared up at the rafters, the whitewashed walls on either side and then the one at the far end.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘It concerns me, Sir John. I have been in rooms and houses all over the city, so have you. Have you ever seen a room like this, a perfect square? The walls stand at right angles, as if the chamber was designed by some mathematician.’
‘So?’
‘Well, if you go through the rest of the house it’s shabby, dirty; the rooms are long and narrow, the ceilings sag, the floorboards rise. Here it’s all different, stone-floored, perfectly shaped. Have you noticed something else, Sir John? The walls have been freshly whitewashed.’
Cranston, mystified, followed Athelstan back into the counting house. Sir John gazed around: a bleak chamber, chests, a desk, chairs, a stool and a bench, but no hangings on the wall. Nothing to offset the sharp whiteness.
‘Would Drayton have kept his monies here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Knowing the little I do,’ the coroner replied, ‘I doubt it. He would keep some ready silver but he’d probably store his ill-gotten gains in the vaults or ironbound chests of the Genoese or Venetian bankers. Everyone would know that. Only, occasionally, as on the day he died, would Drayton ask for monies to be moved here.’ Cranston smacked his forehead. ‘And that reminds me: when I was at the Savoy Palace, the Regent assured me that the money was delivered to Drayton. The Fresobaldi would never dream of stealing the silver. It would only give John of Gaunt the pretext for seizing everything they have.’
Athelstan had moved across to the far wall and was tapping at the plaster. ‘Sir John, can I borrow your knife?’
The coroner handed it over and the friar began to chip away at the plaster. At last he gouged a long scar on the wall, raising small clouds of dust. Athelstan cleared the area of plaster with his fingers and scrutinised the red brick beneath.
‘What are you doing, Brother?’
‘Never mind.’
Athelstan moved to the other wall. This time, when he cleared the plaster, the brickwork underneath was a dull grey. The same occurred on the wall behind the desk. Athelstan handed the dagger back and wiped his hands.
‘Sir John. Quod est demonstrandum.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Athelstan pointed to the far wall. ‘That’s solid brick but it was built much later than the rest. The brickwork is new but Drayton took great care to ensure it was plastered and painted like the other two walls. He also positioned it carefully so this chamber became a perfect square.’
‘And how does that solve his murder? Could there be a secret entrance?’
‘Perhaps. Here we have a miser who, I supposed, hated spending money. So why should he build another wall but cover it so carefully? What I want you to do, Sir John, is to tell Master Flaxwith to get some of your burly boys here. Have them meet us later on.’
Cranston went across to the desk, seized a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbled a note.
‘Now.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Let’s go and visit Master Alcest!’
At the office of the Chancery of the Green Wax, Cranston and Athelstan saw Alcest by himself in a small downstairs chamber off the main passageway. Alcest had lost a great deal of his arrogance. He was watchful and wary, more respectful to the plump coroner and the little friar who seemed to accompany him everywhere.
‘Why do you wish to see me alone, Sir John? Do you have news of my companions’ killer?’
‘No,’ Cranston answered cheerfully. He took a swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘But I do want to know why you visited Master Drayton days before he was found dead in his counting house. If I were you, young man, I would be prudent and tell the truth.’
Alcest sat down on the stool opposite.
‘You know we had our festivities at the Dancing Pig?’
‘Oh yes. We know about that,’ the coroner replied. ‘I have had a long talk with Dame Broadsheet and even managed a few words with the Vicar of Hell.’
Alcest flinched; try as he might, he found it difficult to hide his unease.
‘You seem troubled by that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Dame Broadsheet I understand. But what would a high-ranking royal clerk have to do with the Vicar of Hell?’
‘We swim in the same pond, Brother,’ Alcest replied cheekily. ‘We work here by day but what we do by night . . .’
‘Associating with outlaws and wolfsheads,’ Cranston remarked sweetly, ‘is a crime in itself.’
‘I don’t associate with them, Sir John, I merely said we swim in the same pond: alehouses, brothels and cookshops. The Vicar of Hell is notorious,’ Alcest continued. ‘His name has appeared upon the Chancery Rolls under different aliases as the law tries to arrest him for this or that.’
‘Have you and your companions ever met him? Sat down and shared the same table?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Never.’
The reply was too quick. Alcest looked away hurriedly.
‘Ah well, back to Master Drayton,’ Cranston said. ‘You went down to see him, did you not?’
‘Yes, I went down to change gold pieces for silver: the coin Dame Broadsheet demanded to be paid in.’
‘Why there?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Why not some tradesman or one of the banking houses? Was there something wrong with your gold?’
‘No, there was not. I obtained the coins from Master Walter Ormskirk, a vintner in Cheapside.’
‘You bank with him?’
‘The little I have, yes, Brother. We took it in turns to pay. On that particular night,’ he hurried on, ‘it was my turn. With Dame Broadsheet your purse has to be full. Money has to be divided. You cannot do that with two gold pieces.’
‘But why not ask for silver from Master Ormskirk?’ Athelstan insisted.
Alcest coloured and shuffled his feet.
‘Why go there out of your way?’
Alcest breathed in. ‘I was assured of getting a better coin from Drayton, you can’t trust some London merchants. The coins they hold, some are counterfeit, others have been recast.’
‘Come, come.’ Cranston tapped the young man’s knee. ‘Master Alcest, I may look like a madcap to you with my red face, bristling whiskers and protuberant stomach but I’m not a fool: there must have been another reason.’
‘I had confidence in him,’ the clerk replied.
‘Did you often go there?’
‘Yes I did. Sometimes, in my earlier days at the Chancery, Drayton would give me a loan or change money.’
‘And the day you visited him. What happened?’
‘I was there only a short while and then I left.’
‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’
‘Nothing, Sir John, and before you put your accusation into words, I couldn’t care whether Drayton lived or died and the same applies to Chapler. When he was killed, I was roistering at the Dancing Pig.’
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‘Ah yes, with young Clarice.’
‘I was with her all night,’ Alcest replied. He got to his feet. ‘And now, unless you have further questions?’
‘Why do you think your colleagues have been murdered?’ Athelstan asked abruptly. ‘And why the puzzles?’
‘Brother Athelstan, if I knew that I would tell both you and Sir John immediately.’
Alcest walked out. They heard him climb the stairs.
Cranston patted his stomach. ‘Some refreshment, Brother? Let’s collect our thoughts. Sit upon the ground and make an account of what has happened.’
Athelstan also felt hungry. He had not yet broken his fast. So he joined Sir John at an adjoining tavern, the Golden Goose, a spacious eating house on the corner of Shoe Lane and Farringdon Ward. The taproom was singular in that customers were able to hire small booths; these were closed off from the rest by a small door, with benches which faced each other across a large oaken table. They took one of these: Sir John ordered brawn soup, capon pies and two blackjacks of ale. Once the dishes had arrived, Cranston took his horn spoon from his wallet and ate with relish. Athelstan knew any sensible conversation would be impossible until the coroner declared himself refreshed, sat back, the blackjack of ale in his hands, eyes half closed and murmured his thanks to God for such a delicious meal. Once they had both finished, the coroner, demanding his blackjack be refilled, tapped his fleshy nose and smiled beatifically at the friar.
‘Come on, Athelstan, get that quill and parchment out. Let’s make an account of all these murders.’
Athelstan did so, sharpening his quill and smoothing out the piece of vellum with the pumice stone. He sighed in exasperation when he found his inkhorn almost empty but the landlord had one to hire.
‘I am ready, Sir John.’
The coroner put his blackjack of ale down.
‘Primo.’
Athelstan began to write.
‘Master Drayton, an avaricious moneylender, is found brutally murdered in his counting house. The bag of silver he was preparing to hand over to the Regent is stolen.’ Cranston paused. ‘Along with other items including the two gold pieces Alcest allegedly brought to change. Secundo, Drayton’s corpse is found in a locked chamber. The door was bolted and secured from the inside. There are no secret entrances. So how did the murderer kill him with a cross-bow bolt and steal the silver? Tertio, the rest of the house was found locked and barred, except the window used by the clerks to break in the following morning. Quarto, the two clerks Flinstead and Stablegate have a hand in this villainy but they can prove that they were elsewhere. Even if they were formally accused, we could not explain how the murders were carried out. Anything else, Athelstan?’
‘Quinto,’ the friar quipped back. ‘Alcest visited Drayton days before he died. He wanted to exchange gold for silver. We also know there’s some connection between Alcest and Drayton but it’s tenuous and the clerk’s explanation is not convincing. I believe Alcest used the gold pieces as a pretext to visit the moneylender but we were right not to pursue this matter: we have no proof to the contrary and Drayton’s dead.’
‘There’s the question of the gold.’
‘True, Sir John, but possessing two gold pieces is not a crime for a clerk of the Green Wax. Alcest claims it was his turn to pay, the others will corroborate that and his explanation makes sense: the young ladies would have to be paid, not to mention the landlord of the Dancing Pig.’ Athelstan put his quill down and rubbed his fingers. ‘So far, Sir John, the only firm suspicion we have is that the far wall in Drayton’s chamber might hold a clue to how our money-lender was brutally killed.’ He sighed. ‘But I could be clutching at straws.’
Cranston’s face became glum. ‘The way things look, Brother, we will not arrest our murderers and the Regent won’t get his silver. Now, let’s move to the clerks.’ He waved his hand despondently. ‘You list what we know.’
Athelstan sat back. ‘First, we know Chapler was murdered just after sunset. He visited St Thomas à Becket’s chapel on London Bridge. The murderer knew he’d be there. He struck Chapler on the back of the head then tossed his body into the Thames where the Fisher of Men found it. Secondly, all those who knew Chapler appear to have been elsewhere. The clerks were roistering at the Dancing Pig. Master Lesures did not join them. However, I doubt if our noble Master of the Rolls had the strength to strike anyone, let alone lift a young man’s body over the rail of London Bridge. The only other person who knew Chapler was his sister Alison. She was in Epping, about to leave for London because of her concern about her brother. Thirdly . . .’
‘Thirdly,’ Cranston intervened, ‘we have the death of Peslep. He was killed sitting on a latrine. We know he was followed by this mysterious young man, cloaked, cowled and spurred. Fourthly,’ the coroner continued, ‘there’s Ollerton’s death. Now,’ Cranston held up his hand. ‘It was well known that Chapler liked to visit St Thomas’s chapel. Peslep always broke his fast in that tavern at that particular time whilst it was customary for the clerks of the Green Wax to drink a cup of malmsey late in the afternoon. Therefore, whoever murdered these three men had intimate knowledge of their habits and customs.’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There’s also the question of the riddles. Alcest’s companions apparently loved to pose each other riddles for the rest to solve. The assassin knows this and, so far, we’ve had three. The one about a king fighting his enemies but in the end both victors and vanquished lying together in the same place. The second, how does it go, Sir John? My first is like a selfish brother, whilst the one delivered after Ollerton’s death declares: “My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror”.’ Athelstan abruptly clapped his hands, alarmed at Sir John’s heavy-lidded look. ‘Come on, Sir John, concentrate with that brain as sharp as a razor, that wit as speedy as a swooping hawk.’
‘I was just thinking, Brother,’ Cranston replied crossly. He sat up. ‘What would happen if Father Prior told you to leave St Erconwald’s?’
Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Now come, Sir John, that’s not the matter in hand. Have you sent that note to Flaxwith?’
‘Yes, yes, I did.’ The coroner shifted on the bench. ‘I paid a chapman a penny before we met Alcest.’
Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Then, Sir John, no brooding! We have murderers to seize, the King’s justice to be done.’ He poked the coroner in the ribs. ‘And the Regent’s silver to get back!’
By the time they returned to Drayton’s house, Flaxwith had arrived with two bruising individuals, each carrying a huge mallet.
‘Right, my lovely lads!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to knock a wall down.’
The house was unlocked and they went down the gloomy passageway into the counting house where, at Cranston’s command, both men set to with gusto. They smashed their mallets against the wall, the sound echoing like drumbeats through the room which soon filled with dust that tickled the nose and throat.
‘Despite the sound it’s not solid,’ one of them shouted, standing back and resting.
Cranston, his muffler up over his mouth, went to inspect. ‘You are not even through yet.’
‘Sir John, you grasp villains by the neck and, I wager, you can see one across a crowded room. I know walls: there’s something behind this.’
Athelstan, who had been carrying out another fruitless scrutiny of the door, came over to join them. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a small chamber behind this, Brother. This wall’s new.’
‘Could there be any secret door or gate?’ Cranston asked.
The burly labourer laughed. ‘No, Sir John, the wall’s solid, well, at least until we are finished with it!’
They set to again, giving a cry of triumph as the first bricks fell loose. The labourer picked one up, pointing to the mortar. ‘This wasn’t done by a mason, Sir John, but someone who knew a little building. The mortar is thick, slapped on. That’s why whoever built this wall covered it with plaster and whitewash.�
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Cranston peered through the gap into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he murmured.
The labourers returned to their task. More bricks fell away. An entrance was formed. Athelstan took a battered tallow candle from its iron spigot, Sir John struck a tinder and they went into the secret chamber. The dust-filled darkness made Athelstan shiver as he protected the flame by cupping his hand. He held the candle up and exclaimed in surprise. In the far corner lay a skeleton. He hurried across, followed by Cranston and the labourers. Athelstan, silently praying, crouched down by the grisly remains. In the glow of the smelly candle he carefully studied the skeleton which sat half propped up against the wall. The bones were still white and hard; tattered clothing still clung to it. Athelstan could tell by the dusty shreds that the skeleton belonged to a woman. He continued his examination, ignoring the exclamations of the labourers. He put his hand out, felt round the skeleton and picked up a battered pewter cup and platter.
‘In sweet heaven’s name!’
He took the candle and searched the rest of the chamber but found nothing. Chilled by the silent, eerie atmosphere, he walked back into the counting house.
‘Who do you think it is?’ Cranston asked, following him out.
‘Well, the house has always belonged to Drayton,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No one could wall up another human being without his knowledge so it’s logical to deduce that he was responsible, therefore those might be the poor remains of his wife. She clearly didn’t leave Drayton. I suspect she baited and taunted her husband until he grew tired of her. He probably gave her drugged wine, brought her down here and walled her up alive. God rest her!’ he breathed. ‘She must have taken days to die.’
Cranston thanked and dismissed the labourers, giving each a coin. The coroner then shouted for Flaxwith. The bailiff came hurrying down, his dog loping behind him, though Samson had the sense to stay well out of Cranston’s path.
