Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Sir John Cranston, mistress,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Coroner of the city. We are here to investigate the murders of Luke Peslep and Edwin Chapler.’

‘Good!’ the woman exclaimed, her face becoming hard. She rose, grasped Cranston’s hand and, before he could stop her, kissed it. ‘I am Edwin’s sister, Alison Chapler. I have just heard the news, Sir John. I demand vengeance and justice for my brother’s murder.’

Sir John released the young woman’s hand.

‘Sit down, mistress,’ he said softly, walking backwards.

Athelstan closed his eyes at the muffled giggles from the clerks. Cranston, the rich claret now making its full effect felt, gazed round benevolently.

‘All of you, sirs, sit down at the table here.’ He placed himself at the top, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to take the stool beside him. ‘Now,’ Cranston began, once the clerks were sat on either side of him. ‘Now, now, a pretty mess, two royal clerks horribly murdered.’ He wagged a stubby finger. ‘And you know what they’re going to say, don’t you?’

‘Are you a prophet as well as a coroner?’ Elflain blurted out, grinning at his companions for support.

‘No, sir, I am the King’s officer,’ Cranston snapped, all weariness disappearing from his face and voice. ‘The murder of a royal clerk is treason. The punishment for that is to be half-hanged, disembowelled, cut down and the body sliced into quarters.’

The clerks became more attentive.

‘Good,’ Cranston purred. ‘Now we have your attention, let us begin. Mistress Alison, you live in London?’

‘No, Sir John, I do not. I came this morning from Epping, a village on the old Roman road through Essex.’

Aye, I know it,’ Cranston replied. ‘Mistress Alison, I must apologise, but I have ordered your brother’s corpse to be taken to St Erconwald’s. Brother Athelstan kindly agreed to have it interred there.’

Alison smiled so dazzlingly at Athelstan that his heart gave a slight skip. It had been a long time since a comely young woman smiled at him like that. He blushed and lowered his head.

‘Do you wish to take it back, mistress?’ Cranston continued, glancing sideways at Athelstan, enjoying his secretarius’s discomfort.

‘No, Sir John, I do not. Brother Athelstan, it was most kind of you. St Erconwald’s is in Southwark, is it not?’

‘Yes, mistress.’ Athelstan didn’t even lift his head.

‘I thank you, Brother.’

‘What are you doing in London now?’ Cranston asked.

‘I came to see my brother,’ Alison replied. ‘Ten days ago a journeyman brought me a letter, a short note: Edwin said he felt unwell. I could see he was worried about something. I have it here.’

She picked up the battered leather saddlebag lying next to her chair, undid the clasp and rummaged amongst the contents. The letter was passed along. Athelstan took it and undid the crisp, square piece of parchment. The writing inside it was beautifully formed: From Edwin Chapler to his sweet and beloved sister Alison. The letter went on to describe that he felt unwell, burdened by certain troubles; that if he was free he would go to visit her but could she not come and see him?

Athelstan noted it was written ten days earlier; he smiled his thanks and passed it back.

‘I arrived this morning,’ Alison continued. ‘My brother had lodgings in St Martin’s Lane near Aldersgate: a mere garret overlooking the city ditch. A rather foulsome place, especially in summer.’

‘Quite, quite.’ Cranston nodded understandingly. And so you came here, mistress, and found your brother had been killed?’

‘Yes she did.’ Alcest spoke up. ‘We told her, sir, what Havant had told us, that her brother’s corpse had been plucked from the Thames.’

And now poor Peslep is also slain,’ Napham added.

‘Two deaths,’ Cranston trumpeted, eyes rolling. ‘Two royal clerks killed in a matter of days.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s not accident, sirs. We are given to understand that Chapler was killed whilst praying in the chapel of St Thomas a Becket on London Bridge and his body thrown over into the Thames. Peslep was stabbed in the Ink and Pot tavern. To cut a long story short, sirs, the assassin knew where to strike. We have a story of a young man, a stranger, at the Ink and Pot dressed in a cloak, war belt and boots armed with spurs. How many of you here could fit that description?’

The clerks looked at each other in surprise.

‘The lord coroner,’ Athelstan broke in, ‘asked you a question. How many of you might fit this description? Perhaps if you could indicate?’

Slowly, led by Alcest, each of the clerks held up a hand.

‘But,’ Elflain protested, ‘there are countless young men in London who would fit that description.’

‘And how many of those young men,’ Athelstan asked, ‘knew that Chapler prayed at St Thomas a Becket or that Peslep frequented the Ink and Pot?’

‘You are saying that the killer is one of us?’ Alcest demanded.

‘Yes, sir, I am,’ Athelstan replied. And please don’t take offence or stand up to protest your innocence. We are here on the orders of His Grace the regent, John Duke of Lancaster.’ He was pleased to see their smugness and arrogance fade. ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I could temper my words. At this moment, suspicion falls on all of you but, there again, if honesty is your guide and truth your response to our questions, suspicion might fall elsewhere.’

‘What questions?’ Ollerton asked.

Athelstan glanced at Lesures who was sitting open-mouthed. The friar had already concluded that the Master of the Rolls, despite his title, exercised very little control over these young fighting cocks. These clerks earned good silver and were patronised by the great and mighty at court who always needed the services of a good scribe.

‘Questions!’ Cranston barked. ‘Questions, sir! Yes, sirs, I will ask you questions, all of you. First, where were you this morning, when Peslep was killed?’

‘Oh, for the Love of God, Sir John,’ Alcest replied, his handsome face twisted in disdain. All of us here live in different parts of the city. We arrived here just after Matins. Some of us go to Mass, others stroll the fields of Clerkenwell. Peslep liked to eat, drink and feel the tits of a young tavern wench.’

And what did Chapler do?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A dutiful clerk.’ Lesures now spoke up, as if eager to extol the dead man’s virtues. ‘He always went to Mass at St Mary Le Bow and said the Angelus at noon. He was known for his generosity to beggars along Cheapside.’

‘Quite, quite,’ Athelstan said, imitating Cranston. ‘But none of you can account for where you were and what you were doing this morning when Peslep was killed?’

The clerks stared at him and shook their heads.

‘You have no witnesses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘saying that such and such a person was there at such and such a time?’

‘Does any man in London?’ Napham scratched his head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we get up, we wash, we get dressed and we go about our daily duties. We do not keep a faithful check of every minute and every second we spend.’

‘Then let us discuss what you were doing three nights ago…’

Athelstan heard a snore and looked round. Cranston had leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, smacking his lips. The coroner burped gently. The friar stared round the table. The young woman was gazing, fascinated, at Sir John. In ordinary circumstances the rest of the group would have been sniggering, laughing behind their hands, but now the clerks were watchful. They might dismiss Cranston as a drunken buffoon but they watched this little friar with his innocent face and short, barbed questions. It’s all a sham, Athelstan thought. Sitting here in this chamber he had a feeling of sin, heavy and oppressive, of arrogance and secrecy. These men had something to hide; Athelstan was sure the killer was sitting with him.