Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Does Sir John sleep a great deal?’ Alcest cocked his head to one side, eyes rounded like that of a child.

Athelstan caught the sneer in the words. ‘I once saw a lion in the Tower,’ he replied. ‘He used to sprawl in the sand but only a fool would dare wake him. You are not a fool, are you, Master Alcest?’

The clerk pulled a face and looked away.

‘Then let’s return to three nights ago when Chapler was killed,’ Athelstan suggested. He caught Alcest’s glance: the clerk had been waiting for that question to be repeated.

‘Three nights ago,’ Alcest replied. ‘At what hour, Brother?’

‘What time do you finish here?’

‘As soon as the light fades in summertime, but three evenings ago was different. It was the feast of St Edmund, our patron: we left here just before Vespers.’

‘And did Chapler go with you?’

‘No, no, as usual he went about his own duties.’

‘And you?’

‘Go ask mine host of the Dancing Pig. We were there well before sunset. We hired a special chamber for a feast. Certain ladies of the town graced us with their presence.’

‘And none of you left?’

‘No!’ Ollerton intervened, scratching at the scar on his face. ‘Not one of us left and we can each stand surety for the other. Moreover, mine host at the Dancing Pig will tell you we had no reason to leave.’

‘You were there all night?’

‘From before dusk until just before dawn.’

‘Ah, the poppets! Lovely lads!’ Cranston murmured. ‘Lovely boys, and a cup of claret for myself.’

Athelstan went red with embarrassment at the sniggers. ‘A king once fought an army,’ he declared hurriedly. ‘And vanquished them but, when the battle was over, victors and vanquished lay together in the same place.’

The sniggers faded away.

‘What on earth?’ Alcest asked.

‘My first,’ Athelstan added, remembering the second riddle, ‘is like a selfish brother.’

‘Father, you are speaking in riddles!’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston opened his eyes and leaned forward, rubbing his face, ‘Brother Athelstan is quoting from what we found this morning on the corpse of your dead friend Peslep. Two riddles, sir, eh, what do they mean? Come, sir, tell me.’

Cranston stretched, flexing muscles and wetting his lips. He would have sipped from the miraculous wineskin but Athelstan kicked his shin under the table.

‘Riddles!’ Lesures exclaimed. He glanced round the table, eager to join in this mysterious conversation. ‘Why, sirs,’ Lesures addressed the clerks, ‘you are constantly posing riddles for the others to solve.’

‘Is that true?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, it’s true,’ Alcest replied. ‘Sir John, you once served as a clerk. Brother Athelstan, you were engaged in your studies, yes?’ Alcest spread his hands. ‘Life can be tedious, even as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. So, yes, we have perfected the art of the riddle. We pose each other riddles and, at the end of the week, the one who has solved the most dines free.’

‘Give me an example,’ Athelstan asked.

Alcest scratched his chin. ‘Tell me, Brother, where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

Athelstan looked at Sir John, who pulled a face.

‘Think, Brother,’ Alcest added teasingly. ‘Where, in any part of the world, is the sky no more than three yards wide?’

Athelstan closed his eyes. He recalled the previous night, standing on St Erconwald’s tower, staring up at the sky. Sometimes he gazed so steadfastly he thought the sky would come down and envelope him whilst the stars, dancing round him, waited to be plucked. Then he thought of the stairs leading up to the tower, winding and narrow; sometimes he’d leave the trap door open… Athelstan opened his eyes.

‘Where in the world is the sky no more than three yards wide?’ he asked.

Alcest nodded.

‘Why, at the bottom of a well,’ Athelstan replied.

Alcest clapped his hands. ‘Well done, Brother.’

‘I have answered the riddle,’ Athelstan pointed out.

‘Repeat yours,’ Elflain asked.

Athelstan did so; the clerks murmured and whispered amongst each other, oblivious to the young woman sitting at the end of the table.

‘They are new,’ Napham declared. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must give us more time.’

‘And we will,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘But tell me, sirs, do you know of someone who, for any reason, wanted the deaths of Chapler and Peslep?’

A chorus of denials greeted his words.

‘You are sure of that?’ Cranston insisted.

‘Sir John, we are clerks,’ Elflain replied. ‘We come from different parts of the country. We have no family here.’ Elflain waved around. ‘So our companions here, these are our kinsfolk. We would know of any danger which threatened any of us.’

Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘In which case,’ he lumbered to his feet, ‘none of you, sirs, will be leaving London!’

‘We are busy enough,’ Lesures declared primly. ‘No one can leave.’

Athelstan stared round the Chancery. Each desk had manuscripts covering it. In the far corner were seven cups, red glazed earthenware with a letter inscribed on each. Alcest followed his glance.

‘Our drinking cups, Brother.’ His face became sad. ‘Seven, if you include Master Tibault’s. Now Peslep and Chapler are dead, we’ll toast them ceremoniously tonight.’

‘It’s our custom,’ Lesures intervened. ‘After working hard at charters and writs, we always finish the day with a cup of malmsey. Tonight we’ll toast our deceased friends.’

‘What do you do here?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, his writing bag clasped in his hands.

‘This is the Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures said in hushed, reverential tones.

‘Yes, I know that.’

‘If I want,’ Cranston explained, ‘to renew a charter, obtain a licence to go overseas, to beg or have the right to enter my father’s property, secure a writ against an enemy, I petition the Chancellor. The Chancellor and his clerks will either approve or reject; if they approve, the writ, charter, or whatever document is needed, will be drawn up and sealed.’

‘And that is done here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Napham replied. ‘And, Brother,’ he pointed to the hour candle fixed on a large iron spigot near the door, ‘we have further work to do.’

‘Where did Peslep live?’ Athelstan asked, ignoring the hint to leave.

‘In Little Britain, near St Bartholomew’s Priory,’ Alcest replied.

And Edwin Chapler?’

‘He had lodgings near the city ditch.’

‘I think we should visit both,’ Athelstan said. He glanced round quickly and caught it, a slight grimace of annoyance on Ollerton’s face, an anxious licking of the lips by Elflain.

‘Is that proper?’ Alcest asked.

‘I am the King’s coroner,’ Cranston retorted, swaying slightly on his feet. And I know what I can do, sir, and I know what I cannot. I will visit their dwellings.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Let us not forget, sirs: you are clerks of the Green Wax, an important office of state. God knows why your companions were killed but His Grace the Regent has a deep interest in the matter.’ He waved a stubby finger around. ‘Every preacher leaves with a good text, so will I. Two of your comrades are dead. Now that may be the end of the matter but, for all I know, the assassin may wish more, or even all of you, dead. So I beg you to be careful.’ He glanced round, pleased to see these arrogant young men had lost some of their hauteur. ‘I also ask you to think, to reflect. Have you made any enemies? Have the clerks of this office offended someone? Who may nurture a grievance against you? Brother Athelstan, the day draws on.’