Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘It’s no place for anyone,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city…’ He stopped, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, in Caput Decimus, in chapter ten, “On the inflicting of petty punishments”, I argue that these brandings should be carried out in the prison yard.’

He opened his eyes but Athelstan and the young woman were now twenty paces ahead, going down Little Britain. Cranston hurried to catch them up. Athelstan paused to ask directions from a stallholder, then they continued on until he stopped before a four-storey, well-furnished mansion, which stood in its own small plot of land with an alleyway at either side. He brought the iron knocker down on the door. A young maid opened it, her face thin and white under a small mobcap. Her eyes rounded in fear as she looked at Brother Athelstan and then at the huge bulk of Sir John.

‘Did Luke Peslep live here?’ the coroner boomed.

‘Oh yes, your grace.’ The young maid bobbed and curtsied. ‘He has two chambers on the second floor.’

‘Two?’ Cranston murmured. ‘A wealthy man our clerk. Do you have a key?’

‘The master’s out,’ the maid replied. ‘But,’ she added hastily as Sir John drew his brows together, ‘I have a key here.’

She led them into a sweet-smelling passage, up the brightly polished oaken stairs and into a small recess. She inserted the key and flung open the door. Sir John, followed by Alison and Athelstan, entered.

The room was dark so the maid opened some shutters. As she did so, Cranston whistled and Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. Peslep’s lodgings were no paltry chamber but two rooms, a small parlour and a bedroom. As the maid lit candles and opened more windows, Athelstan could see that Peslep had lived a most luxurious life: damask hangings on the wall; a velvet cloth-of-gold bedspread; tables, chairs, stools and chests. On the far wall were two shelves, one with silver and pewter pots, the other with three books and a collection of rolled manuscripts. On the wall facing the bed hung a small tapestry depicting a scene from the Old Testament showing Delilah seducing Samson. Delilah wore hardly any clothing and stood in the most delightful poses.

‘Even the devil can quote scripture,’ Cranston whispered in Athelstan’s ear.

The young maid hurriedly left.

‘Come back!’ Athelstan called.

The young girl did so. Athelstan pointed to the key. ‘You know Master Peslep’s dead?’

She just stared blankly back.

‘We found no key on his corpse,’ Athelstan explained.

‘Oh,’ the young girl replied, ‘he always left it with me, sir, so I could clean the chamber.’

And he did so this morning?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And no one came here after he had left?’

‘No, sir, they didn’t,’ the maid replied. ‘But I saw Master Peslep go down the street. I was brushing the front step and, as I did so, I noticed someone else, another young man cloaked and cowled, spurs on his boots. He followed Master Peslep as if he’d been waiting for him.’

‘Would you recognise him again?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh no, sir, just a glimpse then he was gone, Master Peslep with him.’

The young maid left. They went back to their searches. Alison seemed bored. She sat on a quilted cushion, tapping her foot as if impatient to be gone. At last Athelstan found the dead clerk’s writing box. It was locked, so Cranston prised the clasp loose with his dagger and emptied the contents on to the table. Prominent amongst them was a roll of parchment containing a list of riddles. Athelstan scrutinised this.

‘These clerks really love puzzles,’ he murmured.

‘It’s more than a game.’ Alison spoke up. ‘My brother was always talking about it, asking me to search for fresh ones.’

‘And the assassin knew that,’ Athelstan replied. He picked up a smaller scroll, undid it and whistled under his breath. ‘Sir John, look at this.’

Cranston grasped it and studied the list of figures.

‘It’s from Orifab, the goldsmiths in Cheapside,’ he muttered. He looked at the total at the bottom near the date, given some two weeks previously. ‘Master Peslep was a very rich man.’ he remarked. ‘So rich I wonder why he worked as a Chancery clerk.’

‘Many of them are from wealthy families,’ Alison intervened. She came across and peered over Sir John’s shoulder. ‘The younger sons of nobles,’ she continued. ‘Their elder brothers either inherited the estates or entered the Church.’

Cranston tossed the roll back into the box. ‘I’ll tell my bailiffs to come and seal the room,’ he declared. ‘Is there anything else?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Personal effects but nothing remarkable.’

They left the chamber, Cranston turning the lock and telling the maid he would keep the key himself, and went back down into the street. Alison grew silent, hanging back as Cranston and Athelstan made their way through the midmorning crowds towards the city ditch. At last they reached the house where Chapler had lodged, a shabby, two-storeyed tenement which looked as if it had been pushed between the alehouse on one side and a vintner’s shop on the other. The timbers were crooked, the plaster sagging, the white paint flaking and falling like pieces of snow. A garrulous old woman was the doorkeeper; she smiled rheumily at them, chewing on her gums.

Yes, she gabbled. Master Chapler lived here. And the door to his chamber was open. After all, Chapler’s friend had also called.

‘When?’ Cranston asked.

‘Very early this morning,’ she replied. ‘Just as the bells were tolling for Matins.’

The old woman gave the same description as the maid: a young man, cowled and hooded, spurs clinking on his riding boots. He had kept his face turned away but had given the old crone a coin and who was she to object?

They climbed the rickety stairs, Athelstan wrinkling his nose at the stale odours. Mice scampered before them and the friar wondered what his great tomcat Bonaventure would have made of all this. The door at the top was half open. Athelstan went in first, crossing the room to open the shutters. Despite the house’s decay, this chamber was pleasant, the plaster freshly painted in a light, soothing green. The floor of both the parlour and the small scullery beyond was scrubbed, the furniture was roughly hewn but sturdy and clean. Alison looked around, put her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. Cranston lumbered across. He put one great arm round her.

‘There, there, my girl! There, there! My sister lost her husband. He was killed fighting the Spanish in the Narrow Seas. These things pass. You never forget them. You just live with them.’

Athelstan, sitting on the four-poster bed, caught his breath at Sir John’s words. He felt the same about his brother Francis when, what seemed like an eternity ago, they had both joined the King’s armies in France. Francis had been killed and Athelstan had returned to his novitiate. For his crime of desertion and for having had a hand in his brother’s death, he had paid a terrible price. His parents had died brokenhearted and his order had never forgotten. Now, instead of being a scholar, he was parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark, but would he be for much longer?

‘Brother?’

Athelstan shook himself free from his reverie and joined Cranston in his search. They found the usual riddles, letters, lists of provisions, but nothing remarkable. Certainly not the lavish wealth found at Peslep’s. Athelstan came back to where Sir John hugged a quietly weeping Alison.

‘There’s nothing here, Sir John. Nothing at all.’

Cranston dropped his arm and stepped away, catching at Alison’s hand. He cupped her chin gently, lifting her tearful face. ‘I’ll have this room sealed as well,’ he promised. ‘I’ll send a bailiff, a man called Flaxwith, he’s a trusty fellow. He’ll pack all your brother’s possessions away. Store them in chests in the Guildhall.’