Paul Doherty - The Assassin's riddle

‘Goodmorrow, Master Burdon, do I have permission to cross your bridge?’

‘You carry the warrant of Holy Mother Church,’ Burdon teased tack. ‘Not to mention the lord coroner’s. May the Lord bless his breeches and all that’s within them. What do you really want, Father?’

Athelstan took a deep breath but gagged at the stench from the corrupting pile of rotting fish piled high against the rails of the bridge. Burdon followed his gaze.

‘I know, Father. I’ll throw that lot over as well as the insolent bastard who put it there.’

‘Where does old Harrowtooth live?’ Athelstan asked.

Burdon clicked his fingers. Athelstan followed him along the bridge. He felt that strange sensation he always did: the bridge was really a street with houses and shops on either side, yet he was aware of the rushing water below, caught like some soul between heaven and earth. Burdon stopped at the side door to a clothier and rapped noisily upon it. Harrowtooth, her iron-grey hair streaming about her, flung open the door.

‘Go to hell!’ she screamed when she saw Burdon.

‘Only after you, you foulsome bitch!’ Burdon yelled back.

‘Now, now,’ Athelstan intervened swiftly. ‘Master Burdon, I thank you. Mistress Harrowtooth, a word?’

Burdon skipped away, turning to make an obscene gesture with his middle finger. Harrowtooth was about to reply but Athelstan grasped her hand.

‘Mistress, please, just a few minutes of your time?’

The old woman turned, eyes screwed up against the sun. ‘You are the Dominican from Southwark?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, you can’t. I don’t allow priests in here: thieving magpies they are.’

‘I really won’t steal anything.’ Athelstan held his hands up.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Harrowtooth replied. She pointed across the street. ‘Let’s go down the alleyway, it overlooks the river.’

Athelstan sighed, he had no choice. The alleyway was a sordid, stinking mess, rubbish piled on either side. He was pleased to stand against the rail of the bridge. The breeze was cool and from below he could hear the shouts of the watermen and wherry boys. Further down the river two huge cogs, royal men-of-war, were preparing to leave to patrol the Narrow Seas: bumboats and barges bobbed like little sticks around them.

‘I love this place,’ Harrowtooth said, coming up behind him. ‘My father used to bring me here.’

‘Father?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He was a priest.’ Harrowtooth grinned. ‘Mother died, so he made reparation by going on pilgrimage. The lazy bugger never came back.’

‘Edwin Chapler?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.

‘Ah, the young clerk who was flung over the bridge.’ Harrowtooth sniffed. ‘I sees him, you know. I was probably the last person to see him before he met God.’

‘Except for his murderer,’ Athelstan corrected.

‘Ah yes!’

‘So, what did you see, Mother?’

‘I am not your mother!’ Harrowtooth snapped but then, leaning against the rails, she told Athelstan of how she had visited the chapel of St Thomas, how Chapler had been praying there, how he looked agitated when she left him.

‘And you saw no one else?’

‘No one, father.’

‘Did Chapler often visit St Thomas a Becket?’

‘Oh yes. Oh yes. Sometimes he’d be by himself. I sees him once.’ She hurried on, eyes glinting at the penny in Athelstan’s hand. ‘I sees him, Father. Oh, and by the way, you can call me Mother any time you want. I sees him with a young man, well dressed. Here on the bridge.’

Athelstan pressed for a description but the old woman shook her head. ‘I told you what I can, Father.’

Athelstan handed over the penny. He followed Harrowtooth back across the bridge. She waited for a break in the carts and sumpter ponies being led across and scurried away like a spider hiding from the sunlight. Athelstan made his way to Southwark side. Near the priory of St Mary Overy, Mugwort the bell clerk and Pernell the old Flemish woman, her hair now painted a hideous orange, were standing talking to Amisias the fuller. All three parishioners turned to greet Athelstan. The friar would have liked to stop and ask why they’d had their heads together, talking so animatedly, but he walked on. He passed the house of Simon the carpenter, pleased to see that Tabitha, a widow, her husband recently hanged at Tyburn, seemed to be coping better. Athelstan wondered if the whispers were true, that the deceased carpenter had been too quick with his fists, and regularly beat upon his poor wife.

He made his way past the shabby stalls, the little hovels and cottages of his parishioners. The air was thick with the pungent smells from the tanning yards but the aroma from Merryleg’s pie shop was as sweet and savoury as ever. The day seemed busy enough: dogs and children ran about, thin-necked chickens dug into the midden heaps. Lurching out of an alleyway, ears flapping, flanks quivering with fat, trotted Ursula the pigwoman’s favourite sow. The beast stopped, snout up, and stared at Athelstan. The friar was sure that, if a pig could grin, this one did.

I’d love to have a stick, Athelstan thought, quietly mourning the succulent cabbages this great beast had plucked from his garden. Instead he sighed, sketched a blessing in the direction of the sow and continued up the alleyway. The church steps were deserted except for Bonaventure, the great one-eyed tomcat who lay sprawled there like some dissolute Roman emperor. He cocked his good eye open as Athelstan came and crouched beside him.

‘Oh, most pious of cats,’ Athelstan breathed, gently rubbing the cat’s tattered ears between his fingers.

He opened the door of the church and went inside, relishing the cool, incense-filled air. The nave was empty. Athelstan felt guilty because there should have been a school today. He checked the sanctuary lamp, a little red beacon in the darkness glowing under the silver pyx hanging from its chain above the high altar. About to go back down the steps, Athelstan sniffed. ‘Fresh paint,’ he murmured.

Then he remembered how Huddle the painter, together with Tab the tinker, had finished a new crucifix to hang in the small alcove behind the baptismal font. Athelstan went to inspect it. The wall behind the font had been covered with a vivid garish painting depicting souls, in the form of worms, being pushed into a fiery furnace by a devil which had the body of a monkey and the head of a wild goat.

‘It’s too savage,’ Athelstan murmured, studying the flames Huddle had painted devouring the black imps and the grotesque beasts of the underworld. However, it was the new crucifix which caught his attention. Huge, at least three foot high and two foot across, the rood was black with the figure of Christ in alabaster-white. This twisted in agony, the head covered with thorns, the face drooping, whilst Huddle had vividly painted the blood pouring out of the wounds in the hands, feet and side. Beneath it, the work of Watkin the dung-collector, leader of the parish council, was a new candelabra made of wrought iron with little spikes for devotional lights to be placed on.

Athelstan studied the scene carefully. ‘A little too vivid,’ he commented but, there again, he admired Huddle’s consummate skill and knew that every aspect of the cross would be carefully studied by each and every one of his parishioners at the parish council tonight. Athelstan genuflected towards the sanctuary, closed the door and, followed by an inquisitive Bonaventure, went across to the priest’s house.

He first checked on Philomel, the old destrier he had bought. The horse seemed happy enough, leaning against the wall, eyes closed, munching the remains of what was left of his oats. Athelstan went into the house. The small kitchen and parlour were clean and swept, the rushes changed and sprinkled with spring flowers and herbs. The wooden table before the kitchen hearth had been scrubbed whilst fresh bread, cheese and a small jar of comfit were in the buttery. Athelstan closed his eyes and thanked God for Benedicta, the widow woman. He took the food and returned to the parlour, filling Bonaventure’s bowl with milk. The great cat sat on the table, sipping at it, now and again raising his head to study his master. Athelstan’s thoughts were elsewhere. He chewed his food carefully, eyes half closed, remembering the problems which had confronted him earlier in the day. He could make no sense of the moneylender’s murder.