Paul Doherty - The Assassin's riddle

‘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.’

‘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.