Paul Doherty - The Assassin's riddle

‘Four clerks dead,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Each with a riddle left by his corpse. My third is like Fate. ’ He paused. ‘No, that’s strange, isn’t it, Athelstan?’

‘Sir John?’

‘Well, four clerks have been killed; Chapler, Peslep, Ollerton and now Elflain. However, no riddle was left by Chapler’s corpse whilst the assassin apparently regards Elflain as his third not fourth victim.’

Athelstan tweaked the coroner’s cheek. ‘My Lord Coroner, like a swooping hawk! The poppets should be proud of their father.’

John beamed, then his smile faded. ‘Why is it important, Brother?’

‘Because, Sir John, you are correct: the killer draws a distinction between the murders of Peslep, Ollerton and Elflain and that of the first, Chapler.’ Athelstan sat down at the foot of the stairs, his chin cupped in his hand. ‘Sir John, could those clerks of the Green Wax be involved in some villainy?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Forgery, theft, blackmail?’

Cranston scratched his chin. ‘What they do, Brother, is draw up licences and letters. The seal itself is held by Master Lesures. I doubt if he would be involved in such wickedness.’

‘Could they forge a seal?’

Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s not unknown, Brother. We should go down to the Chancery.’

‘It would be a fruitless journey’ Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot. ‘I am sure Masters Alcest and Napham will have very good explanations of where they were. I also wager a jug of wine that it was well known that Master Elflain visited Dame Broadsheet’s on a certain day at a specific hour. Yes, we would be wasting our time. I am more concerned about these riddles. Let’s have them again.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘My first is like a selfish brother,’ he recited. ‘My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror. My third is like Fate.’ He glanced up at Cranston. ‘What’s the centre of woe, Sir John?’

‘No claret,’ the coroner replied.

Athelstan grinned. ‘The centre of woe: does it mean the word itself? Of course it does.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘O is the centre of the word “woe” and, without it, horror as a word would not exist. Now that was found beside Ollerton’s corpse. And what is Fate, Sir John?’

‘The finish…’ the coroner stammered. ‘The end of life.’

‘Fate also ends in an E, the first letter of Elfiain’s name. Peslep’s riddle’s a little more difficult, isn’t it? Like a selfish brother: what begins with P, Sir John?’

Athelstan, fully immersed in the riddle, began to walk up and down. ‘Like a selfish brother,’ he repeated. ‘The riddle definitely refers to a P. The first letter of Peslep’s name.’ Athelstan paused. ‘That’s it, Sir John. A selfish brother’s the first to pity but the last to help: “pity” begins, and “help” ends with a P. But why the letters? These clerks have apparently been killed according to sequence P, O, E.’

‘Poe?’ Cranston asked. ‘No such word exists.’

‘Ah, we’ve not finished have we, Sir John? There’s Napham and Alcest. Add N and A and what do we have? There’s no such name as “poena” but in Latin poena means punishment.’

‘Punishment!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The assassin is playing a game with his victims. The first letter of each of their names is hidden in these riddles and the killer believes he is carrying out a punishment. But for what?’

‘One thing is clear,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The murderer believes all these clerks are guilty but, as you say, guilty of what? And two other questions warrant our attention. Why isn’t Chapler’s name mentioned? He worked with these young men. Secondly, was he innocent of any crime?’

‘How do we know Chapler’s dead?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh, Sir John, don’t be stupid!’

‘I’m not being stupid, monk!’ Cranston snapped. ‘A young man is fished out of the Thames, and only by the contents of his wallet do we know he is Edwin Chapler.’

‘But Mistress Alison, his sister, recognised the corpse as that of her brother.’

‘No, no.’ Cranston shook his head and leaned against the wall. ‘What happens if Chapler is not dead? He knew the habits and customs of his companions. He knew they liked riddles. Perhaps he and his sister are waging their own private war of vengeance, God knows for what reason.’

‘It’s impossible,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress Alison was not in London when Peslep was killed; she was in Southwark when Ollerton died and the second riddle delivered. We know Havant viewed Chapler’s corpse whilst the poor clerk was last seen alive near the very place where he probably died.’

Athelstan stared down at the corridor where Flaxwith still stood with the carpenter Laveck. ‘It’s like any puzzle isn’t it, Sir John?’ he continued. ‘There are many answers but only one is correct. I may have the riddles wrong. Chapler could well be alive. Moreover, we must not discount Master Lesures: he must know what is going on in his own Chancery office. And there’s the other little strand we’ve picked loose: your good friend, the Vicar of Hell, seems to know a lot about our beloved clerks. Perhaps he has a score to settle? He can move round the city like a will-o’-the-wisp. Finally…’ Athelstan paused, wiping some dust from his sandal.

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘We must not be carried headlong by the force of our own logic. Here we are suspecting everyone of murder but there are others, besides Lesures, we must not forget. Napham and Master Alcest, in particular. How do we know that one, or both, might not be the assassin? Was there some quarrel amongst the clerks? Peslep might have been born wealthy but all these young men do seem to have a lot of money.’

‘So, a visit to the Chancery of the Green Wax may not be fruitless?’ Cranston asked.

‘It might be very rewarding, Sir John.’

‘And this business here?’

‘Well, the remains of Drayton’s wife have now been removed. Master Laveck has told us what he knows about the door. However,’ Athelstan stared around, ‘is that enough to accuse the two clerks? How did they really kill Drayton? It’s possible that in the days preceding the murder they distracted Drayton and worked one of those bolts loose. But how did they kill their master and how could they enter and leave the house without leaving some door or window loose?’ Athelstan picked up his writing bag. ‘The day draws on, Sir John. Let’s visit Master Lesures and his clerks. Then I’m back to Southwark to see what fresh miracles have occurred.’

They walked out of the house and almost bumped into Mistress Alison. She was breathless and for a while just stood, hands on her chest, panting for air.

‘Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry. I made inquiries at the Guildhall. They told me you were meeting your bailiff here.’

‘That’s right. Why, what’s the matter, girl?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that I’m leaving London, Sir John.’ She leaned up and kissed him on both cheeks and did the same to Athelstan. ‘I could not go without saying goodbye. I want to be on the road before the sun sets. Oh,’ she continued in a rush, ‘Brother Athelstan, I went back across the bridge, I had forgotten something at Benedicta’s. Your crucifix is still bleeding and the crowds are fair flocking there.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and groaned.

‘But Benedicta sent a message.’ Alison closed her eyes. ‘Er, Wat..’

‘Watkin,’ Athelstan intervened.

‘Ah yes, Watkin has everything under control. I must go.’

‘I am afraid you can’t.’

Athelstan looked at Cranston in surprise. The coroner hunched his great shoulders. ‘Mistress Alison, we are hunting your brother’s murderers.’