Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Wouldn’t he open the door?’ Flinstead interrupted.

Cranston came over, his wineskin in one hand. ‘Of course not, you little liar. Drayton had just been robbed, pushed back in his room. He wasn’t too sure what was happening. He’d do what any sane man would do, lock and bolt the door lest the outlaw return to kill him. Now he hears a tap on the door, cries of concern. Whatever has happened, Drayton knows he is safe as long as he doesn’t open that door.’

‘Which we shall now do,’ Athelstan declared.

He opened the door and beckoned Sir John to step outside. Then he closed the door and pulled down the grille, staring through it.

‘Drayton’s all anxious,’ he continued. ‘One of his clerks is a felon but the other is acting quite innocent. Drayton’s too astute to open the door but at least he’ll stand by the grille and gabble, perhaps ask him for help. What he fails to realise is that the clerk on the other side of the door has carefully and silently removed the metal boss. He’s also brought a small arbalest, the bolt already in the groove. Drayton has his body pressed against the door, there’s now a sizeable hole which exposes his body. The assassin on the other side of the door releases the catch, the bolt is fired. Drayton takes it in his chest and staggers back, falling to the ground. In his death throes he has only one thought, to reach the far wall, to seek forgiveness for another more ancient sin.’

Athelstan saw the puzzlement in Flinstead’s face. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he went on, opening the door to let Sir John in and closing it behind him, ‘there’s more to this chamber than meets the eye. A place of evil but for you, sir, the perfect crime. The silver has gone. The door is locked and bolted, Drayton is dead within. Who can blame you? You place the metal boss back in the hole and rejoin your accomplice.’

Athelstan studied the door again. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he murmured. He opened the door, removed the boss, knelt down and peered through. ‘Even if Drayton had not come to the door,’ he sang out, ‘a crossbow, a small arbalest, could be used against him anywhere in his counting chamber.’

Flinstead wetted his lips.

‘Now, to perfect your crime,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you lock and bolt the front door then steal out through one of the windows, making sure no one sees you. After that, it’s heigh-ho to one of the taverns. The following morning you return to the house and make sure you are standing outside when Master Flaxwith makes his rounds. You are all concerned. Flaxwith, the honest bailiff, tries to assist. You explain what has happened and lead poor Flaxwith by the nose. You go round the outside of the house. You deliberately ignore the window through which you left the previous evening but, instead, break in through one properly secured.’

‘Once you were in the house,’ Cranston remarked, coming up and poking Flinstead in the chest, ‘you were safe. Flaxwith, all distracted, eager to find out what happened to Master Drayton, is brought down to the counting room. I am sure one of you slipped away and properly secured the window through which you left the night before, making it look as if the entire house had been properly secured and locked.’

‘Now we come to this door,’ Athelstan decalred. ‘Locked and bolted but with the grille down. Flaxwith knows it’s secure. He peers through the grille but, in the gloom, cannot see much. After a great deal of commotion the door is forced. Everyone throngs into the room. There’s no suspicion about the door, its locked and bolted and there’s a bloody corpse on the floor. While the bailiffs bustled around, you or Stablegate put the clasp back on the metal boss on the inside. It could be done in a few seconds: cleaned and greased the clasp can be spun on and, if necessary, tightened later. The perfect crime, eh, Master Flinstead?’

‘This is ridiculous!’ he sputtered. ‘You can’t prove it!’

‘Oh, yes I can,’ Cranston retorted. ‘The carpenter who examined the door will swear how the metal boss beneath the grille has been loosened, removed, greased and reclasped. It’s the only solution, Master Flinstead. And, again, there’s no real mystery about how you left the house.’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin then stretched till his muscles cracked. ‘So, it’s Tyburn for you, my lad.’

‘A perfect crime,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You knew the silver was coming: you loosened the boss, you knew which one, eh? How many times have you and Stablegate seen your master peer through the grille?’

Flinstead just shook his head.

‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘something might have gone wrong. However, your master had no kith or kin, you had all night, and some of the next day, to put it right.’ He shrugged. ‘Or even flee. As it was you committed a crime which you thought no one could lay against you. Well, at least till now.’

Flinstead slid down the wall, putting his arms across his chest as if feeling a draught of icy air. Cranston crouched dwon beside him.

‘Do you want a drink, lad? It will warm your belly and feed your wits.’

Flinstead shook his head.

‘Now for robbery and murder,’ Cranston spoke quietly as if discussing the weather, ‘you just hang. But the silver you stole belonged to the Regent. His Grace John, Duke of Lancaster. That’s treason. So it will be no quick death. The executioner will wait until you are half dead, then cut you down from the gallows, slice your body from neck to crotch and pull your heart and entrails so you see them before your eyes close. Afterwards, he’ll cut you up like a butcher does collops of meat. Your head will be fixed over London Bridge. Your quarters? Well, heaven knows where they will go. One to Temple Bar, perhaps the rest to the ports, Dover and Southampton, all nicely pickled in a bucket.’

Flinstead’s head sagged.

‘Take him out!’ Athelstan declared. ‘Sir John, put him in another room in the house. Well away from Stablegate.’ He winked. ‘Haven’t you read the Book of Daniel, Sir John?’

Cranston caught his drift. He hauled Flinstead to his feet and pushed him out of the counting house. Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. He felt excited yet cold, as he always did when he trapped a murderer. Excited because he had resolved the mystery, cold at the terrible evil he had witnessed. On the one hand, Drayton’s blood cried to heaven for vengeance but, on the other, Athelstan knew that Cranston’s words were no empty threat. Flinstead would stand before King’s Bench, the Justices would convict and the young clerk would suffer a horrifying sentence. Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘O Lord,’ he prayed quietely, ‘don’t hold their blood to my account. You, the searcher of hearts, know that I am innocent of any desire for their lives.’

He opened his eyes as Cranston pushed the arrogant Stablegate into the room.

‘Sir John, what is this?’ the clerk protested.

‘Shut up!’ the coroner bawled. He pointed to a stool. ‘Sit down!’ Cranston came across to Athelstan, his face red with excitement, whiskers positively bristling, blue eyes popping ‘What now, my little monk?’ he whispered.

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘Bugger that! Are you going to tell him the same story?’

Athelstan plucked Cranston by the sleeve and, looking round the portly coroner, stared at Stablegate. The young man gazed flint-eyed back.

‘Have you ever been in the presence of a demon, Sir John?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Well, if not, count this the first time. Stablegate will tell us nothing.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Silence, Sir John.’

Both the coroner and Brother Athelstan waited. Now and again the friar would walk towards the door and ostentatiously begin to undo the clasp. He glanced over his shoulder at Stablegate who just watched him, narrow-eyed.