Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Was he a bachelor?’ he asked.

‘He was married once,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘But many years ago, after the peace of Bretigny with France, his wife upped and left him. Who can blame her? He had no other family or kinsfolk.’

Athelstan examined the wound inflicted by the crossbow bolt: the quarrel had entered deep into Drayton’s skinny, narrow chest. He then sat back and studied the bloodstain further down the room near the door. He hitched his robe and edged along the paving stones.

‘What’s the matter, brother?’

Athelstan pointed to the doorway. ‘The blood begins at least a foot from that: this is where Drayton first fell.’ He turned and pointed to the far wall. ‘Now, here’s a man who is dying, the door is bolted and locked, yes?’

Flaxwith agreed.

‘Over there,’ Athelstan pointed, ‘is Drayton’s desk, the place where he did all his business. Where he’d sit and marvel at the wealth he had amassed.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But he doesn’t try and go towards the door or his desk but to the far wall. Why?’

He walked across and, pulling out his dagger, tapped at the whitewashed bricks. ‘They sound solid enough to me,’ he declared. ‘Listen, Athelstan.’

Cranston tapped the wall again, up and down; the only response was a dull thud. ‘There’s no secret passageway,’ he asserted, resheathing his dagger.

‘Perhaps Drayton was delirious?’ Flaxwith commented.

‘It does prove one thing,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘The door must have been still locked and bolted, otherwise the poor man would have crawled towards it.’ He got up, wiping his hand on the black mantle over his white robe. He stared round the chamber. ‘You are correct, Master Flaxwith, a square of pure stone and plaster.’

Athelstan walked around: there was the counting desk against one wall and a boxed chair with cushions. On the desk were weighing scales, scraps of parchment, quills, inkhorns and a coffer, its clasp broken. Athelstan studied this and realised it must have been so for years. Inside there was nothing but strips of wax and more quills. The rest of the room was bare and gaunt.

‘Not even a crucifix,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Drayton must have been a very close and narrow soul.’

For a while all three searched the square musty chamber.

‘Not even a rat could break in here,’ Cranston declared, mopping his brow and taking another swig from his miraculous wineskin.

‘Except through the door,’ Athelstan pronounced. ‘It’s time we examined it.’

They took the torch from the wall and scrutinised the door. Athelstan’s curiosity grew. The wood was at least nine inches thick, the hinges were of steel. He could tell from the three bolts and two locks, with keys still inside, that the door must have been secure when it was broken down. He studied the metal bosses. On the outside these were conical-shaped, fitting into the wood with a clasp on the inside. He felt some of these but they were all tightly secure. The only opening was a small grille high in the door, about six inches across and six inches high. He pulled at the wooden flap which covered it.

‘Was this up or down?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘It’s hanging down now. Perhaps all the force we used knocked it loose?’

Athelstan stared at the small grille. It was broad enough for a man to see out but the bars were so close together it would be difficult to slip even a dagger through, let alone a crossbow bolt. Athelstan went back to the great steel bosses and began testing each of these.

‘What are you doing?’ Cranston asked curiously.

‘I want to see if any are loose,’ Athelstan replied. ‘They are fitted into the door by clasps.’

‘I did that myself,’ Flaxwith declared triumphantly. ‘Father, there’s none loose.’

And if there was,’ Cranston intervened, ‘surely it would have shaken free when Master Flaxwith and his colleagues were hammering at the door?’

Athelstan grudgingly conceded and scratched his head. ‘Therefore the problem still remains,’ he said. He walked back into the counting house. ‘Master Drayton would have his silver here, yes?’

Cranston agreed.

‘What puzzles me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that the assassin had to kill our moneylender, take the money and escape. Yes? In the ordinary course of events the door should have been left open but, instead, Drayton is inside, the door barred and secured. So, if the robbers struck first and took the silver from the room, why is the door closed?’

And if it is closed,’ Cranston finished, ‘how did the robbers enter in the first place, kill Drayton, steal his silver and get out, leaving the door barred and locked from the inside?’

‘Precisely, Sir John, the perfect conundrum.’

‘What is more,’ Flaxwith added, ‘they not only stole the silver but also any loose coins. Moreover, Drayton’s clerks claim two silver candlesticks and a gold pendant are missing.’

Athelstan sat down on the stool and stared at the corpse.

‘How?’ he murmured. ‘In or out?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin.

‘Well, I can understand them killing Drayton and taking the silver but how did they get in and out? That door is better than a wall of steel. There are no gaps or breaks. If they’d approached the door, Drayton would have left the flap down. He was safe behind the grille. He would have refused to open the door. Now I could understand a man like Drayton letting in a clerk or a friend.’ He glanced at Flaxwith. ‘You are sure the key was in the lock, the bolts were drawn?’

‘It’s the first thing I checked,’ the bailiff retorted, jumping from foot to foot. ‘Oh please, Sir John, may I see my dog? Samson begins to pine if he’s away from me.’

‘Oh, go and see the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Give it my best regards!’

Flaxwith almost ran from the room.

‘And there’s another problem,’ Athelstan went on. ‘How did the assassin get in and out of the house without forcing a door or window?’

‘Bloody mysterious!’ Cranston took another slurp from the miraculous wineskin.

‘The clerks are still here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, Brother. They are waiting upstairs.’

They left the chamber and went up to meet them. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to Master Philip Stablegate and his colleague James Flinstead. Oh, they were pleasant enough. They rose politely as he entered. They were of personable appearance, hair neatly cropped, their faces clean-shaven and washed. They were dressed in sober apparel, dark tunics and hose. Stablegate was fair-haired, pleasant-faced, ever ready to smile. Flinstead was darker, rather dour. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt repelled. Clever men, he thought, full of mockery. Both clerks made little attempt to hide their amusement at what they considered the coroner’s antics. Cranston waved at them to sit down, then he helped Athelstan pull a rather shabby bench across to sit opposite them. Athelstan placed his writing bag between his sandalled feet and waited patiently as Sir John took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. The coroner closed his eyes and burped with pleasure. Stablegate dropped his head and sniggered. Cranston, wobbling on the bench, put the stopper back in. He must have caught the mockery.

‘You are Master Drayton’s clerks?’ he began harshly. ‘You were the last to see him alive?’

‘We left just before Vespers,’ Flinstead replied.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan asked.

‘Same as always,’ Flinstead said pointedly. ‘You are…?’

‘Brother Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’

‘And my secretarius,’ Cranston boomed.