Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘You are not going to sleep, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John, I am not. We are approaching London Bridge and when we go under the arches my stomach positively dances.’

‘O man of little faith,’ Cranston quipped. ‘Why are you so frightened of death?’

‘I am not, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘It’s just drowning I fear.’

The coroner sat forward, however, and began to exchange pleasantries with the two wherry men, drawing them into good-natured banter. As they approached the bridge, Cranston’s heart skipped a beat: the water was bubbling like oil in a pot as it gushed under the narrow arches of the bridge. The noise became like thunder. Cranston lost his wager with the wherry men for, as they shot through, narrowly missing the starlings or wooden partitions built to buttress the stone pillars, he closed his eyes as everyone did, not opening them until they were out into the quiet water near Botolph’s Wharf. The pace of their journey slowed down. Eventually the barge turned towards the shore, going past the fish markets of Billingsgate, the air rank with the stench of herring, cod, brine and salt. They disembarked at the Woolquay. Above them soared the Tower with its sheer walls, bulwarks, crenellations and bastions. Even on that sunny day the huge fortress had a threatening and forbidding air. Athelstan disliked the place: he had visited it on many occasions, accompanying Sir John in the pursuit of some red-handed murderer.

‘A narrow, cruel place,’ he muttered. ‘May St Dominic and all the angels take us swiftly in and out, for death and murder always lurk here.’

They crossed the drawbridge. Beneath them the moat was filled with dirty green slimy water which stank worse than any midden heap in the city. They went under the black arch of Middle Tower. The huge gateway stood like an open mouth, its teeth the half-lowered iron portcullis. Above them the severed heads of two felons, now rotting under the sun, grinned down at them.

‘God defend us,’ Athelstan prayed. ‘From all devils, demons, scorpions and malignant sprites who dwell here!’

The gateway was guarded by sentries who stood under the narrow vaulted archway seeking shade from the sun.

‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘I hold the King’s writ and this is my clerk, Brother Athelstan, who for his sins is also parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. A place,’ Cranston paused and grinned at Athelstan, ‘where, as the Sanctus Man will show, virtue and vice rub shoulders and shake hands.’

In response, one of the sentries hawked and spat, narrowly missing Cranston’s boot. The coroner advanced threateningly towards him. The fellow forced a smile, mumbled an apology and fairly skipped before them, up past Byward Tower. They turned left at the Wakefield, going through another fortified wall and on to Tower Green. Most of the garrison was assembled there: soldiers lying on the grass, their wives at the washtubs, children climbing over the catapults, battering rams, mangonels, huge iron-ringed carts and the other impediments of war. To their right stood the massive half-timbered Great Hall with other rooms built on to it. Here the soldier handed them over to a snivelling red-nosed groom who took them up into the Great Hall. Cranston patted the two rough-haired hunting dogs snuffling amongst the dirty rushes. One of them took this friendliness too far and was about to cock its leg against Sir John but ran off growling when the coroner lashed out with his boot. The hall itself was a vaulting, sombre room with a dirty stone floor and smoke-charred heavy beams. Against the far wall was a fireplace, broad and high enough to roast an ox. The midday meal had just been finished and scullions were clearing the tables on either side of the hall, throwing the pewter and wooden platters into a tub of greasy water which they pushed around on wheels. A group of men stood before the fireplace. The groom hurried over. One of the men, tall and lanky, red-haired with pink-lidded eyes, sauntered over, thumbs stuck into his broad leather belt. He forced a smile as he recognised Cranston and Athelstan.

‘Goodmorrow, sirs!’

‘Master Colebrooke, isn’t it?’ Athelstan asked, going forward to shake the man’s hand.

‘The same, now Constable of the Tower.’ Gilbert Colebrooke preened himself. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

‘Alcest,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax. He came here seeking shelter.’

‘Oh yes, so he did.’ Colebrooke scratched his chin. ‘In a fair fright he was, demanding all his rights. I gave him a chamber high in the Wakefield. What’s this all about, Sir John?’

‘Look, sir, you know better than to ask and I’m too astute to tell. I want to see him now!’

Colebrooke pulled a face. ‘Sir John, you know the rules of war. The Tower is under my direct authority. Any royal official who shelters here has my protection.’

‘Of course, Master Gilbert, you can be present when we question him.’ Cranston smiled. ‘I still want to see him now. Or I can take a barge down to the Savoy Palace and tell His Grace the Regent that I am unable to carry out his commands, at least at the Tower.’

Colebrooke almost ran from the hall. He returned a short while later, Alcest trailing behind, and led Sir John and Athelstan down a corridor into a small, whitewashed room. Athelstan studied Alcest closely. The clerk was dirty and dishevelled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept, whilst a muscle high in his right cheek kept twitching. Cranston waved him to a stool whilst Colebrooke slammed the door and stood with his back to it.

‘You find it restful here, Master Alcest?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes.’ The young man rubbed his eyes.

‘You came here late last night?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I had to collect my belongings but, yes, I came just before the gates were closed.’

‘Did you go to Southwark?’

Alcest shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t know,’ Alcest mumbled.

‘Neither do we,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Because, sir, you are a liar. Your paramour, Clarice, tells us that on the night Chapler was killed you were not asleep with her all night but left and came back.’

‘I…’

‘What?’ Athelstan declared. ‘Are you going to confess that you put a sleeping potion into her wine which she did not drink? Quick of wit and sharp of eye is Mistress Clarice. Where did you go?’

Alcest licked his lips. He glanced furtively around as if seeking some bolt-hole.

‘Where did you go?’ Cranston demanded.

‘I returned to my own lodgings. I forgot the silver. I needed to pay Mistress Broadsheet’s girls.’

‘You are a liar,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You slipped along the alleyways to London Bridge. Chapler was well known for going to the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Lonely and deserted after dark, you went there, struck him on the head, pulled his corpse round to the rail and tossed it over, as easy as a leaf falling from a tree.’

Alcest’s hands went to his face, his legs began to shake.

‘You killed Edwin Chapler,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘because Chapler was a man of integrity. He knew about your subtle schemes, the issuing of licences and warrants to the villains and rogues of London’s underworld. The use of false names…’

‘Are you going to deny it?’ Cranston asked. ‘There are those like Stablegate and Flinstead who are more than prepared to buy their lives by sending you to the gallows.’

‘Where is the money?’ Athelstan asked. ‘The vast profits you and the others made. Collected together, is it in one account? With which goldsmith?’

Alcest swallowed hard.

‘When Sir John and I began our inquiries into this matter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘your companions panicked, didn’t they? Was that what you intended? Did you make the rest hand over their monies to you for safekeeping? Did you object to sharing out your ill-gotten gains and that’s why you plotted to kill them all?’