Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

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.

‘Do you suspect us of this crime?’

‘Why should I?’ Athelstan replied.

Flinstead seemed a little nonplussed.

‘Please,’ Athelstan said. ‘Answer my question. What happened last night?’

‘We finished the day as usual,’ Stablegate answered. ‘We were in our writing office, a small chamber, no more than a garret, further down the passageway. Master Drayton came up as usual to usher us out. And before you ask, Brother, no, he didn’t trust us, he didn’t trust anyone. We went out into the street. Master Drayton bade us goodnight, as surly as ever. Then he slammed the door shut, we heard the bolts being drawn and the locks turned.’

‘And then what?’

‘As usual, we went drinking at the Dancing Pig, a tavern in St Martin’s Lane just near the Shambles.’

‘And after that?’

‘When the curfew bell rang from St Mary Le Bow, we left for our lodgings in Grubb Street off Cripplegate. We share a chamber there.’

‘Mistress Aldous, our landlady, will confirm that we came home much the worse for wear. We slept till dawn, rose and came back here.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The same as every morning, Father. We’d knock, pull the bell. Master Drayton would come shuffling down the passageway and let us in.’

‘But this morning was different?’

‘Yes it was, Father. We hammered and rang the bell to raise the dead.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Then Flaxwith came along. The rest you know.’

‘What do I know?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Well, we tried the shutters at the windows. The front and back doors were locked and barred as usual.’

‘And so you broke in?’

‘Yes,’ Stablegate replied. ‘I climbed on James’s shoulders.’

He tapped the hilt of his dagger. ‘I pushed this through a crack in the shutters and lifted the bar.’

Sir John was falling asleep now, head nodding forward, mouth open. Stablegate hid his smirk behind his hand.

‘In which case…’ Athelstan’s voice rose as he stood up.

Sir John, startled, also staggered to his feet. The coroner stood, feet apart, and blinked, breathing in noisily through his nose. He saw the two clerks laughing. Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Do you find me amusing, sirs?’ Cranston’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt. He took a step forward, white moustache and whiskers bristling, fierce blue eyes popping. ‘Do you find old Jack amusing? Because my poppets woke me before dawn? And old Jack has had a few mouthfuls of wine? Now, let me tell you, sirs,’ he continued, breathing wine fumes into their now frightened faces. ‘Old Jack is not the fool he appears to be: “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick”. The poet was thinking of old Jack Cranston when he wrote that.’ He lifted a finger. ‘You say you live with Mistress Aldous in Grubb Street near Cripplegate?’

‘Yes,’ Flinstead replied, rather surprised that Sir John, who’d apparently been asleep, had still heard this.

‘I know Mistress Aldous,’ Cranston continued. ‘Five times she has appeared before my bench on charges of soliciting, of keeping a bawdyhouse, a molly shop.’

‘There’s no one there now,’ Stablegate retorted.

‘Just you two lovely boys and Mistress Aldous, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Now let me tell you,’ the coroner went on threateningly. ‘Don’t laugh at old Jack. A horrible murder has been done and the Crown’s silver has been stolen.’

‘We don’t know about that.’

‘No, boyo, you don’t. Five thousand pounds intended for the Regent’s coffers. Now it’s gone.’ Cranston brought a large paw down on each of their shoulders and made them wince. ‘Well, my lovelies, let’s see this bloody window.’

Athelstan, quietly pleased at Cranston’s assertion of his authority, abruptly turned at the door.

‘I am sorry.’ He came back. ‘You didn’t know Master Drayton had five thousand pounds in silver at his counting house?’

‘He’d never let us handle monies,’ Stablegate retorted. ‘It was one rule he always insisted on. We do know,’ Stablegate continued quickly, ‘that envoys from the Frescobaldi bank visited the house yesterday, though Master Drayton told us to stay in our chamber. He answered the door. We heard a murmur of voices and then they left.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘And what would happen then?’

‘If the bankers brought the money,’ Stablegate replied, ‘knowing Master Drayton, he’d count every coin, sign a receipt and keep the money in his strongroom.’

‘Did you like Master Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘No!’ They both answered together.

‘He was the devil’s own skinflint,’ Flinstead declared. ‘He made us work from dawn till dusk. At the Angelus time he’d give us some ale, bread and cheese, then it was back to work.’ He tugged at his tunic. At Christmas and Easter we’d get new robes and a silver piece at midsummer. He hardly spoke to us, only visiting us every so often, as quiet as a shadow, to make sure we weren’t wasting his time and money.’

‘Did he ever talk about friends or family?’

‘Never,’ Stablegate replied. ‘On one occasion I asked him if he had been married and he flew into a terrible rage.’

‘Then what?’

‘He went down the stairs, muttering to himself. We learnt our lesson: we never asked him again.’

‘We had no choice but to work for him,’ Flinstead added. ‘He’d often remind us that London was full of clerks seeking employment. Beggars have no choice, Father.’

Athelstan nodded and opened the door. ‘Then, sirs, let us see this window.’

The two clerks went out before him. They led them down the stairs. Flaxwith was at the bottom, stroking and talking softly to what Athelstan secretly considered the ugliest bull mastiff he’d ever clapped eyes on. As they passed, the dog lifted his head and growled.

‘Now, now,’ Flaxwith whispered. ‘You know Sir John loves you.’

‘I can’t stand the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘He’s tried to have my leg on at least three occasions.’