Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘No, Sir John.’

Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘Good,’ he purred. ‘Then keep it that way until this matter is finished. You are to stay in your lodgings. You are not to leave London without my written permission.’ He nodded. ‘You may go.’

The two clerks walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them, raising fresh puffs of dust.

‘What do you think, Brother?’ Cranston took the wineskin out. ‘Devil’s futtocks, this is a dry place!’

‘Every place is too dry for you, Sir John.’

Cranston winked, took a swig from the wineskin and patted his stomach. ‘It’s time we had refreshments, Brother, something to soak up the wine. You didn’t answer my questions.’

‘I think they are as guilty as Pilate and Herod,’ Athelstan replied. ‘In my view, Sir John, those two are evil young men who believed they have carried out the perfect crime.’ He sighed. ‘And they may well have.’

‘They killed Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘As God made little apples, Sir John, I believe they are guilty but how they did it is a mystery.’

‘Flaxwith!’ Cranston roared.

The bailiff hurried into the room, Samson trotting behind him, tongue hanging out. He took one look at Sir John’s juicy leg and would have launched himself forward. Flaxwith had the good sense to grab him by the leather collar and scoop him up into his arms.

‘Sir John, Samson and I are at your service.’

‘Bugger him!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to do three things. First, visit the bankers, the Frescobaldi, in Leaden-hall Street. Seek confirmation that they made a delivery of silver here yesterday. Secondly, go to my host at the Dancing Pig: did those two beauties spend last night there? Finally, I want them and their lodgings in Grubb Street watched; if they try to leave London arrest them!’

‘For what, Sir John?’

Cranston closed his eyes. ‘For cruelty to your dog.’

As Athelstan and Cranston arrived in Ratcat Lane, Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, swaggered into the Ink and Pot tavern on the corner of Chancery Lane to break his fast. Peslep, a young man of good family and even better prospects, felt all was well with the world. Three nights ago he had dined well and been entertained by the most delicious whore. He was still elated by it all. This morning he had risen, washed and put on new robes ready for another day in the office of the Green Wax. He stood in the taproom of the Ink and Pot and beamed round. He looked through into the back, so happy and contented he did not see the animals: a mongrel dog, a mangy cat, or the scraps of food and stable manure piled high in the midden. Nor did he notice the smell from the privies at the far end of the yard behind a hedge of scrawny bushes. Peslep only saw the sunshine reflected in the puddles, heard the clack of geese and, closing his eyes, savoured the appetising odours from the buttery. He took his usual seat in the far corner and, when Meg the slattern came up, he ordered his usual pot of ale and trauncher of sliced bread, apple and cheese. Peslep, as always, put his hand down Meg’s low-cut bodice and clutched one of her breasts, squeezing it gently.

‘Riper every day, eh, Meg? Soon fresh for the plucking?’

Meg wiped her hair from her grease-stained face and forced a smile. She could not object. Peslep always paid in good silver and, if she protested, the landlord would only cuff her ears until they burnt. Peslep sat munching his apple, listening to the sounds drifting through the tavern. A choir carolling from a nearby church, women gossiping in the street, children shrieking, a lazy cock crowing to greet the dawn, a pedlar crying his wares. From the open work-shops near the Fleet prison came a medley of sounds: planing and hammering, clanging and forging, seething and hissing. Peslep closed his eyes. This was the London he loved.

A guild of beggars entered the tavern and gathered round a table to count the coins they had collected from the crowds coming out of morning Mass. Their leader ordered jugs of wine and hot dishes. Peslep knew they would stay there until all their money was gone and they fell to the floor blind drunk to be fleeced by the wily landlord. One of the beggars pulled a flute from his doublet and began to play. Another took a lute from a bag and struck a few chords; the rest began to sing, beating time on the heavy wooden tables, rattling the jars and wooden plates. Peslep, leaning back, watched them through heavy-lidded eyes. He was pleased with the way life was going: the threatening clouds had receded; all would be well. Peslep intended to buy a new house, perhaps north of Clerkenwell. He opened his eyes as a young man entered the tavern, cowl pulled over his head, the spurs on his boots jingling; a war belt, carrying a sword and dagger, was slung over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and whispered at Meg who hurried off to bring him a blackjack of ale.

The young man sat down. Peslep sniffed contemptuously and glanced away. A court popinjay! One of those foppish young men whom Peslep and his companions openly envied, yet secretly admired, with their wealth and lazy good manners. Alcest even aped them. One day Peslep would be like that. His stomach began to churn. He drained his tankard.

‘Master taverner!’ He rose, snapping his fingers.

The fellow came hurrying out of the buttery with fresh rags which he placed in Peslep’s hand. The routine was always the same. Peslep came to break his fast, he would then go out into the privies and return for one final pottle of ale before going on to work. Peslep walked out into the yard, pinching his nose as he passed the midden. The privies at the far end, behind the scrawny hedgerow, were a series of cubicles set over a ditch. Peslep went inside, pulled down his hose and made himself comfortable.

Clutching the rags, he closed his eyes and sat thinking about the money he had salted away. Suddenly the door opened; Peslep, startled, tried to rise. He glimpsed the young man he had seen in the tavern and the sword aiming straight for his stomach. Peslep could do nothing; the sword was thrust in, turned, out again. Peslep writhed at the sheet of pain even as the swordsman struck once more, driving his pointed weapon deep into Peslep’s neck.

Sir John Cranston and Athelstan had returned to study Master Drayton’s counting house when there was a furious knocking on the front door. They both went up the stairs. Athelstan glimpsed a tall, elegant figure framed against the sunlight. The fellow came forward, jewelled bonnet in his hand; spurs on the heels of his boots jingled musically on the floorboards. He had no sword but one hand rested on the jewelled dagger pressed into his leather sword belt; his cloak of dark saffron was tossed elegantly over one shoulder. Cranston studied the handsome, swarthy face and mocking green eyes; he noticed how the young man’s moustache and beard were clipped in the neat French fashion. A memory stirred.

‘Do I know you, sir?’

‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’

‘I sincerely hope so. I asked you a question, sir.’

‘I am Sir Lionel Havant, a member of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster’s household.’

‘Ah, one of John of Gaunt’s boys, aren’t you? One of the Regent’s henchmen?’ Cranston stood, feet apart, studying the man from head to toe. Then he walked forward, hand extended. ‘Oh, don’t take offence, man. I knew your father, Sir Reginald Havant of Crosby in Northampton.’

The young man smiled, then straightened up as if remembering his task. ‘Sir John, it’s good to see you but I come direct from the Regent. He would like his five thousand pounds in silver.’

‘He’ll have to wait!’ Cranston snarled. ‘I am a coroner, not a damn miracle-worker!’