Paul Doherty: The Assassin's riddle

‘Of course,’ Sir John breathed. ‘And behind the chapel is a small, deserted area. It’s well known as a place for suicides. What time did Harrowtooth see him?’

‘Well after Vespers, the sun had disappeared. Very agitated he was, praying just within the porch, as if he didn’t really want to be there.’

‘I know old Harrowtooth,’ Athelstan added. ‘I’ll have a talk with her.’

‘And the corpse?’ the Fisher of Men asked.

‘Keep it for twenty-four hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘If no one claims it, send it to the priest at St Mary Le Bow for interment. There’s a plot in the cemetery there… ’

‘I can’t do that,’ the Fisher of Men responded. ‘They refused the last one and will continue to do so until the graveyard is cleared and a new charnel house is built.’

Athelstan stared down at the corpse, full of pity at this young life so brutally wiped out.

‘Send it to St Erconwald’s,’ he declared. ‘If no one wants him, St Erconwald’s will take him.’

Athelstan abruptly turned as the door swung open. Havant, the Fisher of Men’s coven protesting and fluttering like a group of starlings around him, swept into the corpse house.

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Don’t say I’m going to see you on the hour every hour, Sir Lionel?’

‘A rash of deaths, Sir John. Another clerk has been murdered.’

‘In the river?’ the Fisher of Men asked hopefully.

Sir Lionel didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. ‘Luke Peslep was killed on the privy at the Ink and Pot tavern: stabbed through the belly and the gullet. The assassin has vanished like smoke.’

‘Robbery?’ Cranston asked.

‘Nothing taken from him except his life, though this was left.’

Havant handed across a dirty piece of parchment; the ink was dark blue, the writing sprawling. Cranston passed it to Athelstan.

‘My eyes are rather bad this morning.’ Cranston’s usual explanation when he’d drunk too much.

Athelstan read it in the light of an oil lamp.

‘Two riddles,’ he said slowly. ‘The first reads: “A king once fought an army. He defeated them but, in the end, victor and vanquished lay in the same place.”’

‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cranston asked.

‘God only knows,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And here’s the second: “My first is like a selfish brother.” Did this belong to Peslep?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Havant replied. ‘The assassin must have left it on the corpse. You’d best come and see.’

Cranston and Athelstan thanked the Fisher of Men then followed Havant back out into the streets.

The bells of the city were pealing for midmorning prayers. The traders and their customers ignored this invitation, but had taken a rest for something to eat and drink so the crowds were thinner, the alleyways and lanes easier to manage. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tired by the time they reached the Ink and Pot. Havant strode like a giant whilst Sir John, eager to accept the challenge, was intent, as always, on showing that he was a puissant knight able to compete with the youngest and the best. A crowd had assembled outside the Ink and Pot tavern, kept back by archers from the Tower wearing the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt. Havant pushed his way through, spoke to the captain of the guard then led Cranston and Athelstan into the taproom and out across the dirty yard. An archer, gnawing at a chicken bone whilst flirting with Meg the scullion, indicated with his thumb.

‘He’s in there,’ he shouted. ‘The captain pulled up his hose and made him decent. He said no man should be found like that.’

Athelstan opened the door. Peslep was sitting slumped on the privy bench, his jerkin caked in blood from the wound in his neck and the deep sword thrust to his belly.

‘Bring him out,’ he whispered.

Cranston snapped out an order. The archer, assisted by Athelstan, removed the corpse and laid it down upon the cobbles. Athelstan gave absolution and examined the two wounds. He took out the dead man’s purse and emptied the contents out on his hand: there was nothing except a few coins, a pumice stone and a small St Christopher medal.

Athelstan recited the short Office for the Dead, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. The landlord, his face creased in mock sorrow, came out rubbing his hands, eyes rolling heavenwards.

‘Lord have mercy!’ he wailed. ‘Lord have mercy on us all! We’ll all be slain in our beds!’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Don’t worry, master taverner, the corpse will be removed. You’ll be back to coining your silver within the hour. Now, what has happened?’

‘I sent a runner to the Tower,’ the taverner gabbled. ‘Because he’s Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

‘You didn’t send the boy to the Tower,’ Meg scoffed.

‘For God’s sake, gather your wits,’ Havant snapped. ‘You sent the boy to the Chancery Office off Fleet Street. I was there when he arrived.’

The landlord fluttered his fingers; he took a dirty rag from his greasy apron and mopped his face. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy! You are right, you are right! I kept thinking we should go to the Tower, maybe the French had landed.’

Cranston grasped the man’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Good friend,’ he said. ‘A royal clerk has been murdered and you are bleating like a lamb.’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ the landlord whined.

‘Too busy watching the customers,’ Meg hinted.

Athelstan beckoned her over and slipped a penny into her callused hand. ‘What did you see, girl?’

She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘As normal, Peslep came in here to break his fast. As normal, he squeezed my tits and sat like a prince stuffing his face and then, as normal, he went out into the jakes to relieve himself.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone leave after him. Simon, the ironmaster, went out, bladder full of ale he had. We hears him screaming. The rest you know’

‘Did you see anyone in the tavern this morning? A stranger?’

The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face. ‘We had some beggars,’ she replied. ‘Oh yes, and a young man.’ She opened one eye and pointed at Havant. ‘He was dressed like you. In good clothes. He carried a war belt, long leather riding boots with spurs on.’

Havant smiled bleakly. ‘But it wasn’t me?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied coyly. ‘You are much more handsome than he.’

‘So you saw his face?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He was clean-shaven,’ Meg responded. ‘But no, Father, I really didn’t have a good look. I was too busy.’

Cranston, who had been swaying on his feet, eyes half-closed, smacked his lips noisily. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he declared. ‘Master taverner,’ he took the coins Athelstan had handed over from Peslep’s purse, ‘have the body removed.’

‘Where to?’

‘Your parish church,’ Cranston retorted, grasping the man’s wrist and squeezing it. ‘Tell the priest there that Sir John Cranston sent it for burial.’

The landlord, followed by Meg, strode away.

‘Why were you at the Chancery Office?’ Cranston asked.

Havant shrugged. ‘The Regent’s orders, Sir John. I was to tell them about Chapler’s corpse being discovered.’

And?’

‘They were upset, sad, then the boy arrived from the tavern.’ Havant looked up at the blue sky. ‘Sir John, I must be going.’ He smiled at Athelstan, spun on his heel and walked back into the taproom.

Cranston sat down on a wooden bench and stared glumly at the corpse whilst Athelstan inspected the yard.

‘You won’t find anything,’ the coroner moaned. ‘This one came like a thief in the night.’