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‘I was just thinking, Brother,’ Cranston replied crossly. He sat up. ‘What would happen if Father Prior told you to leave St Erconwald’s?’

Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Now come, Sir John, that’s not the matter in hand. Have you sent that note to Flaxwith?’

‘Yes, yes, I did.’ The coroner shifted on the bench. ‘I paid a chapman a penny before we met Alcest.’

Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Then, Sir John, no brooding! We have murderers to seize, the King’s justice to be done.’ He poked the coroner in the ribs. ‘And the Regent’s silver to get back!’

By the time they returned to Drayton’s house, Flaxwith had arrived with two bruising individuals, each carrying a huge mallet.

‘Right, my lovely lads!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to knock a wall down.’

The house was unlocked and they went down the gloomy passageway into the counting house where, at Cranston’s command, both men set to with gusto. They smashed their mallets against the wall, the sound echoing like drumbeats through the room which soon filled with dust that tickled the nose and throat.

‘Despite the sound it’s not solid,’ one of them shouted, standing back and resting.

Cranston, his muffler up over his mouth, went to inspect. ‘You are not even through yet.’

‘Sir John, you grasp villains by the neck and, I wager, you can see one across a crowded room. I know walls: there’s something behind this.’

Athelstan, who had been carrying out another fruitless scrutiny of the door, came over to join them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a small chamber behind this, Brother. This wall’s new.’

‘Could there be any secret door or gate?’ Cranston asked.

The burly labourer laughed. ‘No, Sir John, the wall’s solid, well, at least until we are finished with it!’

They set to again, giving a cry of triumph as the first bricks fell loose. The labourer picked one up, pointing to the mortar. ‘This wasn’t done by a mason, Sir John, but someone who knew a little building. The mortar is thick, slapped on. That’s why whoever built this wall covered it with plaster and whitewash.’

Cranston peered through the gap into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he murmured.

The labourers returned to their task. More bricks fell away. An entrance was formed. Athelstan took a battered tallow candle from its iron spigot, Sir John struck a tinder and they went into the secret chamber. The dust-filled darkness made Athelstan shiver as he protected the flame by cupping his hand. He held the candle up and exclaimed in surprise. In the far corner lay a skeleton. He hurried across, followed by Cranston and the labourers. Athelstan, silently praying, crouched down by the grisly remains. In the glow of the smelly candle he carefully studied the skeleton which sat half propped up against the wall. The bones were still white and hard; tattered clothing still clung to it. Athelstan could tell by the dusty shreds that the skeleton belonged to a woman. He continued his examination, ignoring the exclamations of the labourers. He put his hand out, felt round the skeleton and picked up a battered pewter cup and platter.

‘In sweet heaven’s name!’

He took the candle and searched the rest of the chamber but found nothing. Chilled by the silent, eerie atmosphere, he walked back into the counting house.

‘Who do you think it is?’ Cranston asked, following him out.

‘Well, the house has always belonged to Drayton,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No one could wall up another human being without his knowledge so it’s logical to deduce that he was responsible, therefore those might be the poor remains of his wife. She clearly didn’t leave Drayton. I suspect she baited and taunted her husband until he grew tired of her. He probably gave her drugged wine, brought her down here and walled her up alive. God rest her!’ he breathed. ‘She must have taken days to die.’

Cranston thanked and dismissed the labourers, giving each a coin. The coroner then shouted for Flaxwith. The bailiff came hurrying down, his dog loping behind him, though Samson had the sense to stay well out of Cranston’s path.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘There’s a skeleton in there.’ The coroner jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Have it removed. Tell the vicar of St Mary Le Bow the city will bear the cost of its burial. Don’t look so frightened, Henry, she’s been dead for years. Now, do you have news for me?’

‘Oh yes.’ Flaxwith stared distractedly over Sir John’s shoulder as if he expected the skeleton to come walking out of the room towards him.

‘Well, come on, man!’

‘First, Sir John,’ Flaxwith gabbled, ‘we are keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict guard and she does not suspect it. We have heard little rumours that the Vicar of Hell is much smitten by little Clarice there.’

‘And?’

‘Stablegate and Flinstead were seen carousing the night Drayton was murdered. According to witnesses they drank until they were stupid. They never returned here. The same goes for those clerks at the Dancing Pig. Mine host says that after they retired to the upper chambers he saw neither hide nor hair of them till dawn. Finally, Sir John,’ Flaxwith spread his hands, ‘I have a friend who works in the muniment room at the Tower.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We checked the subsidy rolls of 1380 for Epping in Essex. They list Edwin and Alison Chapler. Edwin is described as a clerk, Alison a seamstress. Apparently both are quite wealthy.’

‘Very good.’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Oh, before you go,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Sir John, perhaps we could have a small mummer’s play?’

A bemused Cranston and Flaxwith followed Athelstan back into the dusty counting office.

‘Now,’ Athelstan began, ‘I’ll pretend to be Drayton.’ He held up his writing bag. ‘This is the Regent’s silver. Sir John, how am I killed?’

Sir John pointed to Athelstan’s chest.

‘Right,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m dying. I fall to the ground. In my death throes, in my guilt, I remember the woman I have walled up alive so I crawl towards the hall, praying for forgiveness. That explains why we found Drayton in the position he was, but the problem remains. If the two clerks killed Drayton, how did they get out of the chamber?’ Athelstan pointed to the door. ‘Locking and bolting that from inside? If Drayton had locked himself in,’ Athelstan continued, ‘then how could the clerks enter the chamber and kill him?’

‘We’ve been through all this,’ Cranston grumbled.

‘No, listen, Sir John: we now know the only way into this room is through the door.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Cranston said irritably. ‘And it was locked and bolted.’

‘Sir John, Master Henry, if you would oblige me.’

Athelstan walked towards where the huge door lay against the wall. ‘Is it possible for you to hold that up?’

Swearing and grumbling under their breaths, both men obliged, pulling the huge door away from the wall. Athelstan approached it. He pulled down the small trap to look through the eye grille; he stood there for a while then looked round the door.

‘Can we put this bloody thing down?’ Cranston gasped.

‘Yes, Sir John.’

Both men pushed the door back against the wall.

‘Well, Brother?’

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m not sure, Sir John. Master Flaxwith, do you know a good carpenter?’

‘Aye, there’s Laveck in Stinking Alley.’

‘Bring him here,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘I want this door examined from top to bottom, the grille, the locks, the bolts, the bosses, everything. I don’t care what damage is done.’ He nudged Cranston in the ribs. ‘Tell him the city will pay the costs. If it doesn’t, the Regent certainly will. Provide him with ale and bread, but he is not to leave this house until his task is finished and both I and Sir John have returned to question him.’