‘Yes, yes,’ he declared, scratching his bald pate. ‘Mistress Alison Chapler is here.’
A tapster was sent to fetch her.
‘I’ll have a pot of ale,’ Athelstan requested. ‘And a few moments of your time, sir.’
The taverner brought him a quart but shook his hand at the proffered coin. ‘No, Brother, remember me at Mass. Now, what do you want?’
Athelstan described what Alison had told him: the taverner scratched his cheek.
‘It’s true,’ he replied. ‘Mistress Alison asked me to keep an eye for anyone who came to the tavern asking for her, especially a young man, cowled and cloaked, with spurs on his boots. She seemed fearful of him.’
‘And you saw such a person?’
‘Well, yes. Once today and once yesterday. My counting house overlooks the yard so I can keep an eye on anyone who comes in under the gateway. I saw this young man twice. If Mistress Alison had not asked me to watch, I would not have noticed him at all.’
‘Do you know who he was or where he came from?’
The taverner shook his head. ‘The first time I didn’t mention it but after I saw him today I told Mistress Alison. She became frightened. She said she was leaving, asked me to present my bill, which I have done.’
‘Yes, she’s leaving with me.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘She’s going to stay with a friend in Southwark.’
The taverner was about to question him further but Alison and the tapster, carrying bulky saddlebags, came downstairs into the taproom. She and Athelstan made their farewells, the boy taking them out to the yard. He saddled a gentle-looking palfrey, across which Athelstan threw the baggage. Alison wrapped the reins round her hand and they left, in the direction of London Bridge.
At first they walked in silence. Alison seemed fascinated by the different sights: a woman accused of scolding standing in the thews; two sorry pickpockets standing nearby, their fingers clasped in the stocks, their hose round their ankles. A legion of beggars of every description, some genuine, others fraudulent. A group of mailed horsemen rode by, forcing everyone into the doorways of shops and houses. These were followed by an elegant young man with a hooded falcon on his wrist; two verderers followed swiftly behind. On the rods over their shoulders hung the gutted corpses of hares, pheasants and quail.
‘Some lord returning from the hunt,’ Athelstan observed. He watched the horsemen retreat in a jingle of harness. ‘This man you saw,’ he continued, ‘the one who wore spurs and was seen when Peslep was killed. Do you think he is hunting you?’
Alison stopped and stroked the muzzle of her horse who snickered and pushed at her. She took a small apple out of her pocket; the palfrey greedily seized it, shaking his head in pleasure. They moved on.
‘I asked you a question, mistress.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she replied. ‘Edwin did not talk very much about the other clerks. I don’t think he liked them: he considered Peslep was a lecher, Ollerton a glutton.’
‘And Alcest?’
‘Ah, that’s what frightened me, Brother. On one occasion I am sure Edwin called him a fop who liked to wear spurs on his boots for effect.’ She glanced sloe-eyed at Athelstan. ‘Has he ever, since this business began, worn spurs?’ She glimpsed the surprise in Athelstan’s face. ‘I thought Lesures or one of the others would remark on that.’
Athelstan paused. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Brother, I simply repeat what I heard.’
Athelstan stared around. Across the lane was a small alehouse. He told Alison to wait and went over. The owner, a small, wiry-haired man, recognised him.
‘You are thirsty, Brother?’
‘No, no.’Athelstan paused. ‘Er…’
‘Haman.’
‘Ah yes, Haman. I wonder if you would do me a favour?’ Athelstan’s hand went to his purse but Haman gently knocked it away. ‘I wonder if you, or one of your boys, would go to the house of Sir Jack Cranston. You know where he lives?’
The ale-keeper nodded.
‘Tell him to search out Master Tibault, he’ll know what I mean. He must ask Tibault which of the clerks liked to wear spurs.’
Haman looked perplexed. Athelstan made him repeat the message until he had it by heart. Then he rejoined Alison.
‘Was that important, Brother?’
‘Yes, yes, it was but…’ The friar touched her gently on the elbow. ‘Not enough to hang a man.’
‘Someone will hang,’ she replied. ‘Won’t they, Brother? All those dreadful deaths: Ollerton poisoned; Peslep killed on a latrine with his hose about his ankles.’
‘And Elflain,’ Athelstan added. ‘Earlier today he was killed by a crossbow bolt.’
He crossed himself and they continued on. At the corner of Lombard Street, near the Cornmarket, Athelstan stopped and stared back.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied but he was unsure. When he had crossed over to see Haman, Athelstan was certain he had glimpsed a figure behind him. He shook his head.
They went down an alleyway which led out to Gracechurch Street and London Bridge. The houses on either side towered over to block out the sunlight; the runnel was gloomy, filled with offal. The contents of chamber pots stained the walls on either side, the stench reminding Athelstan of the city ditch near Cock Lane. The palfrey became skittish, picking its way daintily over the bloated corpse of a dead cat. Alison took out a nosegay and held it to her face. Athelstan was about to apologise bitterly regretting taking this short cut, when two figures stepped out of a shabby doorway. They were dressed like rifflers, the masked foot-pads who preyed on the unwary in the warren of London’s alleyways. One was short, the other tall; battered leather masks covered their faces, their heads were concealed by pointed hoods. Each carried a stabbing dirk in one hand, a cudgel in the other.
Alison stopped. Athelstan patted her on the arm and, plucking up his courage, walked forward.
‘I am Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. This young lady and myself have little wealth.’
‘Stay where you are!’ the taller of the two ordered, his voice gruff behind the mask.
‘Why do you stop us?’ Alison shouted.
‘Keep your tongue still, pretty one,’ the smaller one replied in a high, ready voice.
Athelstan peered at the diminutive footpad. He recalled Cranston’s words to him earlier in the day.
‘You are William the Weasel, aren’t you? One of the parishioners of the Vicar of Hell.’
The little man backed away as if Athelstan had slapped him. The taller one was disconcerted, coughing and muttering behind his mask.
‘Sir John would not be very pleased,’ Athelstan took another step forward, ‘to hear that William the Weasel dared to rob the coroner’s secretarius and friend.’
‘We are not here to rob you,’ the little man screeched back.
Athelstan smiled; these two would-be footpads were not as terrifying as they appeared. ‘Well, why are you here?’ he snapped. ‘How dare you stop a priest and a young lady going about their proper business!’
‘Tush, tush, Brother!’ the taller man replied. ‘We would ask you to give Sir John a message from the Vicar of Hell.’
‘What message?’
‘The Vicar of Hell is angry. He has an affair of the heart with young Clarice. He objects to Sir John keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict surveillance. My Lord Coroner should be careful.’
‘I’ll tell him to be so,’ Athelstan responded. ‘But, as you know, Sir John does not frighten easily.’
‘We bring other messages.’ There was now a note of desperation in the Weasel’s voice.
‘Then you’d better hurry: we haven’t all the time in the day to stand in this stinking alleyway.’
‘Tell the lord coroner,’ the Weasel was almost pleading, ‘that the Vicar of Hell sends his compliments and that he had no hand in the dreadful murders at the Chancery of the Green Wax.’