‘And the assassin?’
‘Probably got in through a downstairs window,’ Cranston replied, ‘to place the caltrop, which can be bought at any ironmongers or armourers.’
‘And the riddle?’
‘Oh yes, Napham didn’t see this when he went into his chamber: it was pinned on the wall above the door. My next,’ Cranston closed his eyes to recall the riddle, ‘my next is like the flesh on the tail of a stag.’ He opened his eyes. ‘N, of course, is the last letter of venison.’
Flaxwith broke in. ‘Sir John, we must be going. The scrimperers will be waiting.’
‘The what?’ Athelstan exclaimed.
‘The scrimperers.’ Cranston grinned. ‘My lovely little boys from Rat’s Castle. I’m going to catch the Vicar of Hell.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan said, ‘we can talk as we walk.’
And the coroner, striding across Cheapside, listened attentively as Athelstan told him, not only about William the Weasel’s message, but also of the strange occurrence outside Benedicta’s house the previous evening.
‘Devil’s futtocks!’ Cranston stopped. ‘Devil’s futtocks!’ he repeated.
‘My sentiments exactly, my Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But perhaps I wouldn’t use your words. I’ve been wondering, Sir John, why the Vicar of hell should be so keen to distance himself from the murders amongst the clerks. I also wonder where Master Alcest was last night and why he’s now so interested in Mistress Alison.’
‘Devil’s futtocks!’ Cranston repeated.
‘Sir John?’
‘I forgot my miraculous wineskin.’ Cranston flailed his hands. ‘I knew there was something…’
‘Sir John!’ Athelstan felt like roaring in exasperation. ‘Have you heard what I said?’
‘Of course, dear monk.’
‘Friar, Sir John.’
‘Precisely. The Vicar of Hell has sent me a message. You think Alcest is the murderer and he now has an interest in Mistress Alison. I, however, have forgotten my bloody wineskin! Anyway, do you think Alcest is the murderer?’ Cranston asked, hurrying on.
‘I do. I also know how Stablegate and Flinstead killed their master!’
Cranston stopped again; this time Flaxwith and Samson almost crashed into him. The coroner grasped Athelstan by the shoulders and kissed him on each cheek.
‘Marvellous monk!’ he bellowed, then hurriedly stepped aside as a window opened and the contents of a chamber pot came spluttering down. The filthy contents narrowly missed them. Cranston shook his fists. ‘I’ll have you arrested!’ he roared.
He hurriedly grabbed Athelstan and pushed him forward as the shutters opened again and another chamber pot was emptied, this time spattering poor Samson who stared up and growled his defiance.
‘The scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Wait a minute.’ Sir John stood aside as a huge dung cart piled high with the previous day’s rubbish made its way down the alleyway.
‘The scrimperers,’ Cranston explained, ‘are a group of very small men. Really, they are dwarves. They live in a house in that mean tangle of alleyways near Whitefriars. I call them the “Lords of Rat’s Castle”. Now, they’re the most godforsaken of people. No one trusts them, no one likes them. Now and again they are hired by some lord or a travelling mummers’ troupe as acrobats or jugglers.’
‘Like Master Burdon on London Bridge?’
‘Oh no.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘These are even smaller. They have the bodies of children and the faces of very old men.’
He jingled his purse. ‘They are not averse to a little housebreaking, stealing through gaps where others cannot get. For some strange reason they like old Jack Cranston and he likes them.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan conceded as they finally stopped on the corner of the alleyway leading up to Dame Broadsheet’s.
‘Now you remember.’ Cranston grinned. ‘Every year, on the feast of St Rahere, Lady Maude and I entertain them to a small banquet in our garden…’
‘And you’re going to use them to catch the Vicar of Hell?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Cranston jabbed a finger towards Flaxwith. ‘Faithful Henry here has had Broadsheet’s house watched day and night. Clarice, the love of our villain’s life, never leaves, yet the Vicar of Hell never comes.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Vicar of Hell eats lambs’ testicles and drinks Spanish wine. He’s as lecherous as a boar in rut. He’s been and gone but I don’t know how.’
‘And the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston stared longingly down at Dame Broadsheet’s placid-looking house.
‘I’m sure the bugger’s there,’ he growled. ‘Henry, are your men on guard?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Where are the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Where Dame Broadsheet and the Vicar of Hell least expect!’
‘I’m glad we came here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I want to have words with young Clarice. I don’t believe Alcest spent the entire night with her when Chapler died.’
‘First things first,’ Cranston murmured.
They must have stood for at least a quarter of an hour. Cranston’s unease became apparent; he shifted from foot to foot, cursing under his breath and patting his cloak where the miraculous wineskin should have been. The streets started to fill. Traders and journeymen; shopkeepers setting up their stalls; heavy-eyed apprentices carrying out merchandise from the storerooms. Debtors, released from the Fleet prison, to spend the day shackled together, begging for a pittance for themselves and others in the debtors’ hole. Two Abraham men danced by, naked as they were born, except for a loincloth, their faces and bodies covered in charcoal dust. They sang and danced. One bore a metal dish with burning charcoal on his head. He announced, to any who would listen, that he and his companion were Gog and Magog and they were going to Sodom and Gomorrah to carry out God’s judgement.
‘You know where that place is?’ one of them screeched at Cranston. ‘Do you, Brother, know the way of the Lord?’
‘Yes, go straight down Cheapside and turn left at the stocks,’ Cranston growled. ‘Now piss off and leave me alone!’
The two Abraham men danced by.
‘Sir John Cranston! Sir John Cranston! God bless you! God bless you and all that’s in your breeches!’
The beggar stopped short as Cranston raised a hamlike fist. ‘Not now, not now, Squirrel Head!’ he snarled.
Squirrel Head deftly caught the coin Cranston threw and disappeared into a nearby pie shop. Cranston looked down the alleyway and stiffened as the doorway opened. A court gallant swaggered out, the door slamming shut behind him. Others followed: a servant carrying buckets, a young lady, her hips swaying provocatively. Athelstan was beginning to despair when suddenly the door swung open again and he gaped at the spectacle that unfolded. An old woman tried to rush out into the street, what appeared to be children hung on to her dusty skirts and plucked at her cloak as she dragged them along. Suddenly the old woman slipped, the grey wig falling off her head.
‘It’s the Vicar!’ Cranston roared. ‘Flaxwith!’
Already the bailiff had released Samson, who sped like an arrow to join the pandemonium. The Vicar of Hell, his disguise now thrown, was desperately fighting off the scrimperers, who buzzed about like flies. Samson gripped his ankle: the Vicar yelped with pain. He slipped on a clod of mud and disappeared in a welter of bodies. Samson, apparently believing his task now done, went for the ankle of one of the bailiffs running to assist. Windows were opened and a crowd began to gather as Cranston and Athelstan hurried down. Flaxwith was wielding his staff. Samson, lured by the sweet cooking smells from Dame Broadsheet’s, had now sped indoors looking for more juicy morsels. Cranston laid about with the flat of his sword until order was imposed. The Vicar of Hell, slightly ridiculous in his ragged dress, his face covered in white chalk, was manacled and bound between two bailiffs. Now and again he would wince at the pain where Samson had bitten him or glower at the scrimperers.
‘We caught him,’ one of the little men shouted, jumping up and down, his wizened face bright with pleasure. ‘Sir John, we caught him creeping downstairs. I sees him kiss the girl. I’ve never seen a beldame kiss like that!’