Cranston, ignoring the Vicar of Hell, congratulated the scrimperers who danced around like children, clutching at the coins he tossed into their outstretched hands. Athelstan gazed in astonishment. The scrimperers were like children suddenly grown old, nut-brown faces, bright eyes, but their features seemed out of joint, like children wearing masks at some mummers’ play. Their dress only emphasised this: motley rags, small leather boots, each armed with dirk or poniard no bigger than a man’s hand.
‘You’re a clever bastard!’ the Vicar of Hell bawled.
Cranston grinned. ‘It was the only way, sir. Get the scrimperers through the cracks and into the house. They broke in through a window at the back.’
‘We watched the stairs and passageways,’ one of them shouted. ‘No one ever noticed us.’
‘And if they had,’ another added, ‘we’d have been gone before they caught us.’
‘Went in early this morning before dawn. A busy house, Sir John, a molly shop if there ever was one. Young girls coming and going, footsteps in the gallery, cups of wine and squeals of laughter.’ The leader of the scrimperers beat his little glove against his thigh, raising small puffs of dust.
‘But now you are finished,’ Cranston declared proudly. ‘It’s to the Guildhall for all of you. Seek out the chief beadle. He’ll also give you coins, some provisions. Here…’ He took one of the small seals he always carried in his purse and handed it to the mannikin. ‘Just show that and all will be well.’
The scrimperers disappeared, shouting and laughing like children. Cranston snapped his fingers. Flaxwith pushed the Vicar back into the cavernous taproom of Dame Broadsheet’s house. The atmosphere was sombre. Dame Broadsheet stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand covering her mouth. Behind her the girls had gathered, gaping at this great coroner and his illustrious prisoner. Scullions and tapsters appeared from behind doors. Cranston, enjoying himself, strode into the centre of the room.
‘A cup of your best claret, Dame Broadsheet. I mean your best, no droppings from the vat.’
This was brought in the twinkling of an eye. Cranston toasted the Vicar of Hell. ‘How many years is it, sir, three or four since I tried to lay you by the heels? It’s Newgate for you, my lad, and then before the King’s Justices at Westminster. You,’ Cranston grinned evilly at Dame Broadsheet, ‘and your accomplices. It is a felony to harbour a known criminal.’
‘They didn’t know I was here,’ the Vicar of Hell retorted.
‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked, coming forward.
‘I have no name, Father. Once, like you, I was in Holy Orders. Now I’m a leaf on life’s stream and, by the looks of it, soon washed up. Father, intercede with Sir John. These good ladies have nothing to do with me.’
‘Not even Clarice?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I had a visit from William the Weasel. I know you are moonstruck over the girl.’ He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Why were you so eager to distance yourself from the murder of the clerks of the Green Wax?’
The Vicar of Hell looked away. ‘Not here, Father.’ His lips hardly moved. ‘There’s a time and place.’ He glanced up, his eyes full of mischief, so boyish that Athelstan’s heart warmed to him. ‘I may even throw some light on the great miracle at St Erconwald’s.’
‘But not here?’
‘No, Father, not here.’
Athelstan looked over his shoulder at Cranston, who nodded.
‘Take him away!’
And the Vicar of Hell, head held high, was pushed out into the street. Cranston clapped his hands and called Dame Broadsheet over. ‘I want to talk with one of your girls, Clarice.’
The pert little girl came over, all coy and simpering. Cranston gestured at Athelstan. ‘You have questions for our young lady?’
Athelstan stared into the girl’s beautiful blue eyes. She reminded him so much of Cecily the courtesan, he could have sworn they were twins. Dame Broadsheet hovered anxiously behind her.
‘Do you remember?’ he asked. ‘That night with the clerks at the Dancing Pig?’
Clarice nodded.
‘Remember what you told me? How the young man you were with, Alcest, never left your bed the whole night through. You were lying, weren’t you?’
Clarice looked over her shoulder at Dame Broadsheet.
‘Answer, girl!’ Cranston thundered. ‘Or I’ll have you and this whole establishment in the common room at the Fleet!’
The mention of one of London’s worst hellholes sent Dame Broadsheet and all her girls aflutter.
‘I woke up,’ the young girl replied. ‘I saw Alcest put something in my drink so I spilt it on the rushes. I pretended to sleep. He left me, dressing quickly, and went out through a window. Our chamber was at the back of the Dancing Pig. Alcest climbed down. He must have been gone an hour and a half, then he came back; that’s all I know.’
‘And that’s all we need to know.’
Athelstan stepped back. ‘Sir John, what happens to these ladies and their house is a matter for the law, but young Clarice has been most helpful.’
Cranston thrust the wine cup back into Dame Broadsheet’s hands. ‘I shall think about matters,’ he declared sonorously. ‘I shall reflect and ponder, Dame Broadsheet. I shall have words with our young Vicar of Hell and then I’ll make a judgement.’
Dame Broadsheet sank to her knees, hand clasped. ‘Sir John, you have a heart as big as your frame. My house and all that is in it,’ she simpered, ‘are forever at your disposal.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Cranston snapped. ‘If the Lady Maude heard that, you and everything in this place would be put on board ship and sent to the Great Cham of Tartary.’
He glanced balefully round and, followed by Athelstan and Flaxwith, left the taproom. Once they were out of the alleyway, Cranston shook Flaxwith’s hand.
‘A good morning’s work, Henry. Good man! The Vicar of Hell arrested. Dame Broadsheet knows the difference between right and wrong whilst Master Alcest is in for some interesting questions.’ He stretched till his muscles cracked. ‘Now, be a good lad, Henry, and go back to the Guildhall. There’s a chest in my chamber; the key is in the corner under the statue of the Virgin and Child. Unlock it and bring my second wineskin.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘Where to now, Brother?’
‘Master Drayton’s house,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Perhaps Henry and two of his burliest boys could call on Flinstead and Stablegate? They, too, have questions to answer.’ Athelstan looked up at the sky. ‘But in the meantime, Sir John, I would like to have words with Master Tibault Lesures.’
The Master of the Rolls was even more agitated than last time when he came down the stairs. ‘Oh, Sir John!’ he wailed. ‘I have heard about Master Napham’s death and Alcest is in the Tower!’
‘He can bloody well stay there.’
Cranston pushed the Master of the Rolls into the chamber. Once inside, Lesures, his hands outstretched, gazed beseechingly at Brother Athelstan. ‘I have committed no crime,’ he said, but the friar glimpsed the calculating look in his eyes.
‘Come, come, Master Tibault’ Athelstan walked over. ‘You know more than you admit. Master Alcest, what mischief did he get up to? And, more importantly, sir, how did he become cock of the roost here?’ Athelstan stared into Lesures’ old shrewd eyes. ‘To do evil, sir, is not just a matter of committing a sin: it’s also turning your head and pretending you don’t see.’
‘I don’t know what they did,’ Master Tibault stuttered.
‘What I am more interested in,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘is how they made you turn your head. Now, you can answer here or, perhaps, accompany us to the Tower. We’re going there to interrogate Master Alcest. He doesn’t know it yet, so it’s best if we kept it a secret.’
Tibault breathed in. ‘Two years ago,’ he began, sitting down, ‘Alcest found out my little secret. There’s a house in Cross Street,’ he smiled bleakly at Cranston, ‘within bowshot of the priory of St John of Jerusalem. It’s beyond the city limits. You can drink there with…’