‘With young men?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, Brother, so tactfully put.’
‘And Alcest found out?’
‘Yes, Alcest found out. He did not threaten me, he just said it was our little secret.’
‘And in return?’
‘In return nothing, Brother.’ Tibault grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘I swear,’ he declared hoarsely, ‘I know nothing of what they did.’
‘But you had suspicions?’
‘Oh yes. Now and again, during the day, Alcest would leave. He would meet with different people in this tavern or that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘On one occasion I followed him. Sometimes, when the clerks thought I was gone, I would eavesdrop on their chatter. They would talk in whispers.’ Lesures gabbled on. ‘Once I heard Alcest and Peslep having angry words with Chapler: he was indignant about something. Afterwards, they kept well away from him. On another occasion, when the doors had been left slightly ajar, I came upstairs in my slippers. Chapler was absent because of the gripes in his stomach. The clerks were gathering together at the far end of the room. They were discussing money matters. Alcest seemed to be defending himself.’
‘Did you learn anything else?’
‘They appeared to be accusing Alcest of keeping monies due to them but the matter seems to have been resolved.’
‘And did they mention any names?’
Lesures closed his eyes.
‘Come on, sir!’ Cranston barked.
‘Once I heard them talk of the Vicar of Hell.’
‘And you,’ Cranston poked him in the chest, ‘know who the Vicar of Hell is, sir. A well-known outlaw.’
Tibault’s face was as white as wax.
‘You’d best confess all,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I also heard them mention the usurer who was murdered.’
‘Drayton?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Alcest knew one of his clerks, a man called Stablegate.’
CHAPTER 11
Sir John and Athelstan stood in the parlour of Drayton’s house. The coroner kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for Flaxwith’s arrival.
‘Lesures is still hiding something,’ Athelstan remarked.
‘Oh, I am sure he is, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘Whichever way he jumps he’s in trouble. The Master of the Rolls is supposed to exercise better control over his clerks. A corrupt man,’ he continued. ‘Soft and treacherous. Lesures likes to have his cake and eat it. I intend to return to the matter in due course. Now, Brother, you have a solution to this matter?’
‘I think so, Sir John, but I am going to need the cooperation of our two clerks. Which of them do you think is the more amenable?’
Cranston pulled a face. ‘Stablegate’s as hard as steel.’
‘Then the stage is set,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Come on, Sir John, let’s walk on to it!’
They went down the gloomy passageway, the smell of mildew and corruption stronger than ever. Athelstan paused and stared into the darkness.
‘This is a cold and dismal place, Sir John. It reeks of evil. What will happen to this house when we are finished?’
‘The property of the Crown,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Regent will sell it and make a profit.’
‘It needs to be exorcised and blessed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Ghosts still linger here.’
The door of the counting house had been rehung but Athelstan noticed how an iron stud just beneath the grille had been loosened. The bolt on the inside was quick to the touch and easy to turn. He beckoned Sir John in and closed the door. Athelstan pulled down the grille and stared through it as if searching for something.
Cranston heard a sound and sighed. ‘Here comes Flaxwith with my miraculous wineskin. He’s also brought our guests.’
Athelstan opened the door. Flaxwith, hot-faced, thrust the wineskin into Sir John’s hand. Behind him the two clerks stood sullen-eyed. Athelstan studied them carefully. Sir John was right: Stablegate was obdurate but Flinstead’s lower lip quivered, eyes constantly blinking. Athelstan made his decision.
‘Henry, take Master Stablegate back to the parlour and keep him there. Flinstead can stay with me for a while.’
Flaxwith beckoned. Stablegate was about to refuse but Samson, who had been sniffing further up the gallery, now made his appearance; he growled at the clerk who hastened to obey. Once they had gone, Athelstan beckoned Flinstead forward.
‘A clever murder, eh, master clerk?’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Oh, yes you do,’ Athelstan replied. He winked at Cranston who stood, wineskin in one hand, watching him intently. Athelstan took Flinstead by the arm and led him to the iron-studded door. ‘Now, sir, look at this: here’s a door to match all doors. Strongly hinged…’
Flinstead kept looking over his shoulder at the damage done to the far wall.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Athelstan declared. ‘This room had secrets, Master Flinstead. No hidden passageways or oubliettes but it did have secrets known only to Master Drayton and, of course, you and Stablegate.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Then let me explain. Drayton was a miser, a usurer, a hard taskmaster. He kept you under the whip. Most of his monies were kept out of this house well away from greedy fingers. However, you and Stablegate heard that the Lombards were bringing down a bag of silver, thousands of pounds. So you laid your plans. How could you murder Master Drayton and yet scream innocence of any crime? If you secretly filched it and Drayton lived, how far could you flee? If you openly stole it, and Drayton died, you’d be cast as outlaws who would never get as far as Dover. So you plotted very carefully. In the days before the arrival of the silver,’ Athelstan continued, walking to the door, ‘you worked at one of these bosses. The sharpened pieces face the outside but you noticed that the door’s one weakness is that these bosses are screwed in by clasps on the inside.’
Athelstan pointed to one just beneath the grille. ‘You worked at this. Whenever Drayton was away from his office, you strove to loosen the clasp on the inside. It wouldn’t take long. The clasp was loosened, the steel boss could be removed. You then cleaned it, coating it with oil so that it no longer stuck into the wood and could be moved in and out whenever you wished.’ Athelstan paused and stared into Flinstead’s face, white as a sheet and covered in a sheen of sweat. ‘Ah, Master Flinstead,’ he whispered, ‘I have the truth of it, your face tells me all.’
‘I, I…’ Flinstead stuttered. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Brother.’
‘Yes you do, you little pudding bag!’ Cranston hissed.
‘Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on the night in question everything was prepared. During the afternoon you removed the clasp from the inside. Drayton wouldn’t notice because the metal boss was still stuck in. In the evening, just before you left, the robbery took place. Drayton would not be expecting you. One of you came into this counting house, took the bags of silver, threatening Master Drayton with a knife, crossbow or whatever. Bloodthirsty threats, perhaps even promises to return. The robber then left. Drayton, all agitated, locks and bolts the door. He doesn’t raise the hue and cry: the robber might be waiting. He has lost his silver, he’s fearful lest he lose his life. Now, our criminal clerk has fled.’
Athelstan paused, then shut the door, drawing the bolts over. And this is where the horrible beauty of this crime occurs. The other clerk, pretending all innocence, comes hurrying down. “Master,” he would wail, “what is wrong?” Whatever he says he brings Drayton to the door and the grille is opened. Our poor miser thinks he is speaking to an innocent man who is loud in his condemnation of his criminous colleague. Drayton presses close to the door, full of concern…’
‘Wouldn’t he open the door?’ Flinstead interrupted.
Cranston came over, his wineskin in one hand. ‘Of course not, you little liar. Drayton had just been robbed, pushed back in his room. He wasn’t too sure what was happening. He’d do what any sane man would do, lock and bolt the door lest the outlaw return to kill him. Now he hears a tap on the door, cries of concern. Whatever has happened, Drayton knows he is safe as long as he doesn’t open that door.’