‘If I had my way,’ he growled as they followed the jailer across the great cobbled yard to the cells, ‘I’d burn this place to the ground, rebuild a new prison and put it under the governance of a good soldier. I’d certainly put an end to that.’ Sir John pointed to an unfortunate who had refused to plead before the Justices; he was stripped, ready to be pressed under a heavy, oaken door until he agreed to plead either guilty or not guilty.
They left the yard and entered a mildewed corridor which ran past cells, veritable hellholes. The air was gloomy and the stench made Athelstan gag. Paltry sconce torches fought against the murky air and Athelstan tried to ignore the terrible din, the oaths, rantings and ravings of mad prisoners and the filthy abuse hurled at the jailer going ahead of them. They passed cell chambers; in one the corpses of executed felons lay like slabs of meat upon a butcher’s stall. These would be placed in iron cages and taken out to be gibbeted along the roads leading into London. In another the corpses of executed criminals who had been hanged, drawn and quartered were being boiled and pickled before being given a coat of tar and placed over the gates of the city.
‘Never come here!’ Cranston warned ‘This is truly the abomination of the desolation. Every time I do,’ he added in a whisper, ‘I pray God will send fire from heaven to consume the place.’
They entered a large room where bailiffs and beadles were drinking or playing checkers or hazard.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’ A pox-faced beadle, one eye hidden beneath a patch, waved them over. The man pointed to the chessboard. ‘Would you like a game, Sir John? King against king, bishop against bishop?’
Cranston shook his head. ‘Some other time and certainly not here.’
They were about to follow the jailer down another narrow passageway when Athelstan stopped.
‘Brother?’
‘Sir John, the first riddle about a king defeating his enemies but, when the battle is over, both victor and vanquished lying in the same place: it describes a game of chess.’
Cranston told the jailer to wait. ‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘A game of chess! What does it prove, Brother?’
Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know, Sir John. I think our assassin sees the murders as a game and, at the same time, is clearly proclaiming that he will play the game, even if he has to end up in the same place as the vanquished.’
‘And that’s the grave,’ Cranston replied. ‘It makes sense, Brother. If Alcest is our assassin, there’s no doubt that he’ll die as well.’
‘But why should Alcest be prepared to put his own life at stake?’
‘That I don’t know, Brother.’ They continued down the passageway until the jailer stopped at a door. ‘At the heart of Newgate, Sir John.’ His chapped, dirty face brightened with malicious glee. ‘The Vicar of Hell deserves the best and the best he will get.’
He unlocked the door, swung it open and, going inside, fixed the sconce torch into a rusting clasp on the wall. The Vicar of Hell sat on a pile of straw in the corner; his ankles and wrists were loaded with chains which were clasped to iron rings in the wall. His face was covered in dirt and a large bruise darkened his right cheek, yet he still smiled cheekily.
‘Sir John, I would rise and bow but…’ He spread his hands in a rattle of chains. ‘I suppose you’ve come to tell me that the Bishop of London has decided to reinstate me as a priest or the Regent has issued a pardon?’
‘You’ll hang, me bucko.’ Cranston stood over him. ‘Yet, when you’ve gone, I’ll miss you.’ He waited until the jailer closed the cell door behind him.
‘Am I going to hang?’ the Vicar asked softly and stared piteously at Athelstan. ‘So many psalms yet to be sung. So much claret to be drunk.’ He sighed. ‘There again, I’ve seen the days and all good things must come to an end.’
Cranston stepped back to lean against the wall. Athelstan went over to the door and stared through the grille; the jailer, eavesdropping on the other side, scampered off.
‘You are not a bad man,’ Cranston continued ‘Not a really wicked soul. You are a rogue born and bred. You are attracted to villainy as a cat to cream.’ He lifted a hand. ‘But I swear, I don’t wish to see you hang. Exiled from London, perhaps for two or three years.’ Sir John paused and scratched his chin.
The Vicar of Hell was now all attention. ‘And the terms, Sir John? What are the conditions?’
‘The clerks of the Green Wax.’
‘Oh, Sir John, you couldn’t!’
‘Oh, Sir John, I can,’ Cranston quipped back. ‘What’s so special about them? Most of them are dead and have been replaced, whilst we know enough about Alcest to send him to do the hangman’s dance at Tower Hill or Tyburn.’
‘Agreed.’ The Vicar of Hell sat back in the corner. ‘If I tell you, Sir John, these chains are loosed?’
‘If you tell me,’ Cranston replied, ‘you’ll be a free man by dusk. However, if you are caught in the city again, it’s summary justice: down on your knees, neck against a piece of wood and off goes your head!’
‘It’s like this, Sir John,’ the Vicar began. ‘People like myself have to — how can I put it? — move around. Go to this city or that. Travel beyond the seas. Or, when the fire becomes too hot, seek retirement by gaining a position in some merchant’s household. To do that I need letters, warrants and licences. Now, what am I going to reveal will mean the closing of a loophole much loved by us villains. Tell me, Sir John, if I want such a letter or a licence what have I to do?’
‘Well, you can apply to the mayor, sheriff or Corporation of London.’
‘Yes, yes, Sir John, but you know me, as the good shepherd knows all the black sheep of his flock. So where else can I go?’
‘You could apply to the Chancery but such letters are only written at the behest of the Chancellor.’
‘And it takes time,’ the Vicar of Hell snapped. ‘So what we do is this, Sir John. We take the name of a dead person. We then get a clerk like Alcest to petition the Chancellor on our behalf…’
‘Of course,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘And if the petition has the recommendation of a clerk then it goes ahead and there’ll be no delay.’
‘Precisely, Sir John.’
‘So,’ Athelstan said stepping forward ‘if Philip Stablegate wishes to leave the country with a considerable amount of silver, he approaches Alcest. The clerk will then go through the records and extract the name of someone long dead. Let’s call him Richard Martlew. The petition goes to the Chancellor, who will undoubtedly grant it because it’s got a recommendation. Alcest will not even wait for the Chancellor to reply: he will draw up the document, Master Lesures seals it and the letter is issued. There are no forged seals.’
‘In a word, yes,’ Cranston replied. ‘Now, let us say this Martlew decides to leave England by one of the Cinque Ports. The reeve or harbourmaster probably can’t even read. He doesn’t give a fig if Martlew is Stablegate but he is trained to examine the seal. False seals can soon be detected but, if it’s genuine, he won’t even dream of stopping the person concerned.’
‘Isn’t a record kept?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, the petition itself and the Chancellor’s reply endorsing it? And what happens if someone can prove that Richard Martlew is long dead?’
The Vicar of Hell clapped his hands in a crash of chains. ‘What’s the use of that, Brother? Can’t you see the subtlety of the scheme? It was the Chancery office which authorised the letter to be written, not Alcest or Lesures. Moreover, Alcest could easily prove that he thought it was Martlew and that he didn’t even dream anything was wrong. He simply received a petition which he endorsed and sent to the Chancellor. Such requests are never refused: the letter, licence or warrant is drawn up and sealed. That’s what Alcest did. And who is going to betray him? To do that would be sealing your own death warrant.’