‘Light that!’ he ordered.
Colebrooke did so, as well as the sconce torch on the wall above the door. He handed the candle to Athelstan, who let the flames burn for a while then blew it out, putting the wick under Alcest’s nose. The sharp, acrid fumes made the clerk stir; his eyelids fluttered.
‘Master Alcest,’ Athelstan whispered into his ear. ‘Master Alcest, you are very ill, perhaps even dying.’
‘A priest,’ Alcest murmured. ‘Father, I have such pains in my head. God’s judgement, such terrible pains! I have had them before. Sometimes at night,’ he stammered. ‘Father, I can’t feel my feet or hands, it’s so cold and dark.’ His eyes closed. ‘Shrive me, Father. Shrive me before I die.’
Athelstan looked over his shoulder. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered.
Cranston followed Colebrooke back along the passageway; they went out on to the green where Flaxwith was staring mournfully in the direction of the river.
‘I’m sorry, Sir John,’ Colebrooke confessed. ‘But I’ve seen it happen before. Sometimes, even before battle, a blood pulse breaks in the head or neck; there’s a loss of feeling in the lower limbs.’
‘Do you have a physician?’ Cranston asked.
‘A leech but he’s a drunken sot and at the moment is lying in his chamber. He could hardly open a door, let alone examine a man!’
Cranston walked across to study one of the heavy war machines. ‘Where’s Red Hand?’ he asked. ‘When I came here a few winters ago, I met him, a mad dwarf. He lived in the dungeons.’
‘Gone the way of all flesh,’ Colebrooke replied mournfully. ‘Died of a fever last spring.’ He pointed across to the little cemetery near the Tower chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Buried there he is, at peace at last.’
Cranston and Colebrooke stood chatting about people they both knew. The coroner heard his name called as Athelstan came up the steps from the dungeons.
‘You’ve shriven him?’ the coroner asked.
‘He’ll die a better death than the life he’s lived,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I don’t think it will be long, Master Constable. There’s no further need to question him. Give him some drugged wine, let him sleep. He’ll slip away. Don’t move him. The less movement the less pain.’
Cranston went to thank the Constable.
‘One moment, Sir John,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Master Colebrooke, the scrivener?’
‘He’s still in the Byward Tower,’ the Constable replied.
Athelstan promptly hurried off. A short while later he returned. Ignoring Cranston’s questioning looks, he thanked Colebrooke and, with Flaxwith almost trotting before them, they left the Tower and made their way back to the quayside. Darkness was now falling. The clouds were building up over the Thames, gusted by a strong wind. Athelstan stopped and stared up at the sky.
‘It will be a bad night for the stars, Sir John, but, there again, we’ve got business to do.’
‘What business?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother, what have you discovered?’
‘I can’t tell you that, Sir John. I can’t tell anyone what I heard under the seal of confession.’
‘But Alcest’s the murderer?’
‘Alcest is a murderer, as guilty as Judas.’
Athelstan made his way towards the steps. He grinned; his prophecy had been proved right. Samson sat in the boat, a piece of sausage dangling out of his mouth.
‘Thank God you’ve returned!’ Moleskin exclaimed. ‘I was afraid that when he’d finished the sausage he’d start on me!’
They all clambered in. Samson sat on his master’s lap and began to lick his face. Moleskin pushed away and, straining at the oars, guided his wherry skilfully across the Thames. The swell of the river had become more noticeable in the evening wind so everyone was pleased to reach Southwark steps. Flaxwith wanted to return to the city but Athelstan asked him to stay.
‘It’s Lesures, isn’t it?’ Cranston asked, plucking at Athelstan’s sleeve as they walked up an alleyway.
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied absentmindedly. ‘Master Lesures has a great deal to answer for.’ He stopped as they passed the Piebald tavern and looked through a window. ‘Stay there a moment, Sir John, you are not to come in, I won’t be long.’
Before Cranston could protest Athelstan went through the doorway; when he returned, he was pushing something into his pouch. Cranston noticed how he held this carefully as if it was something precious.
They found the cemetery and the area around the church deserted. The air still bore the stench of burning and candle wax but the makeshift altar in the cemetery was now tumbled down and all traces of the ‘Shrine of the Miraculous Crucifix’ had disappeared.
‘I hope Benedicta’s here,’ Athelstan murmured.
‘I think she is,’ Cranston replied. ‘I can see candlelight through your window, Brother.’
They found Benedicta and Alison seated round the table. Cranston exclaimed delightedly at the huge earthenware pot of ale Benedicta must have brought from a nearby tavern. She carried in fresh tankards from the kitchen and laid out five traunchers, each with strips of dried meat, cheese and slices of apple. Samson, ears cocked, looked around him.
‘Oh God!’ Cranston prayed. ‘Don’t let Bonaventure come back, not now!’
‘He won’t,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He’s a very intelligent cat and will know Samson’s here. But, Henry, come here. I have a small present for you and your wife. It’s upstairs in my bed loft’
Athelstan ignored the curious looks from the rest and led Flaxwith up the ladder. A few minutes later the friar returned alone and sat down at the table. He blessed himself, dipped his fingers in a bowl of water, wiped them on the napkin provided, then sipped at his ale. Cranston began to speculate about a change in the weather but Benedicta suddenly pulled at his hand.
‘Shush, Sir John, listen!’
They all did.
‘Oh no!’ Cranston groaned, half rising to his feet. ‘Do you hear that, Brother?’
The friar stopped eating.
‘It’s someone wearing spurs!’ Benedicta exclaimed. ‘He’s outside the house!’
‘It can’t be Alcest,’ Alison declared.
‘Oh no, it’s not Alcest, Alison.’ Athelstan leaned over and clasped her hand. And although Alcest is a murderer, he’s only guilty of one death, isn’t he, mistress?’
‘I beg your pardon, Father?’
‘You heard what I said,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Mistress Alison, Alcest killed one clerk but you’ve slain four!’
CHAPTER 14
Alison would have sprung to her feet but Athelstan leaned across and pressed her back.
‘What is your real name?’ he asked.
‘Why, Alison Chapler. I am Edwin’s sister.’
Cranston, standing behind the girl, shook his head. Athelstan ignored him. Benedicta just sat with her mouth open. Flaxwith took Samson off and sat on a stool in a far corner; he pulled the dog on to his lap, stroking his ears.
‘I went to the Tower,’ Athelstan explained. ‘In that grim fortress there’s a muniment room with tax rolls going back decades. Interesting how tax-collectors are most assiduous in writing down details. They list people by tenement and occupation. Now, they list a family in Bishop’s Lynn, Norfolk, for 1362. Father, mother, their son Edwin and his sister Alison, no more than a child of three years.’
‘Well, you see, Father…’
‘No, no,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘I then asked the scribe to look at the tax roll for 1365. By then two of the family had died: Edwin’s father and his sister Alison who was described as mortua, dead. Now, if you want, I can always ask Sir John to send one of the King’s cursitors to make careful inquiries into your background?’
Alison, her face drained of colour, just shook her head.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘The jingling you heard was a pair of spurs I borrowed from the landlord of the Piebald tavern. Master Flaxwith went upstairs, tied a bit of string round them and lowered them out of the window. He gave them vigorous shakes so it sounded as if someone wearing spurs was walking up and down. Last night you did the same at Benedicta’s house. From the chamber above her parlour, you lowered those spurs out of the window, gave the string a vigorous twitch, but not before you had left the final riddle, as if it had been pushed under the front door.’