‘There’s the question of the gold.’
‘True, Sir John, but possessing two gold pieces is not a crime for a clerk of the Green Wax. Alcest claims it was his turn to pay, the others will corroborate that and his explanation makes sense: the young ladies would have to be paid, not to mention the landlord of the Dancing Pig.’ Athelstan put his quill down and rubbed his fingers. ‘So far, Sir John, the only firm suspicion we have is that the far wall in Drayton’s chamber might hold a clue to how our money-lender was brutally killed.’ He sighed. ‘But I could be clutching at straws.’
Cranston’s face became glum. ‘The way things look, Brother, we will not arrest our murderers and the Regent won’t get his silver. Now, let’s move to the clerks.’ He waved his hand despondently. ‘You list what we know.’
Athelstan sat back. ‘First, we know Chapler was murdered just after sunset. He visited St Thomas a Becket’s chapel on London Bridge. The murderer knew he’d be there. He struck Chapler on the back of the head then tossed his body into the Thames where the Fisher of Men found it. Secondly, all those who knew Chapler appear to have been elsewhere. The clerks were roistering at the Dancing Pig. Master Lesures did not join them. However, I doubt if our noble Master of the Rolls had the strength to strike anyone, let alone lift a young man’s body over the rail of London Bridge. The only other person who knew Chapler was his sister Alison. She was in Epping, about to leave for London because of her concern about her brother. Thirdly…’
‘Thirdly,’ Cranston intervened, ‘we have the death of Peslep. He was killed sitting on a latrine. We know he was followed by this mysterious young man, cloaked, cowled and spurred. Fourthly,’ the coroner continued, ‘there’s Ollerton’s death. Now,’ Cranston held up his hand. ‘It was well known that Chapler liked to visit St Thomas’s chapel. Peslep always broke his fast in that tavern at that particular time whilst it was customary for the clerks of the Green Wax to drink a cup of malmsey late in the afternoon. Therefore, whoever murdered these three men had intimate knowledge of their habits and customs.’
‘I agree,’ Athelstan replied. ‘There’s also the question of the riddles. Alcest’s companions apparently loved to pose each other riddles for the rest to solve. The assassin knows this and, so far, we’ve had three. The one about a king fighting his enemies but in the end both victors and vanquished lying together in the same place. The second, how does it go, Sir John? My first is like a selfish brother, whilst the one delivered after Ollerton’s death declares: “My second is the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror”.’ Athelstan abruptly clapped his hands, alarmed at Sir John’s heavy-lidded look. ‘Come on, Sir John, concentrate with that brain as sharp as a razor, that wit as speedy as a swooping hawk.’
‘I was just thinking, Brother,’ Cranston replied crossly. He sat up. ‘What would happen if Father Prior told you to leave St Erconwald’s?’
Athelstan’s heart sank. ‘Now come, Sir John, that’s not the matter in hand. Have you sent that note to Flaxwith?’
‘Yes, yes, I did.’ The coroner shifted on the bench. ‘I paid a chapman a penny before we met Alcest.’
Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Then, Sir John, no brooding! We have murderers to seize, the King’s justice to be done.’ He poked the coroner in the ribs. ‘And the Regent’s silver to get back!’
By the time they returned to Drayton’s house, Flaxwith had arrived with two bruising individuals, each carrying a huge mallet.
‘Right, my lovely lads!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to knock a wall down.’
The house was unlocked and they went down the gloomy passageway into the counting house where, at Cranston’s command, both men set to with gusto. They smashed their mallets against the wall, the sound echoing like drumbeats through the room which soon filled with dust that tickled the nose and throat.
‘Despite the sound it’s not solid,’ one of them shouted, standing back and resting.
Cranston, his muffler up over his mouth, went to inspect. ‘You are not even through yet.’
‘Sir John, you grasp villains by the neck and, I wager, you can see one across a crowded room. I know walls: there’s something behind this.’
Athelstan, who had been carrying out another fruitless scrutiny of the door, came over to join them. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a small chamber behind this, Brother. This wall’s new.’
‘Could there be any secret door or gate?’ Cranston asked.
The burly labourer laughed. ‘No, Sir John, the wall’s solid, well, at least until we are finished with it!’
They set to again, giving a cry of triumph as the first bricks fell loose. The labourer picked one up, pointing to the mortar. ‘This wasn’t done by a mason, Sir John, but someone who knew a little building. The mortar is thick, slapped on. That’s why whoever built this wall covered it with plaster and whitewash.’
Cranston peered through the gap into the darkness. ‘I can’t see anything,’ he murmured.
The labourers returned to their task. More bricks fell away. An entrance was formed. Athelstan took a battered tallow candle from its iron spigot, Sir John struck a tinder and they went into the secret chamber. The dust-filled darkness made Athelstan shiver as he protected the flame by cupping his hand. He held the candle up and exclaimed in surprise. In the far corner lay a skeleton. He hurried across, followed by Cranston and the labourers. Athelstan, silently praying, crouched down by the grisly remains. In the glow of the smelly candle he carefully studied the skeleton which sat half propped up against the wall. The bones were still white and hard; tattered clothing still clung to it. Athelstan could tell by the dusty shreds that the skeleton belonged to a woman. He continued his examination, ignoring the exclamations of the labourers. He put his hand out, felt round the skeleton and picked up a battered pewter cup and platter.
‘In sweet heaven’s name!’
He took the candle and searched the rest of the chamber but found nothing. Chilled by the silent, eerie atmosphere, he walked back into the counting house.
‘Who do you think it is?’ Cranston asked, following him out.
‘Well, the house has always belonged to Drayton,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No one could wall up another human being without his knowledge so it’s logical to deduce that he was responsible, therefore those might be the poor remains of his wife. She clearly didn’t leave Drayton. I suspect she baited and taunted her husband until he grew tired of her. He probably gave her drugged wine, brought her down here and walled her up alive. God rest her!’ he breathed. ‘She must have taken days to die.’
Cranston thanked and dismissed the labourers, giving each a coin. The coroner then shouted for Flaxwith. The bailiff came hurrying down, his dog loping behind him, though Samson had the sense to stay well out of Cranston’s path.
‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’
‘There’s a skeleton in there.’ The coroner jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Have it removed. Tell the vicar of St Mary Le Bow the city will bear the cost of its burial. Don’t look so frightened, Henry, she’s been dead for years. Now, do you have news for me?’
‘Oh yes.’ Flaxwith stared distractedly over Sir John’s shoulder as if he expected the skeleton to come walking out of the room towards him.
‘Well, come on, man!’
‘First, Sir John,’ Flaxwith gabbled, ‘we are keeping Dame Broadsheet’s house under strict guard and she does not suspect it. We have heard little rumours that the Vicar of Hell is much smitten by little Clarice there.’