‘And?’
‘Stablegate and Flinstead were seen carousing the night Drayton was murdered. According to witnesses they drank until they were stupid. They never returned here. The same goes for those clerks at the Dancing Pig. Mine host says that after they retired to the upper chambers he saw neither hide nor hair of them till dawn. Finally, Sir John,’ Flaxwith spread his hands, ‘I have a friend who works in the muniment room at the Tower.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘We checked the subsidy rolls of 1380 for Epping in Essex. They list Edwin and Alison Chapler. Edwin is described as a clerk, Alison a seamstress. Apparently both are quite wealthy.’
‘Very good.’ Cranston clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Oh, before you go,’ Athelstan called out. ‘Sir John, perhaps we could have a small mummer’s play?’
A bemused Cranston and Flaxwith followed Athelstan back into the dusty counting office.
‘Now,’ Athelstan began, ‘I’ll pretend to be Drayton.’ He held up his writing bag. ‘This is the Regent’s silver. Sir John, how am I killed?’
Sir John pointed to Athelstan’s chest.
‘Right,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m dying. I fall to the ground. In my death throes, in my guilt, I remember the woman I have walled up alive so I crawl towards the hall, praying for forgiveness. That explains why we found Drayton in the position he was, but the problem remains. If the two clerks killed Drayton, how did they get out of the chamber?’ Athelstan pointed to the door. ‘Locking and bolting that from inside? If Drayton had locked himself in,’ Athelstan continued, ‘then how could the clerks enter the chamber and kill him?’
‘We’ve been through all this,’ Cranston grumbled.
‘No, listen, Sir John: we now know the only way into this room is through the door.’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Cranston said irritably. ‘And it was locked and bolted.’
‘Sir John, Master Henry, if you would oblige me.’
Athelstan walked towards where the huge door lay against the wall. ‘Is it possible for you to hold that up?’
Swearing and grumbling under their breaths, both men obliged, pulling the huge door away from the wall. Athelstan approached it. He pulled down the small trap to look through the eye grille; he stood there for a while then looked round the door.
‘Can we put this bloody thing down?’ Cranston gasped.
‘Yes, Sir John.’
Both men pushed the door back against the wall.
‘Well, Brother?’
‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I’m not sure, Sir John. Master Flaxwith, do you know a good carpenter?’
‘Aye, there’s Laveck in Stinking Alley.’
‘Bring him here,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘I want this door examined from top to bottom, the grille, the locks, the bolts, the bosses, everything. I don’t care what damage is done.’ He nudged Cranston in the ribs. ‘Tell him the city will pay the costs. If it doesn’t, the Regent certainly will. Provide him with ale and bread, but he is not to leave this house until his task is finished and both I and Sir John have returned to question him.’
Flaxwith undid the rope which held Samson tethered and hurried down the passageway.
‘What do you hope to achieve, Brother?’
‘Trickery, Sir John. The world is full of trickery and deceit. Everything is a riddle. Clerks are killed when no one is about. A moneylender is found dead in his locked counting house whilst in Southwark,’ he added bitterly, ‘crucifixes drip with real blood.’
‘You don’t believe that, do you?’
‘No I don’t, Sir John. But my parishioners do. John, you know the villains and the cunning men of the underworld. How could they do that?’
Cranston sighed. ‘I have knowledge of it,’ he answered. ‘But usually they are fairground tricks, Brother. The blood is wine or paint.’
‘This was real blood,’ Athelstan replied.
‘The men I have arrested,’ Cranston continued, ‘used secret levers or mechanisms.’
‘I don’t think that’s the case here,’ Athelstan said. ‘The crucifix was bleeding when no one was holding it.’
‘What about Huddle?’ Cranston asked.
‘A cunning, subtle painter. What he can do with a paint-brush is beyond me. But why this, eh, Sir John?’ He linked his arm through Cranston’s as they walked down the passageway. As I keep pointing out to you, my Lord Coroner, I am a Dominican. My order, to its eternal shame or credit, has the reputation of being the Domini Canes.’
‘The hounds of God!’ Cranston translated. ‘The Inquisition?’
‘Precisely, Sir John. It is their duty to investigate so-called miracles, question self-confessed prophets. In our library at Blackfriars, there is a book, a record of such investigations. Now, Laveck is coming to examine this door and I have no desire to return to Southwark, so what I propose, Sir John, is that we visit Blackfriars.’ He nipped Cranston’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I have just remembered, Father Prior is on a brief pilgrimage to St Thomas’s shrine at Canterbury.’
Cranston stopped, a stubborn look on his face.
‘Our mother house also has a new cook,’ Athelstan added slyly. ‘A man who can perform miracles with a piece of beef or roast pheasant. Even His Grace the Regent tried to tempt him into the kitchen of the Savoy’
The coroner clapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Brother, if you weren’t a Dominican, you’d make a very good tempter. The spirit is willing but the flesh is very weak. Accordingly, my only answer to such temptation is yes.’
Robert Elflain, clerk of the Green Wax, left the Chancery Office and made his way up Holborn towards Fleet Street. It was Wednesday and Elflain was determined that he would spend some part of the day away from the cloying, suspicious attitude of his comrades. Everything had gone wrong. Alcest had sworn that in the end they would have nothing to fear but Elflain was worried. He did not like the fat coroner whilst that sharp-eyed friar seemed to sense something was wrong. Alcest had demanded that they stay together, that no one should wander off, but this was Wednesday and, at Dame Broadsheet’s, Laetitia would be waiting: those soft eyes and even softer skin, that long, sinuous body! Elflain was tense, he needed to burrow his face into her swanlike neck and embrace her body.
He passed Newgate and tried not to look at the scaffold: that would reawaken his fears. If only Chapler had been more accommodating, everything would have gone smoothly! Elflain loosened the collar of his shirt and cursed as he slipped on the offal dripping along the cobbles from the butcher’s stall. On the corner of an alleyway he turned and stared back: was anyone following him? The crowds milled about, grouping round the stalls, haggling with the traders. Elflain heaved a sigh and continued on his journey. When he glimpsed the front of Dame Broadsheet’s house he felt a glow of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He hurried along until he reached the door. Naturally, it was closed and bolted because Dame Broadsheet only had a licence to sell ale in the evening. Elflain groaned. There would be the usual tarrying as he explained to a suspicious porter who he was and why he had come. Dame Broadsheet was ever suspicious of some bailiff or tipstaff trapping her and bringing a charge against her of conducting a house of ill repute.
Elflain banged on the door. Silence. He knocked again.
‘Elflain!’
He turned and stared at the hooded, cowled figure which had appeared like a ghost behind him.
‘What the…?’ Elflain stepped forward but it was too late.
The catch of the small arbalest was sprung and the barbed bolt took him full in the heart, smashing through flesh and bone. The clerk staggered back against the door, writhing in pain. He glimpsed the cowled figure drop a small parchment scroll at his feet and then he died, even as the door swung open.
CHAPTER 8
When Sir John Cranston left Blackfriars, his stomach was full of capon pie but his mind was totally bemused by what he had read in the library. As he and Athelstan reached Ludgate, the coroner took his hat off and shook his head.