‘No claret,’ the coroner replied.
Athelstan grinned. ‘The centre of woe: does it mean the word itself? Of course it does.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘O is the centre of the word “woe” and, without it, horror as a word would not exist. Now that was found beside Ollerton’s corpse. And what is Fate, Sir John?’
‘The finish…’ the coroner stammered. ‘The end of life.’
‘Fate also ends in an E, the first letter of Elfiain’s name. Peslep’s riddle’s a little more difficult, isn’t it? Like a selfish brother: what begins with P, Sir John?’
Athelstan, fully immersed in the riddle, began to walk up and down. ‘Like a selfish brother,’ he repeated. ‘The riddle definitely refers to a P. The first letter of Peslep’s name.’ Athelstan paused. ‘That’s it, Sir John. A selfish brother’s the first to pity but the last to help: “pity” begins, and “help” ends with a P. But why the letters? These clerks have apparently been killed according to sequence P, O, E.’
‘Poe?’ Cranston asked. ‘No such word exists.’
‘Ah, we’ve not finished have we, Sir John? There’s Napham and Alcest. Add N and A and what do we have? There’s no such name as “poena” but in Latin poena means punishment.’
‘Punishment!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The assassin is playing a game with his victims. The first letter of each of their names is hidden in these riddles and the killer believes he is carrying out a punishment. But for what?’
‘One thing is clear,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The murderer believes all these clerks are guilty but, as you say, guilty of what? And two other questions warrant our attention. Why isn’t Chapler’s name mentioned? He worked with these young men. Secondly, was he innocent of any crime?’
‘How do we know Chapler’s dead?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, Sir John, don’t be stupid!’
‘I’m not being stupid, monk!’ Cranston snapped. ‘A young man is fished out of the Thames, and only by the contents of his wallet do we know he is Edwin Chapler.’
‘But Mistress Alison, his sister, recognised the corpse as that of her brother.’
‘No, no.’ Cranston shook his head and leaned against the wall. ‘What happens if Chapler is not dead? He knew the habits and customs of his companions. He knew they liked riddles. Perhaps he and his sister are waging their own private war of vengeance, God knows for what reason.’
‘It’s impossible,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress Alison was not in London when Peslep was killed; she was in Southwark when Ollerton died and the second riddle delivered. We know Havant viewed Chapler’s corpse whilst the poor clerk was last seen alive near the very place where he probably died.’
Athelstan stared down at the corridor where Flaxwith still stood with the carpenter Laveck. ‘It’s like any puzzle isn’t it, Sir John?’ he continued. ‘There are many answers but only one is correct. I may have the riddles wrong. Chapler could well be alive. Moreover, we must not discount Master Lesures: he must know what is going on in his own Chancery office. And there’s the other little strand we’ve picked loose: your good friend, the Vicar of Hell, seems to know a lot about our beloved clerks. Perhaps he has a score to settle? He can move round the city like a will-o’-the-wisp. Finally…’ Athelstan paused, wiping some dust from his sandal.
‘Yes, Brother?’
‘We must not be carried headlong by the force of our own logic. Here we are suspecting everyone of murder but there are others, besides Lesures, we must not forget. Napham and Master Alcest, in particular. How do we know that one, or both, might not be the assassin? Was there some quarrel amongst the clerks? Peslep might have been born wealthy but all these young men do seem to have a lot of money.’
‘So, a visit to the Chancery of the Green Wax may not be fruitless?’ Cranston asked.
‘It might be very rewarding, Sir John.’
‘And this business here?’
‘Well, the remains of Drayton’s wife have now been removed. Master Laveck has told us what he knows about the door. However,’ Athelstan stared around, ‘is that enough to accuse the two clerks? How did they really kill Drayton? It’s possible that in the days preceding the murder they distracted Drayton and worked one of those bolts loose. But how did they kill their master and how could they enter and leave the house without leaving some door or window loose?’ Athelstan picked up his writing bag. ‘The day draws on, Sir John. Let’s visit Master Lesures and his clerks. Then I’m back to Southwark to see what fresh miracles have occurred.’
They walked out of the house and almost bumped into Mistress Alison. She was breathless and for a while just stood, hands on her chest, panting for air.
‘Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ She smiled. ‘I am sorry. I made inquiries at the Guildhall. They told me you were meeting your bailiff here.’
‘That’s right. Why, what’s the matter, girl?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that I’m leaving London, Sir John.’ She leaned up and kissed him on both cheeks and did the same to Athelstan. ‘I could not go without saying goodbye. I want to be on the road before the sun sets. Oh,’ she continued in a rush, ‘Brother Athelstan, I went back across the bridge, I had forgotten something at Benedicta’s. Your crucifix is still bleeding and the crowds are fair flocking there.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and groaned.
‘But Benedicta sent a message.’ Alison closed her eyes. ‘Er, Wat..’
‘Watkin,’ Athelstan intervened.
‘Ah yes, Watkin has everything under control. I must go.’
‘I am afraid you can’t.’
Athelstan looked at Cranston in surprise. The coroner hunched his great shoulders. ‘Mistress Alison, we are hunting your brother’s murderers.’
‘But you surely could send a message out to Epping? I am more than prepared to return. I don’t like it here.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘Go ask mine host at the Silver Lute. Last night and today I’ve had a visitor, Brother Athelstan. He was very similar to the young man you described who was in the tavern where Peslep died. The landlord remembered him welclass="underline" he was cowled and hooded, spurs jangling on his boots.’
‘Have you seen him yourself?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, Sir John, I have not. However, I remember you describing such a man when I first met you in the Chancery Office.’ Alison moved a loose hair away from her face. ‘I am afeared.’
‘Tell me.’ Athelstan took her gently by the hand and stroked her fingers. ‘Mistress Alison, you came into London to see your brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you do that often?’
‘Not as much as I would have wished. When the weather changed and the rains and snow clogged the trackways, no. But in summertime as often as I could.’
‘You came this time because you were concerned?’
‘Yes, I told you. Edwin fell suddenly ill. He was vomiting, his bowels were loose. Some contagion of the belly.’
Athelstan studied her closely. ‘This illness?’
‘It was sudden,’ Alison replied. ‘One afternoon at the Chancery. Edwin suspected his drink had been tainted.’ She pulled a face. ‘But there’s no proof for that and Edwin was so agitated.’
‘Did he say about what?’
‘Never!’
‘Did he have other friends in London?’
‘I think he talked of Tibault Lesures, Master of the Rolls.’
‘Any young women?’
Alison laughed. ‘If he did, he kept it a great secret. But Sir John,’ Alison turned back to the coroner, ‘I want to go. I should go, I have no business in London. My brother is buried. I have a trade in Epping, property to look after.’
‘Go back to the Silver Lute,’ Athelstan offered. ‘Pack your baggage, and come and stay with Benedicta.’
Alison looked down at the ground.
‘You’ll be safe there,’ Athelstan insisted. ‘No one will hurt you.’
‘I agree,’ she replied.