He forced himself to concentrate on the day’s events. He drew a rough sketch of the door in Drayton’s room and tried to envisage how the old miser had been murdered and the money taken. Perhaps, he reasoned, if he found the Regent’s silver, John of Gaunt might be persuaded to speak to Father Prior. How, he wondered, had the man been killed in a locked and barred chamber? He recalled those iron bolts on the door and the two clerks Flinstead and Stablegate. Were they both guilty? Or just the one? If it was one… Athelstan closed his eyes and concentrated: it would be as difficult for one person to carry out such a crime as it would be for two. Athelstan stared at his own door.
Pretend, he thought, pretend you are Drayton. People can only get into this room if you allow them! And if they leave? I have a crossbow bolt in my chest so how can I possibly have the strength to lock the door behind them? Why spend so much precious energy bolting the stable door when the horse has gone? He stretched over and stroked Bonaventure. ‘Which reminds me, I must pay a visit to our good friend Philomel.’ Athelstan went back to his reasoning. One or two killers? Did it matter? He smiled then clapped his hands, making Bonaventure jump.
‘Of course it does!’ he shouted. ‘There had to be two, that’s the only way it could be done!’
And the house? How could they leave? Athelstan rubbed his face: the oldest trick in the book. They took poor Flaxwith to a locked window. It doesn’t mean that at the moment the bailiffs broke in every other window was locked and barred! Athelstan stretched across to the wine cup and sipped from it. He put his pen down and looked at the goblet. And Chapler’s death? And the murders of those other clerks of the Green Wax? Athelstan was sure that Alcest was somehow involved. Was he the young man with the clinking spurs? It would have been so easy for him to follow Peslep to that tavern. Athelstan chewed his lip. There was something about Peslep’s murder… something he had learnt. Something that had been said. What was it?
Alcest, Athelstan concluded, Alcest could have put that poison in Ollerton’s cup. Alcest knew where Elflain was going. Alcest visited Drayton before he was killed. But Chapler? The night that young man was murdered, Alcest, according to witnesses, was tucked up in bed with a young whore. Or was he? Was Clarice telling the truth? And the Vicar of Hell? Why was he so determined to tell Sir John that the murders amongst the clerks of the Green Wax had nothing to do with him? Why was it so important to send as messenger a ruffian like William the Weasel? Finally, Lesures, the Master of the Rolls. He had been sick with fear. Was he guilty? What was he trying to hide?
Athelstan picked up his pen again. Alcest and Clarice, he wrote, underlining their names. If he could disprove Alcest’s story, everything would fall into place. Athelstan stretched, yawned, then jumped at a knock on the door.
‘Go away, Watkin!’ he shouted. ‘I am saying Mass tomorrow and then I’m off to see Sir John.’
The door opened. A white-faced Benedicta, followed by Alison, equally pale, came into the kitchen.
‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Come, sit down. You want some wine?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘I was at home,’ Benedicta began, unhitching her cloak. ‘As you asked, Brother, I took Alison to my own house. She went upstairs to prepare for bed.’
‘Yes.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I saw you flee before my confrontation with Watkin.’
‘I was sitting in my parlour,’ Benedicta continued. She picked up Athelstan’s wine cup and sipped from it. ‘I heard a sound outside, in the small alleyway which runs along the side of my house.’
‘What do you mean? What sound?’
‘I was working on a piece of embroidery but, I’ll be honest, my mind was busy with Watkin and his miraculous cross. At first I didn’t take any notice but then there was a clink as if someone wearing spurs was walking up and down. I looked out, it was dusk, the alleyway seemed empty. I called out: ‘ Who’s there?’ but there was no reply. I closed the shutters and went back to my embroidery. A few minutes later I heard the clink of spurs again. I called up to Alison to ask if she was well. She replied she was.’ Benedicta took a deep breath. ‘I admit I was frightened so I…’ She looked down at the table. ‘Oh, Athelstan, have you had a visitor?’
‘Oh, just a messenger from across the city.’ Athelstan pulled the platter across. ‘But go on, tell me about this.’
‘I went upstairs and asked Alison if she’d heard anything.’
‘I had,’ Alison intervened. ‘I thought it was my imagination. I told Benedicta not to go out but she said that if I came with her.. ’
‘We went downstairs,’ Benedicta continue. She took a small scroll of parchment from the cuff of her sleeve and handed it to Athelstan.
‘“My last,”’ he read. ‘“The one behind it all; the first and the last will always be discovered at the centre of a maze.”’
‘What does it mean?’ Benedicta asked.
‘We are hunting a murderer,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Someone who kills and always leaves a riddle on the corpse of his victim. But for the first time,’ he smiled thinly as if echoing the words of the riddle, ‘one has been found before any crime has been committed.’ He paused. ‘No, that’s not true. There was no riddle found on Chapler’s corpse. Anyway,’ he continued, ‘we know that the other riddles spell out the first letter of the surname of each of the murdered clerks. However, this appears to be different. You’ll leave it with me?’
Benedicta nodded.
‘And you are going back to your house?’
‘Yes, yes, I am,’ Benedicta agreed. ‘I have had a word with Watkin. He’s going to send Beadle Bladdersniff with two others to watch my door.’
‘Ah yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir Watkin, knight of the basting spoon.’ He smiled at both women. ‘Are you sure you won’t stay any longer?’
They both made their excuses and left.
Athelstan returned to his study of the scrawled riddle.
‘The last,’ he murmured. ‘What’s discovered at the centre of a maze? Of course, a rood: a crucifix above a rose bower?’ He chewed on his lip. ‘But what does that mean? Another word for maze is labyrinth: R is its central letter.’ Athelstan paused. R the first and the last: he was certain the murderer was exposing his motive: Revenge!
CHAPTER 10
Sir John Cranston sat in the small chancery at the top of his house in Cheapside. He stared through the unshuttered window watching for the first rays of the rising sun. As always, Sir John had woken early. The Lady Maude lay beside him lost in her dreams whilst, in the adjoining chamber, the two poppets, dressed in their linen nightgowns, sprawled on their cot beds. They looked so much alike: thin blond hair, apple-red cheeks, the firm chin and mouth of their father.
‘Lovely lads!’ Sir John had breathed and smiled as he noticed how they even snored in unison. He had tiptoed further down the gallery, quietly praying under his breath that the poppets would not awake. If they did, and knew Sir John was about, they’d rouse the entire house with their shouts. This was going to be a busy day for Sir John; he had gone down to the kitchen where he had washed, shaved and quickly dressed in the fresh apparel the Lady Maude had laid out the night before. A meat pie in the buttery kept savoury in a linen cloth, and a small jug of watered ale, served as breakfast. Sir John had then knelt and, closing his eyes, said his morning prayers before going up to his chancery.
He now sat with the Coroners’ Roll in front of him though his gaze strayed to the thick manuscript lying to his right: Cranston’s famous treatise, ‘On the Governance of London’. Sir John leaned back on the cushioned chair. He had reached a new chapter, ‘On the keeping of the streets, alleyways and runnels free of all filth’. Cranston had recommended the building of public latrines, strict laws against filling the streets with refuse and the contents of chamber pots. The open sewers would be moved beyond the city limits whilst the dung-collectors would be organised into a guild.