‘Of course,’ Athelstan conceded as they finally stopped on the corner of the alleyway leading up to Dame Broadsheet’s.
‘Now you remember.’ Cranston grinned. ‘Every year, on the feast of St Rahere, Lady Maude and I entertain them to a small banquet in our garden…’
‘And you’re going to use them to catch the Vicar of Hell?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Cranston jabbed a finger towards Flaxwith. ‘Faithful Henry here has had Broadsheet’s house watched day and night. Clarice, the love of our villain’s life, never leaves, yet the Vicar of Hell never comes.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Vicar of Hell eats lambs’ testicles and drinks Spanish wine. He’s as lecherous as a boar in rut. He’s been and gone but I don’t know how.’
‘And the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston stared longingly down at Dame Broadsheet’s placid-looking house.
‘I’m sure the bugger’s there,’ he growled. ‘Henry, are your men on guard?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Where are the scrimperers?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Where Dame Broadsheet and the Vicar of Hell least expect!’
‘I’m glad we came here,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I want to have words with young Clarice. I don’t believe Alcest spent the entire night with her when Chapler died.’
‘First things first,’ Cranston murmured.
They must have stood for at least a quarter of an hour. Cranston’s unease became apparent; he shifted from foot to foot, cursing under his breath and patting his cloak where the miraculous wineskin should have been. The streets started to fill. Traders and journeymen; shopkeepers setting up their stalls; heavy-eyed apprentices carrying out merchandise from the storerooms. Debtors, released from the Fleet prison, to spend the day shackled together, begging for a pittance for themselves and others in the debtors’ hole. Two Abraham men danced by, naked as they were born, except for a loincloth, their faces and bodies covered in charcoal dust. They sang and danced. One bore a metal dish with burning charcoal on his head. He announced, to any who would listen, that he and his companion were Gog and Magog and they were going to Sodom and Gomorrah to carry out God’s judgement.
‘You know where that place is?’ one of them screeched at Cranston. ‘Do you, Brother, know the way of the Lord?’
‘Yes, go straight down Cheapside and turn left at the stocks,’ Cranston growled. ‘Now piss off and leave me alone!’
The two Abraham men danced by.
‘Sir John Cranston! Sir John Cranston! God bless you! God bless you and all that’s in your breeches!’
The beggar stopped short as Cranston raised a hamlike fist. ‘Not now, not now, Squirrel Head!’ he snarled.
Squirrel Head deftly caught the coin Cranston threw and disappeared into a nearby pie shop. Cranston looked down the alleyway and stiffened as the doorway opened. A court gallant swaggered out, the door slamming shut behind him. Others followed: a servant carrying buckets, a young lady, her hips swaying provocatively. Athelstan was beginning to despair when suddenly the door swung open again and he gaped at the spectacle that unfolded. An old woman tried to rush out into the street, what appeared to be children hung on to her dusty skirts and plucked at her cloak as she dragged them along. Suddenly the old woman slipped, the grey wig falling off her head.
‘It’s the Vicar!’ Cranston roared. ‘Flaxwith!’
Already the bailiff had released Samson, who sped like an arrow to join the pandemonium. The Vicar of Hell, his disguise now thrown, was desperately fighting off the scrimperers, who buzzed about like flies. Samson gripped his ankle: the Vicar yelped with pain. He slipped on a clod of mud and disappeared in a welter of bodies. Samson, apparently believing his task now done, went for the ankle of one of the bailiffs running to assist. Windows were opened and a crowd began to gather as Cranston and Athelstan hurried down. Flaxwith was wielding his staff. Samson, lured by the sweet cooking smells from Dame Broadsheet’s, had now sped indoors looking for more juicy morsels. Cranston laid about with the flat of his sword until order was imposed. The Vicar of Hell, slightly ridiculous in his ragged dress, his face covered in white chalk, was manacled and bound between two bailiffs. Now and again he would wince at the pain where Samson had bitten him or glower at the scrimperers.
‘We caught him,’ one of the little men shouted, jumping up and down, his wizened face bright with pleasure. ‘Sir John, we caught him creeping downstairs. I sees him kiss the girl. I’ve never seen a beldame kiss like that!’
Cranston, ignoring the Vicar of Hell, congratulated the scrimperers who danced around like children, clutching at the coins he tossed into their outstretched hands. Athelstan gazed in astonishment. The scrimperers were like children suddenly grown old, nut-brown faces, bright eyes, but their features seemed out of joint, like children wearing masks at some mummers’ play. Their dress only emphasised this: motley rags, small leather boots, each armed with dirk or poniard no bigger than a man’s hand.
‘You’re a clever bastard!’ the Vicar of Hell bawled.
Cranston grinned. ‘It was the only way, sir. Get the scrimperers through the cracks and into the house. They broke in through a window at the back.’
‘We watched the stairs and passageways,’ one of them shouted. ‘No one ever noticed us.’
‘And if they had,’ another added, ‘we’d have been gone before they caught us.’
‘Went in early this morning before dawn. A busy house, Sir John, a molly shop if there ever was one. Young girls coming and going, footsteps in the gallery, cups of wine and squeals of laughter.’ The leader of the scrimperers beat his little glove against his thigh, raising small puffs of dust.
‘But now you are finished,’ Cranston declared proudly. ‘It’s to the Guildhall for all of you. Seek out the chief beadle. He’ll also give you coins, some provisions. Here…’ He took one of the small seals he always carried in his purse and handed it to the mannikin. ‘Just show that and all will be well.’
The scrimperers disappeared, shouting and laughing like children. Cranston snapped his fingers. Flaxwith pushed the Vicar back into the cavernous taproom of Dame Broadsheet’s house. The atmosphere was sombre. Dame Broadsheet stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand covering her mouth. Behind her the girls had gathered, gaping at this great coroner and his illustrious prisoner. Scullions and tapsters appeared from behind doors. Cranston, enjoying himself, strode into the centre of the room.
‘A cup of your best claret, Dame Broadsheet. I mean your best, no droppings from the vat.’
This was brought in the twinkling of an eye. Cranston toasted the Vicar of Hell. ‘How many years is it, sir, three or four since I tried to lay you by the heels? It’s Newgate for you, my lad, and then before the King’s Justices at Westminster. You,’ Cranston grinned evilly at Dame Broadsheet, ‘and your accomplices. It is a felony to harbour a known criminal.’
‘They didn’t know I was here,’ the Vicar of Hell retorted.
‘What’s your name?’ Athelstan asked, coming forward.
‘I have no name, Father. Once, like you, I was in Holy Orders. Now I’m a leaf on life’s stream and, by the looks of it, soon washed up. Father, intercede with Sir John. These good ladies have nothing to do with me.’
‘Not even Clarice?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I had a visit from William the Weasel. I know you are moonstruck over the girl.’ He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Why were you so eager to distance yourself from the murder of the clerks of the Green Wax?’
The Vicar of Hell looked away. ‘Not here, Father.’ His lips hardly moved. ‘There’s a time and place.’ He glanced up, his eyes full of mischief, so boyish that Athelstan’s heart warmed to him. ‘I may even throw some light on the great miracle at St Erconwald’s.’