‘The property of the Crown,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Regent will sell it and make a profit.’
‘It needs to be exorcised and blessed,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Ghosts still linger here.’
The door of the counting house had been rehung but Athelstan noticed how an iron stud just beneath the grille had been loosened. The bolt on the inside was quick to the touch and easy to turn. He beckoned Sir John in and closed the door. Athelstan pulled down the grille and stared through it as if searching for something.
Cranston heard a sound and sighed. ‘Here comes Flaxwith with my miraculous wineskin. He’s also brought our guests.’
Athelstan opened the door. Flaxwith, hot-faced, thrust the wineskin into Sir John’s hand. Behind him the two clerks stood sullen-eyed. Athelstan studied them carefully. Sir John was right: Stablegate was obdurate but Flinstead’s lower lip quivered, eyes constantly blinking. Athelstan made his decision.
‘Henry, take Master Stablegate back to the parlour and keep him there. Flinstead can stay with me for a while.’
Flaxwith beckoned. Stablegate was about to refuse but Samson, who had been sniffing further up the gallery, now made his appearance; he growled at the clerk who hastened to obey. Once they had gone, Athelstan beckoned Flinstead forward.
‘A clever murder, eh, master clerk?’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Oh, yes you do,’ Athelstan replied. He winked at Cranston who stood, wineskin in one hand, watching him intently. Athelstan took Flinstead by the arm and led him to the iron-studded door. ‘Now, sir, look at this: here’s a door to match all doors. Strongly hinged…’
Flinstead kept looking over his shoulder at the damage done to the far wall.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Athelstan declared. ‘This room had secrets, Master Flinstead. No hidden passageways or oubliettes but it did have secrets known only to Master Drayton and, of course, you and Stablegate.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Then let me explain. Drayton was a miser, a usurer, a hard taskmaster. He kept you under the whip. Most of his monies were kept out of this house well away from greedy fingers. However, you and Stablegate heard that the Lombards were bringing down a bag of silver, thousands of pounds. So you laid your plans. How could you murder Master Drayton and yet scream innocence of any crime? If you secretly filched it and Drayton lived, how far could you flee? If you openly stole it, and Drayton died, you’d be cast as outlaws who would never get as far as Dover. So you plotted very carefully. In the days before the arrival of the silver,’ Athelstan continued, walking to the door, ‘you worked at one of these bosses. The sharpened pieces face the outside but you noticed that the door’s one weakness is that these bosses are screwed in by clasps on the inside.’
Athelstan pointed to one just beneath the grille. ‘You worked at this. Whenever Drayton was away from his office, you strove to loosen the clasp on the inside. It wouldn’t take long. The clasp was loosened, the steel boss could be removed. You then cleaned it, coating it with oil so that it no longer stuck into the wood and could be moved in and out whenever you wished.’ Athelstan paused and stared into Flinstead’s face, white as a sheet and covered in a sheen of sweat. ‘Ah, Master Flinstead,’ he whispered, ‘I have the truth of it, your face tells me all.’
‘I, I…’ Flinstead stuttered. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Brother.’
‘Yes you do, you little pudding bag!’ Cranston hissed.
‘Now,’ Athelstan continued, ‘on the night in question everything was prepared. During the afternoon you removed the clasp from the inside. Drayton wouldn’t notice because the metal boss was still stuck in. In the evening, just before you left, the robbery took place. Drayton would not be expecting you. One of you came into this counting house, took the bags of silver, threatening Master Drayton with a knife, crossbow or whatever. Bloodthirsty threats, perhaps even promises to return. The robber then left. Drayton, all agitated, locks and bolts the door. He doesn’t raise the hue and cry: the robber might be waiting. He has lost his silver, he’s fearful lest he lose his life. Now, our criminal clerk has fled.’
Athelstan paused, then shut the door, drawing the bolts over. And this is where the horrible beauty of this crime occurs. The other clerk, pretending all innocence, comes hurrying down. “Master,” he would wail, “what is wrong?” Whatever he says he brings Drayton to the door and the grille is opened. Our poor miser thinks he is speaking to an innocent man who is loud in his condemnation of his criminous colleague. Drayton presses close to the door, full of concern…’
‘Wouldn’t he open the door?’ Flinstead interrupted.
Cranston came over, his wineskin in one hand. ‘Of course not, you little liar. Drayton had just been robbed, pushed back in his room. He wasn’t too sure what was happening. He’d do what any sane man would do, lock and bolt the door lest the outlaw return to kill him. Now he hears a tap on the door, cries of concern. Whatever has happened, Drayton knows he is safe as long as he doesn’t open that door.’
‘Which we shall now do,’ Athelstan declared.
He opened the door and beckoned Sir John to step outside. Then he closed the door and pulled down the grille, staring through it.
‘Drayton’s all anxious,’ he continued. ‘One of his clerks is a felon but the other is acting quite innocent. Drayton’s too astute to open the door but at least he’ll stand by the grille and gabble, perhaps ask him for help. What he fails to realise is that the clerk on the other side of the door has carefully and silently removed the metal boss. He’s also brought a small arbalest, the bolt already in the groove. Drayton has his body pressed against the door, there’s now a sizeable hole which exposes his body. The assassin on the other side of the door releases the catch, the bolt is fired. Drayton takes it in his chest and staggers back, falling to the ground. In his death throes he has only one thought, to reach the far wall, to seek forgiveness for another more ancient sin.’
Athelstan saw the puzzlement in Flinstead’s face. ‘Oh yes, sir,’ he went on, opening the door to let Sir John in and closing it behind him, ‘there’s more to this chamber than meets the eye. A place of evil but for you, sir, the perfect crime. The silver has gone. The door is locked and bolted, Drayton is dead within. Who can blame you? You place the metal boss back in the hole and rejoin your accomplice.’
Athelstan studied the door again. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he murmured. He opened the door, removed the boss, knelt down and peered through. ‘Even if Drayton had not come to the door,’ he sang out, ‘a crossbow, a small arbalest, could be used against him anywhere in his counting chamber.’
Flinstead wetted his lips.
‘Now, to perfect your crime,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you lock and bolt the front door then steal out through one of the windows, making sure no one sees you. After that, it’s heigh-ho to one of the taverns. The following morning you return to the house and make sure you are standing outside when Master Flaxwith makes his rounds. You are all concerned. Flaxwith, the honest bailiff, tries to assist. You explain what has happened and lead poor Flaxwith by the nose. You go round the outside of the house. You deliberately ignore the window through which you left the previous evening but, instead, break in through one properly secured.’
‘Once you were in the house,’ Cranston remarked, coming up and poking Flinstead in the chest, ‘you were safe. Flaxwith, all distracted, eager to find out what happened to Master Drayton, is brought down to the counting room. I am sure one of you slipped away and properly secured the window through which you left the night before, making it look as if the entire house had been properly secured and locked.’
‘Now we come to this door,’ Athelstan decalred. ‘Locked and bolted but with the grille down. Flaxwith knows it’s secure. He peers through the grille but, in the gloom, cannot see much. After a great deal of commotion the door is forced. Everyone throngs into the room. There’s no suspicion about the door, its locked and bolted and there’s a bloody corpse on the floor. While the bailiffs bustled around, you or Stablegate put the clasp back on the metal boss on the inside. It could be done in a few seconds: cleaned and greased the clasp can be spun on and, if necessary, tightened later. The perfect crime, eh, Master Flinstead?’