The Assassin's Riddle

CHAPTER 11

Sir John and Athelstan stood in the parlour of Drayton’s house. The coroner kept looking over his shoulder, waiting for Flaxwith’s arrival.

‘Lesures is still hiding something,’ Athelstan remarked.

‘Oh, I am sure he is, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘Whichever way he jumps he’s in trouble. The Master of the Rolls is supposed to exercise better control over his clerks. A corrupt man,’ he continued. ‘Soft and treacherous. Lesures likes to have his cake and eat it. I intend to return to the matter in due course. Now, Brother, you have a solution to this matter?’

‘I think so, Sir John, but I am going to need the cooperation of our two clerks. Which of them do you think is the more amenable?’

Cranston pulled a face. ‘Stablegate’s as hard as steel.’

‘Then the stage is set,’ Athelstan rejoined. ‘Come on, Sir John, let’s walk on to it!’

They went down the gloomy passageway, the smell of mildew and corruption stronger than ever. Athelstan paused and stared into the darkness.

‘This is a cold and dismal place, Sir John. It reeks of evil. What will happen to this house when we are finished?’

‘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?’

‘This is ridiculous!’ he sputtered. ‘You can’t prove it!’

‘Oh, yes I can,’ Cranston retorted. ‘The carpenter who examined the door will swear how the metal boss beneath the grille has been loosened, removed, greased and reclasped. It’s the only solution, Master Flinstead. And, again, there’s no real mystery about how you left the house.’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin then stretched till his muscles cracked. ‘So, it’s Tyburn for you, my lad.’

‘A perfect crime,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You knew the silver was coming: you loosened the boss, you knew which one, eh? How many times have you and Stablegate seen your master peer through the grille?’

Flinstead just shook his head.

‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘something might have gone wrong. However, your master had no kith or kin, you had all night, and some of the next day, to put it right.’ He shrugged. ‘Or even flee. As it was you committed a crime which you thought no one could lay against you. Well, at least till now.’

Flinstead slid down the wall, putting his arms across his chest as if feeling a draught of icy air. Cranston crouched dwon beside him.

‘Do you want a drink, lad? It will warm your belly and feed your wits.’

Flinstead shook his head.

‘Now for robbery and murder,’ Cranston spoke quietly as if discussing the weather, ‘you just hang. But the silver you stole belonged to the Regent. His Grace John, Duke of Lancaster. That’s treason. So it will be no quick death. The executioner will wait until you are half dead, then cut you down from the gallows, slice your body from neck to crotch and pull your heart and entrails so you see them before your eyes close. Afterwards, he’ll cut you up like a butcher does collops of meat. Your head will be fixed over London Bridge. Your quarters? Well, heaven knows where they will go. One to Temple Bar, perhaps the rest to the ports, Dover and Southampton, all nicely pickled in a bucket.’

Flinstead’s head sagged.

‘Take him out!’ Athelstan declared. ‘Sir John, put him in another room in the house. Well away from Stablegate.’ He winked. ‘Haven’t you read the Book of Daniel, Sir John?’

Cranston caught his drift. He hauled Flinstead to his feet and pushed him out of the counting house. Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. He felt excited yet cold, as he always did when he trapped a murderer. Excited because he had resolved the mystery, cold at the terrible evil he had witnessed. On the one hand, Drayton’s blood cried to heaven for vengeance but, on the other, Athelstan knew that Cranston’s words were no empty threat. Flinstead would stand before King’s Bench, the Justices would convict and the young clerk would suffer a horrifying sentence. Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘O Lord,’ he prayed quietely, ‘don’t hold their blood to my account. You, the searcher of hearts, know that I am innocent of any desire for their lives.’

He opened his eyes as Cranston pushed the arrogant Stablegate into the room.

‘Sir John, what is this?’ the clerk protested.

‘Shut up!’ the coroner bawled. He pointed to a stool. ‘Sit down!’ Cranston came across to Athelstan, his face red with excitement, whiskers positively bristling, blue eyes popping ‘What now, my little monk?’ he whispered.

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘Bugger that! Are you going to tell him the same story?’

Athelstan plucked Cranston by the sleeve and, looking round the portly coroner, stared at Stablegate. The young man gazed flint-eyed back.

‘Have you ever been in the presence of a demon, Sir John?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Well, if not, count this the first time. Stablegate will tell us nothing.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Silence, Sir John.’

Both the coroner and Brother Athelstan waited. Now and again the friar would walk towards the door and ostentatiously begin to undo the clasp. He glanced over his shoulder at Stablegate who just watched him, narrow-eyed.

‘What am I doing here?’ the clerk protested. ‘Sir John, if you are to arrest me then swear out the warrants. If not, let me go.’

Athelstan screwed the clasp back on more tightly. ‘Is this some game?’ Stablegate scoffed.

He froze as Sir John abruptly whipped out his broad stabbing dirk, walked across and grabbed him by the hair, pressing the dagger into the soft desk of his neck.

‘In my long eventful life,’ the coroner rasped, ‘I have killed good men. God be my witness, I am sorry, but I took their lives in battle. They were warriors. They fought for what was right as I did. I regret every spot of blood I have split. Each day I pray for their souls. I have given money to the almshouses but you, sir, are nothing but a bag of corruption, a thief, a swindler, a murderer, a lying toad from hell!’

Stablegate remained unabashed Athelstan secretly marvelled at the iron-hard malice of the man.

‘Cut me or cut me free,’ Stablegate retorted.

‘Oh, I’ll cut,’ Sir John breathed, resheathing his dagger. ‘A thousand cuts and a thousand more. Brother, how long do I have to have the stench of this turd in my nostrils?’

‘Take him away now,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Put him back with Master Flaxwith and bring Flinstead here.’

Sir John pulled the clerk to his feet and pushed him out. Flinstead returned drying the tears on his cheeks. Athelstan waved him to the stool.

‘You may well weep, sir,’ he began. ‘I have sung the same song to Master Stablegate as I did to you.’

Flinstead glanced up.

‘He’s confessed, you know. He claims that he stole the silver but you killed Drayton.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Flinstead screamed, jumping to his feet. ‘It was Stablegate! His idea from the start! When Drayton used to keep us waiting outside, Stablegate would study that bloody door. At night, in the tavern, he developed his scheme. It took a week to loosen that boss: I would take the accounts into Drayton and distract him whilst Stablegate worked on the clasp.’ Flinstead held up his hands. ‘God be my witness, I stole the silver. I told Drayton I had knocked Stablegate unconscious and that there were footpads in the house who were bent on slitting his throat. I ran down the passageway with the silver. Drayton locked the door and began screaming. Stablegate then went back. He was pretending to be hurt. “Master,” he croaked I heard him whilst waiting in the shadows. “Master, Flinstead has struck me! It is me. Master, look!”’

‘Was it dark in the passageway?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes. Stablegate had removed the boss. He then loosed the crossbow.’ Flinstead shrugged. ‘The rest is as you described. We went out of a window which we carefully closed behind us. Stablegate insisted that we spend the evening being well seen by other people. The next morning we came back. We knew Flaxwith would be doing his usual rounds. We broke in through a window and while Stablegate took him down to the strongroom, I locked the shutters we had opened the night before.’

‘And then Master Flaxwith organised the door being broken down?’

Flinstead nodded.

‘And Stablegate secured the boss he’d removed the previous night,’ Athelstan added. ‘He’d coated it with a glue so that when the door was broken down it held fast and, in the confusion, one of you simply replaced the clasp on the inside.’

‘Yes,’ Flinstead moaned. ‘We practised it so many times. Stablegate even had a piece of wood made containing a boss and clasp. He showed me how it could be done: a crossbow bolt is only an inch across, the hole is at least twice that. He said Drayton would come to the grille; at such a close distance, any wound would kill. Drayton would be dead by morning…’ His voice trailed off.

‘And the silver?’

Flinstead slumped down on the stool. ‘Sir John, I don’t know. Stablegate took it off me. He says he’s hidden it.’

‘Do you know where?’

Flinstead shook his head. ‘Heaven be my witness, Sir John, I was so agitated, so nervous after…’

‘Drayton had been murdered.’ Athelstan finished his sentence.

‘Well?’ Cranston asked ‘Surely you must know? You are his companion in crime.’

‘Stablegate said that he didn’t fully trust me. I was too nervous but at the right time we’d take the silver with us.’

‘Where did you plan to go?’

‘Stablegate was sure that, although we might be suspected, nothing could be proved. We’d leave the country, go across the Narrow Seas.’

‘Ah.’ Athelstan sighed and crouched down beside the young man. ‘Listen, look up!’

Flinstead lifted his head.

‘You may be nervous,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But you are also a killer. You slew a man in cold blood and stole what was not yours. Stablegate was right. It would be very hard to prove that you were the killers. It would have remained a mystery if it hadn’t been for that door.’

‘Come to the point, Brother!’ Cranston snapped, standing behind him. ‘The day is long and we have other business to do.’

‘Oh, Flinstead knows my point,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Much suspected, nothing proven, eh? But you know, Sir John, any attempt by these two lovelies to leave the kingdom, particularly if they were suspected of stealing so much silver, would have been carefully scrutinised. You need a licence to go beyond the seas. That’s why Alcest, the clerk from the Chancery of the Green Wax, came down here, wasn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ Flinstead mumbled. ‘Stablegate said he would take care of that.’

Athelstan tapped him under the chin. ‘Oh, I am sure he would, Master Flinstead, he would have also taken care of you. A knife in the back and another corpse is pulled from the Thames, eh?’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘I think it’s time for Stablegate.’

The second clerk had hardly entered the room when he looked at Flinstead and realised what had happened.

‘You snivelling bastard! You caitiff! They have trapped you, haven’t they? I told them nothing.’

He would have lunged at Flinstead if Flaxwith, standing behind had not given him a firm rap across the shoulder with his cudgel. Stablegate, wincing with pain, fell to one knee. Flaxwith dragged him back to his feet; nevertheless, the clerk was still defiant.

‘You fat, red-faced bastard!’ he sneered at Cranston. ‘You and your little mouse of a friar. Well. I don’t mind. Drayton was a hard-nosed, avaricious bag of turds. Life is hard. It’s only a short dance at Tyburn.’ His face became contorted with rage. ‘As long as Flinstead dies beside me, I couldn’t give a fig!’ He shook his fist at Cranston. ‘You can tell that to the bloody Regent! He’ll never get his silver!’ Stablegate stopped and smiled maliciously. ‘Of course…’ His voice had fallen to a whisper.

‘Where’s the silver?’ Cranston took a step closer. He took his dagger out and pressed the tip into Stablegate’s chin.

Stablegate stretched out his hands. ‘What is it, Cranston? A journey downriver to the Tower? The King’s torturers? Do you think I’d give up the silver then? And if I die, what will His Grace the Regent say to that eh?’

‘You are an evil young man,’ Athelstan accused.

‘Piss off, priest! Sir John knows what I’m talking about. Don’t you realise, Flinstead,’ he raised his voice, ‘there’s hope yet. Now you can see why I hid the silver. You’d have blabbed all.’

‘What do you want?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sanctuary,’ Stablegate demanded. ‘Sanctuary for me and Flinstead The right to Bee to Mary Le Bow. We’ll stay there forty days.’

‘And then you’ll abjure the realm,’ Cranston said. ‘You’ll be taken to the nearest port, thrown on the first available ship and if you set foot in England again, you’ll hang.’ Cranston rubbed his chin. ‘The Crown will post a reward on your heads,’ he added. ‘One hundred pounds dead or alive. You can beg, across the Narrow Seas, but set foot in any English port and every harbour reeve looking for a quick profit will have your name and description.’

Cranston took Stablegate by the arm and marched him across to the counting desk. ‘Sit there,’ he said. ‘Take a quill.’ He pointed to a scrap of parchment. ‘Write down where you have hidden the silver. Then both of you can flee. Don’t be stupid! Don’t try and get beyond the city walls. We’ll ride you down. Flaxwith here will ensure you take sanctuary in St Mary Le Bow.’

Stablegate struggled but Cranston’s grip was vicelike. ‘You are a horrible young man,’ the coroner snarled. ‘And if that silver isn’t where you say it is, I’ll go across and, sanctuary or not, I’ll pull both of you out and watch you hang, be disembowelled and quartered! I’ll even do it myself!’

Stablegate sat down. Sir John moved away. The room fell quiet except for the squeaking of Stablegate’s quill.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Cranston called out. ‘If anything happens to Flinstead before you leave England, you will have violated the law of sanctuary and you can be killed on the spot.’

‘As the Book of Ecclesiastes says, Sir John,’ Stablegate scoffed over his shoulder, ‘there’s a season and a time under heaven for everything.’

‘And the clerks of the Green Wax?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What business did you have with Alcest?’

‘Safe passage from the kingdom, but ask him yourself!’

Stablegate got to his feet, the parchment now crumpled into a ball. ‘I have your word, Cranston?’

‘You have my word. Drop that parchment on the floor. You and Flinstead can flee. Flaxwith will follow.’

Stablegate threw the parchment on to the ground. He made a rude gesture at Sir John and ran for the door; Flinstead needed no second bidding but followed. The coroner and the friar stood and listened to their feet pounding down the passageway, the front door being opened and slammed shut behind them.

‘Is that just?’ Flaxwith asked.

Cranston grinned evilly.

‘You can’t break your word, Sir John.’ Flaxwith’s eyes rounded in alarm. ‘Holy Mother Church is most zealous about the law of sanctuary.’

Sir John picked up the parchment and tossed it from one hand to the other. ‘Oh, they can stay forty days in St Mary Le Bow on bread and water. Then I’ll have the two bastards marched down into Queenshithe. Now, Henry, you may think I’m a bastard but I have a friend, Otto Grandessen, half merchant, half pirate, a real bastard. Otto owns a cog which does business in the Middle Seas, sailing to Aleppo and Damascus. He’ll take those two beauties aboard. By the time Otto’s finished with them, they’ll wish they had died at Tyburn. He’ll put them ashore at Palestine. There’s not much mischief they can do in the desert surrounded by Saracens who would love to take their heads.’ Cranston opened the piece of parchment. ‘Go on, Henry, make sum where they have gone.’

The bailiff hurried off.

‘Well?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The insolent…!’ Cranston looked up ‘Oh, he’s told us where the money is: they never took it out of the house. It’s buried in the cellar.’

Athelstan made to follow him out but the coroner waved him away. ‘No, sit there, Brother, I’ll find the bloody silver! If I know this house correctly, the floor will be beaten earth. When Henry comes back, tell him to join me.’

Cranston marched off Athelstan sat down. He felt pleased: Stablegate and Flinstead were evil men. Whatever Drayton’s crimes, he died a miserable death and Sir Johns agreement to the criminals was more than just. Athelstan leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt a small glow of satisfaction and realised that, in their own way, he and the coroner had done God’s work, as necessary and demanding as preaching and ministering to the parishioners of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan’s eyes flew open. Any feeling of goodwill disappeared as he recalled Watkin marching up and down.

‘God knows what trickery they are up to,’ Athelstan declared. ‘But how and why?’

‘I beg your pardon, Brother?’

Flaxwith stood in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry, Henry, I’m just speaking to myself. Our two felons?’

‘Headed into the porch of St Mary Le Bow like rats down a hole’

‘Good. Sir John wants you in the cellar.’ Athelstan smiled ‘Yes, that’s where they hid the silver. Stablegate must have put it there, planning to return at his own convenience. You’d best hurry.’

Athelstan cocked an ear at the string of colourful oaths he could hear from below. Flaxwith left and, for a while, Athelstan wondered how he could deal with the miraculous cross of St Erconwald’s. He thought of Alison. She must be allowed to leave soon, Athelstan concluded: Sir John could not keep her here for ever. His mind wandered further: he recalled what Stablegate had said about the clerks of the Green Wax. Athelstan was now certain that Alcest, his companions and possibly Chapler had been involved in some subtle trickery, forging licences and letters. A very serious crime: the Vicar of Hell would have known about it, any wolfshead or outlaw who needed a letter or an official writ would pay a heavy price. Alcest probably had a forged seal. Lesures might well suspect it but because of Alcest’s blackmail he dared not investigate or protest. But why the killings? Athelstan scuffed at the floor with the toe of his sandal. All the clerks involved had died grisly deaths, starting with Chapler. Was it a question of thieves falling out? Had Alcest become greedy and decided to keep their ill-gotten wealth for himself? He heard Cranston’s voice in the corridor. The coroner, specks of dirt on his robe, strode into the counting room with two mud-covered sacks which jingled as he shook them.

‘To those who knock, it shall be opened, those who seek shall find.’

‘The Regent’s silver?’

‘Precisely. Those impertinent villains had buried it deep beneath an old chest. Do you know who found it?’ Cranston shook the sacks as if they were bells. ‘Samson, he started sniffing and scuffling…’

‘That’s why I have him,’ Flaxwith announced proudly, coming in with the other valuables. ‘Now, Sir John, surely the dog deserves a small stipend, or a juicy bone or a piece of meat?’

Cranston thrust the sacks into Flaxwith’s already laden arms. ‘The Corporation hires donkeys so why not dogs, eh, Henry?’

The bailiff looked puzzled. Cranston crouched down and patted the dog on his head Athelstan was sure that, if dogs could smile, Samson did.

‘Right!’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘Henry, get your burly boys and take that silver, the gold pieces and the candlesticks down to the Bardi in Leadenhall Street. Tell them Sir John has sent it. They are to count it, weigh it and send it under guard to the Regent at the Savoy Palace.’ He pointed to the seals round the necks of the grubby sacks. ‘It’s all there and don’t worry, the Bardi wouldn’t dream of stealing a penny from John of Gaunt. Then go to the Guildhall, draw on the common purse.’ He clapped the bailiff on the shoulder. ‘You may take Samson to the Holy Lamb of God,’ he added in a reverential whisper. ‘And ask that good alewife for two blackjacks of ale and an onion pie for yourself as well as a nice piece of goose for the dog. I’ll pay.’

Cranston watched as Flaxwith strode down the corridor as if he had just been anointed whilst Samson, who’d paused to cock his leg, wobbled behind as pompously as any Justice at Westminster.

‘There goes a satisfied man,’ Cranston murmured ‘Well, Brother, where to now? A word with Master Alcest?’

‘In time, Sir John. However, I believe the Vicar of Hell might be partial to one of your agreements, so a visit to Newgate wouldn’t be out of order.’

‘It’s Hanging Day there,’ Cranston warned darkly.

‘Good,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It will help concentrate the Vicar’s mind, won’t it?’

‘You think Alcest is the assassin, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Sir John, I do. I believe he definitely killed Chapler, then, for his own obvious reasons, turned on his companions in crime.’

He and Sir John walked down the corridor and out of the house. Athelstan slammed the door and, stepping back, looked up at the dirt-covered windows.

‘Avaritia, radix malorum, Sir John: the love of riches is the root of all evil. Or is it?’ he added as if to himself. ‘And is it the case now?’