The Assassin's Riddle

CHAPTER 1

Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city of London, perched his portly frame on a stool, pushed back his beaver hat and mopped his red, glistening face. He would have loved to draw out the miraculous wineskin from beneath his cloak but he was not too sure about the mood of his secretarius, the Dominican, Brother Athelstan, who sat across the chamber. Athelstan was quiet, even more so than usual. His narrow, olive-skinned face under the black tonsured hair was impassive, his usually smiling eyes were now rather stern. He sat, hands up the sleeves of his white gown, chewing on the corner of his lip.

He doesn’t want to be here, Cranston thought. He wants to be back across the river at St Erconwald’s with his bloody parishioners. He studied his friend’s face carefully. Athelstan had not even had time to shave or break his fast. He’d just finished morning Mass when Cranston had called.

‘You’ve got to come, Brother,’ the coroner had insisted. He pointed to the huge tomcat which followed Athelstan in and out of church. ‘Leave Bonaventure to guard St Erconwald’s. Throw some hay at old Philomel. I want to reveal a mystery which will tax even your brain: it certainly baffles mine.’

Athelstan had followed quick and quiet. They strode across London Bridge up through the crowd to the house of the usurer, Bartholomew Drayton, in Ratcat Lane.

‘Tell us again.’ Cranston gestured at Henry Flaxwith, his principal bailiff.

The fellow breathed out noisily.

‘I know, I know,’ Cranston added sweetly. ‘But Brother Athelstan needs to be told all the facts. We could all be elsewhere. However, Drayton is murdered and a great deal of silver is gone.’

‘It’s like this, Sir John,’ Flaxwith began. ‘This morning, long before the bells for Matins rang, I and Samson…’

‘Bugger him!’ Cranston intervened. ‘I don’t want to hear about your bloody dog!’

‘I and my dog,’ Flaxwith continued remorselessly, ‘were doing my tour of duty. Now Samson,’ he winked at Athelstan, ‘now Samson,’ he intoned, ignoring Cranston’s sigh of exasperation, ‘always walks slowly, he likes to stop, sniff and cock his leg. I’d bought an eel pie because I hadn’t broken my fast Cranston closed his eyes. O God, give me patience, he prayed. Flaxwith was as lugubrious as he looked but he was honest and meticulous, with a sharp eye for detail.

‘I had just finished the pie,’ Flaxwith continued, ‘when we came into Ratcat Lane. Two young men, Drayton’s clerks, Philip Stablegate and James Flinstead, stood pounding on the door of their master’s house.’

‘These are the two lovelies upstairs?’

‘Precisely, Sir John. Anyway, I asked what the matter was.’ Flaxwith lifted his podgy face. ‘I really should see how Samson is doing…’

‘Samson’s fine,’ Cranston cooed. ‘I found a sausage in the scullery, he’s eating it as if there’s no tomorrow.’

‘Anyway, I ask them what the matter be. They told me they had rung the bell and pounded on the door but Master Drayton had not answered. Now, you have seen the front door, Sir John, thick as a Frenchman’s head. So we went round the outside. All the windows were boarded and shuttered up.’

‘Is there a back entrance?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, but the door’s like that at the front, hard as oak. We would have needed a siege machine from the Tower to break them both down.’

Cranston could stand it no longer but helped himself to a quick mouthful of claret from his wineskin. He offered it to Athelstan who just shook his head.

‘So, we break in. Master Philip climbs on Master James’s shoulders. He uses a knife and prises open the shutters. Behind them is one of those small gate windows. He breaks the glass and lifts the handle.’

‘You are sure of that?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Of course I am,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘You could see it yourself, the wood’s all broken, the bars scored. Indeed, it looks as if it hasn’t been opened for years. In gets Master Stablegate. He unbolts the front door, turns the lock and we enter the house.’

‘How was it?’ Cranston asked.

‘Dark as night. Smelly and musty. No candles, no torchlight.’ Flaxwith’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Quiet as a tomb, Sir John, it was.’

‘Go on!’ Cranston barked.

‘Well, all the rooms were empty. Just like this one.’

Athelstan broke from his reverie and stared round. He thought of the verse from the Gospels: What does it profit a man to gain the whole world if he suffers the loss of his immortal soul? Drayton, though one of the city’s principal moneylenders, must have also been a miser. The chamber was shabby, with only a few sticks of furniture, whilst the rushes on the floor looked as if they hadn’t been changed for years. The walls were greasy, the whitewash blotchy and peeling. Athelstan was sure he’d heard the squeak of rats along the passageway.

‘Am I going too fast?’ Flaxwith asked.

Cranston just smiled.

‘We reached the strongroom,’ the bailiff gabbled on. ‘We knocked and we knocked, fair to raise the dead. There was no sound.’

‘You checked the upstairs chambers?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, nothing, so we knew Master Drayton must be in his counting house. Now you’ve seen the door, Sir John, heavy oak, steel hinges, embossed with steel bolts on the outside. By now I was afeared. I went out to the street. I paid a penny to four dung-collectors to come in. We found a chopping block in the garden and used that to smash the door down.’

‘That would be impossible,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if you say the door was as heavy as it was?’

‘You are right, Father,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘But one of the dung-collectors had served as a soldier, knocking down doors in France. He told us to concentrate on the hinges, so we did. Fair smashed them loose and the door gave way. Inside we found Drayton on the floor. We haven’t moved the corpse, a crossbow bolt deep in his chest and the silver’s gone.’

‘How much silver?’

‘According to the ledger, at least five thousand good pounds sterling.’

Cranston whistled through his teeth. ‘Good Lord, what else have you learnt?’

‘Well, the two clerks, Stablegate and Flinstead, left the house, as they always did, just before Vespers last night. Once they had gone, Master Drayton locked and bolted the doors: that was well known, Sir John, he let no one in and no one ever came out.’

Athelstan rose and played with the wooden cross hanging on a cord round his neck.

‘So, Master Flaxwith.’ He smiled at the bailiff. ‘According to you, here is a man who bolted and locked himself in his treasure house but he never went out and would allow no one in. In the morning the doors and windows are still bolted and shuttered. Downstairs the strongroom is still locked and secure but, inside, our moneylender is dead and his silver gone.’

‘In a word, yes.’

‘And there are no secret entrances, passageways or postern gates?’

‘None whatsoever, Father. You’ve seen the house, it’s built of stone, one of the few houses round here that are: that’s why Drayton bought it.’

‘And the strongroom?’

‘See for yourself, Father,’ Flaxwith retorted. ‘It’s a square of stone. The ceilings are plaster but that’s unbroken, the walls are of pure stone as is the floor. If Drayton wanted fresh air he’d simply open the door. Father, I know house-breakers. They go through a window as quickly as a priest into a brothel…’ He abruptly stopped. ‘I mean a ferret down a hole: it would take a nightwalker hours to break into that strongroom.’

‘Then let’s see it.’

Flaxwith rose and led them out of the chamber. Cranston grasped Athelstan by the arm. ‘Brother, you are well?’

‘Why, of course, Sir John. Rather sleepy, I…’

‘You never slept last night, did you?’ Cranston accused. ‘You were on that tower studying your bloody stars again, weren’t you?’

Athelstan smiled apologetically. ‘Yes, Sir John, I was.’

‘It’s nothing else, is it?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean Father Prior has not written to you about relieving you of your duties at St Erconwald’s and sending you to the Halls of Oxford?’

Athelstan seized Cranston’s huge podgy hand and squeezed it. ‘Sir John, Father Prior asked me a month ago if I would like such a move. I replied I would not.’

Cranston hid his relief. He loved his wife, Lady Maude, his twin sons, the ‘poppets’, his dogs Gog and Magog, but especially this gentle friar with his sharp brain and dry sense of humour. Cranston had served as a soldier, as well as a coroner, for many a year. He’d met many men but, as he told the Lady Maude, ‘I can number my friends on one hand and still have enough fingers left to make a rude gesture at the Regent. Athelstan’s my friend.’ Cranston stared mournfully at the friar.

‘You won’t go to Oxford, will you, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John. I am going down to the strongroom.’

Athelstan stared round the paltry parlour. ‘This is a subtle murder, Sir John, but why are you here?’ He added, ‘Why are you so anxious about it?’

‘Drayton usually kept his money with the Lombards,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Frescobaldi and the Bardi brothers in Leadenhall Street. He drew most of it out: he was about to give our most noble Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, a loan of five thousand pounds silver.’

Athelstan sighed.

‘So you see, Brother, Gaunt couldn’t give a fig if Drayton is in heaven or hell. He wants that silver, particularly now as Drayton has no heirs and he won’t have to pay it back. He also wants the thief captured. As you know, my dear monk…’

‘Friar, Sir John!’

‘As you know, my dear friar, no one upsets our Regent and walks away scot-free.’ Cranston paused as he heard Flaxwith calling. ‘We’d best go, Brother.’

They went out into the passageway, dingy and gloomy, smelling of tallow fat, boiled oil and other unsavoury odours.

‘Flaxwith found the chamber pot upstairs full of stools,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Drayton was as dirty as he was mean.’

At the top of the steps Flaxwith was waiting with a cresset torch. ‘Sir John, what about Samson?’ the bailiff pleaded.

‘Bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘Henry, your dog will live for eternity, which is more than I can say for myself if we don’t get this silver back.’

Flaxwith shrugged and led them down the narrow stone steps. At the bottom, the huge door he had described was leaning against the wall. Flaxwith led them into the counting house and put the torch in a cresset holder.

Athelstan stared down at the corpse sprawled on the stone floor. A pool of blood had seeped out, and now ran in rivulets down the paving stones. He crouched down and stared pityingly at Drayton’s scrawny features: the eyes closed in death, the blood-encrusted mouth sagging. He felt the neck; the skin was cold and clammy. Athelstan closed his eyes; he prayed that Christ, in His infinite compassion, would have mercy on this man who had lived beneath his dignity and died like a dog. He turned the body over. Drayton was dressed in a shabby jerkin and hose. The battered boots looked rather pathetic on his spindly legs; he had no chain round his neck nor rings on his fingers. Athelstan wondered what pleasure this man had ever found in life.

‘Was he a bachelor?’ he asked.

‘He was married once,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘But many years ago, after the peace of Bretigny with France, his wife upped and left him. Who can blame her? He had no other family or kinsfolk.’

Athelstan examined the wound inflicted by the crossbow bolt: the quarrel had entered deep into Drayton’s skinny, narrow chest. He then sat back and studied the bloodstain further down the room near the door. He hitched his robe and edged along the paving stones.

‘What’s the matter, brother?’

Athelstan pointed to the doorway. ‘The blood begins at least a foot from that: this is where Drayton first fell.’ He turned and pointed to the far wall. ‘Now, here’s a man who is dying, the door is bolted and locked, yes?’

Flaxwith agreed.

‘Over there,’ Athelstan pointed, ‘is Drayton’s desk, the place where he did all his business. Where he’d sit and marvel at the wealth he had amassed.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But he doesn’t try and go towards the door or his desk but to the far wall. Why?’

He walked across and, pulling out his dagger, tapped at the whitewashed bricks. ‘They sound solid enough to me,’ he declared. ‘Listen, Athelstan.’

Cranston tapped the wall again, up and down; the only response was a dull thud. ‘There’s no secret passageway,’ he asserted, resheathing his dagger.

‘Perhaps Drayton was delirious?’ Flaxwith commented.

‘It does prove one thing,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘The door must have been still locked and bolted, otherwise the poor man would have crawled towards it.’ He got up, wiping his hand on the black mantle over his white robe. He stared round the chamber. ‘You are correct, Master Flaxwith, a square of pure stone and plaster.’

Athelstan walked around: there was the counting desk against one wall and a boxed chair with cushions. On the desk were weighing scales, scraps of parchment, quills, inkhorns and a coffer, its clasp broken. Athelstan studied this and realised it must have been so for years. Inside there was nothing but strips of wax and more quills. The rest of the room was bare and gaunt.

‘Not even a crucifix,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Drayton must have been a very close and narrow soul.’

For a while all three searched the square musty chamber.

‘Not even a rat could break in here,’ Cranston declared, mopping his brow and taking another swig from his miraculous wineskin.

‘Except through the door,’ Athelstan pronounced. ‘It’s time we examined it.’

They took the torch from the wall and scrutinised the door. Athelstan’s curiosity grew. The wood was at least nine inches thick, the hinges were of steel. He could tell from the three bolts and two locks, with keys still inside, that the door must have been secure when it was broken down. He studied the metal bosses. On the outside these were conical-shaped, fitting into the wood with a clasp on the inside. He felt some of these but they were all tightly secure. The only opening was a small grille high in the door, about six inches across and six inches high. He pulled at the wooden flap which covered it.

‘Was this up or down?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Flaxwith replied. ‘It’s hanging down now. Perhaps all the force we used knocked it loose?’

Athelstan stared at the small grille. It was broad enough for a man to see out but the bars were so close together it would be difficult to slip even a dagger through, let alone a crossbow bolt. Athelstan went back to the great steel bosses and began testing each of these.

‘What are you doing?’ Cranston asked curiously.

‘I want to see if any are loose,’ Athelstan replied. ‘They are fitted into the door by clasps.’

‘I did that myself,’ Flaxwith declared triumphantly. ‘Father, there’s none loose.’

And if there was,’ Cranston intervened, ‘surely it would have shaken free when Master Flaxwith and his colleagues were hammering at the door?’

Athelstan grudgingly conceded and scratched his head. ‘Therefore the problem still remains,’ he said. He walked back into the counting house. ‘Master Drayton would have his silver here, yes?’

Cranston agreed.

‘What puzzles me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is that the assassin had to kill our moneylender, take the money and escape. Yes? In the ordinary course of events the door should have been left open but, instead, Drayton is inside, the door barred and secured. So, if the robbers struck first and took the silver from the room, why is the door closed?’

And if it is closed,’ Cranston finished, ‘how did the robbers enter in the first place, kill Drayton, steal his silver and get out, leaving the door barred and locked from the inside?’

‘Precisely, Sir John, the perfect conundrum.’

‘What is more,’ Flaxwith added, ‘they not only stole the silver but also any loose coins. Moreover, Drayton’s clerks claim two silver candlesticks and a gold pendant are missing.’

Athelstan sat down on the stool and stared at the corpse.

‘How?’ he murmured. ‘In or out?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston took a swig from his wineskin.

‘Well, I can understand them killing Drayton and taking the silver but how did they get in and out? That door is better than a wall of steel. There are no gaps or breaks. If they’d approached the door, Drayton would have left the flap down. He was safe behind the grille. He would have refused to open the door. Now I could understand a man like Drayton letting in a clerk or a friend.’ He glanced at Flaxwith. ‘You are sure the key was in the lock, the bolts were drawn?’

‘It’s the first thing I checked,’ the bailiff retorted, jumping from foot to foot. ‘Oh please, Sir John, may I see my dog? Samson begins to pine if he’s away from me.’

‘Oh, go and see the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Give it my best regards!’

Flaxwith almost ran from the room.

‘And there’s another problem,’ Athelstan went on. ‘How did the assassin get in and out of the house without forcing a door or window?’

‘Bloody mysterious!’ Cranston took another slurp from the miraculous wineskin.

‘The clerks are still here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, Brother. They are waiting upstairs.’

They left the chamber and went up to meet them. Athelstan took an immediate dislike to Master Philip Stablegate and his colleague James Flinstead. Oh, they were pleasant enough. They rose politely as he entered. They were of personable appearance, hair neatly cropped, their faces clean-shaven and washed. They were dressed in sober apparel, dark tunics and hose. Stablegate was fair-haired, pleasant-faced, ever ready to smile. Flinstead was darker, rather dour. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt repelled. Clever men, he thought, full of mockery. Both clerks made little attempt to hide their amusement at what they considered the coroner’s antics. Cranston waved at them to sit down, then he helped Athelstan pull a rather shabby bench across to sit opposite them. Athelstan placed his writing bag between his sandalled feet and waited patiently as Sir John took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. The coroner closed his eyes and burped with pleasure. Stablegate dropped his head and sniggered. Cranston, wobbling on the bench, put the stopper back in. He must have caught the mockery.

‘You are Master Drayton’s clerks?’ he began harshly. ‘You were the last to see him alive?’

‘We left just before Vespers,’ Flinstead replied.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Athelstan asked.

‘Same as always,’ Flinstead said pointedly. ‘You are…?’

‘Brother Athelstan, priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’

‘And my secretarius,’ Cranston boomed.

‘Do you suspect us of this crime?’

‘Why should I?’ Athelstan replied.

Flinstead seemed a little nonplussed.

‘Please,’ Athelstan said. ‘Answer my question. What happened last night?’

‘We finished the day as usual,’ Stablegate answered. ‘We were in our writing office, a small chamber, no more than a garret, further down the passageway. Master Drayton came up as usual to usher us out. And before you ask, Brother, no, he didn’t trust us, he didn’t trust anyone. We went out into the street. Master Drayton bade us goodnight, as surly as ever. Then he slammed the door shut, we heard the bolts being drawn and the locks turned.’

‘And then what?’

‘As usual, we went drinking at the Dancing Pig, a tavern in St Martin’s Lane just near the Shambles.’

‘And after that?’

‘When the curfew bell rang from St Mary Le Bow, we left for our lodgings in Grubb Street off Cripplegate. We share a chamber there.’

‘Mistress Aldous, our landlady, will confirm that we came home much the worse for wear. We slept till dawn, rose and came back here.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The same as every morning, Father. We’d knock, pull the bell. Master Drayton would come shuffling down the passageway and let us in.’

‘But this morning was different?’

‘Yes it was, Father. We hammered and rang the bell to raise the dead.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Then Flaxwith came along. The rest you know.’

‘What do I know?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Well, we tried the shutters at the windows. The front and back doors were locked and barred as usual.’

‘And so you broke in?’

‘Yes,’ Stablegate replied. ‘I climbed on James’s shoulders.’

He tapped the hilt of his dagger. ‘I pushed this through a crack in the shutters and lifted the bar.’

Sir John was falling asleep now, head nodding forward, mouth open. Stablegate hid his smirk behind his hand.

‘In which case…’ Athelstan’s voice rose as he stood up.

Sir John, startled, also staggered to his feet. The coroner stood, feet apart, and blinked, breathing in noisily through his nose. He saw the two clerks laughing. Athelstan closed his eyes.

‘Do you find me amusing, sirs?’ Cranston’s hand fell to the dagger in his belt. He took a step forward, white moustache and whiskers bristling, fierce blue eyes popping. ‘Do you find old Jack amusing? Because my poppets woke me before dawn? And old Jack has had a few mouthfuls of wine? Now, let me tell you, sirs,’ he continued, breathing wine fumes into their now frightened faces. ‘Old Jack is not the fool he appears to be: “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick”. The poet was thinking of old Jack Cranston when he wrote that.’ He lifted a finger. ‘You say you live with Mistress Aldous in Grubb Street near Cripplegate?’

‘Yes,’ Flinstead replied, rather surprised that Sir John, who’d apparently been asleep, had still heard this.

‘I know Mistress Aldous,’ Cranston continued. ‘Five times she has appeared before my bench on charges of soliciting, of keeping a bawdyhouse, a molly shop.’

‘There’s no one there now,’ Stablegate retorted.

‘Just you two lovely boys and Mistress Aldous, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Now let me tell you,’ the coroner went on threateningly. ‘Don’t laugh at old Jack. A horrible murder has been done and the Crown’s silver has been stolen.’

‘We don’t know about that.’

‘No, boyo, you don’t. Five thousand pounds intended for the Regent’s coffers. Now it’s gone.’ Cranston brought a large paw down on each of their shoulders and made them wince. ‘Well, my lovelies, let’s see this bloody window.’

Athelstan, quietly pleased at Cranston’s assertion of his authority, abruptly turned at the door.

‘I am sorry.’ He came back. ‘You didn’t know Master Drayton had five thousand pounds in silver at his counting house?’

‘He’d never let us handle monies,’ Stablegate retorted. ‘It was one rule he always insisted on. We do know,’ Stablegate continued quickly, ‘that envoys from the Frescobaldi bank visited the house yesterday, though Master Drayton told us to stay in our chamber. He answered the door. We heard a murmur of voices and then they left.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘And what would happen then?’

‘If the bankers brought the money,’ Stablegate replied, ‘knowing Master Drayton, he’d count every coin, sign a receipt and keep the money in his strongroom.’

‘Did you like Master Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘No!’ They both answered together.

‘He was the devil’s own skinflint,’ Flinstead declared. ‘He made us work from dawn till dusk. At the Angelus time he’d give us some ale, bread and cheese, then it was back to work.’ He tugged at his tunic. At Christmas and Easter we’d get new robes and a silver piece at midsummer. He hardly spoke to us, only visiting us every so often, as quiet as a shadow, to make sure we weren’t wasting his time and money.’

‘Did he ever talk about friends or family?’

‘Never,’ Stablegate replied. ‘On one occasion I asked him if he had been married and he flew into a terrible rage.’

‘Then what?’

‘He went down the stairs, muttering to himself. We learnt our lesson: we never asked him again.’

‘We had no choice but to work for him,’ Flinstead added. ‘He’d often remind us that London was full of clerks seeking employment. Beggars have no choice, Father.’

Athelstan nodded and opened the door. ‘Then, sirs, let us see this window.’

The two clerks went out before him. They led them down the stairs. Flaxwith was at the bottom, stroking and talking softly to what Athelstan secretly considered the ugliest bull mastiff he’d ever clapped eyes on. As they passed, the dog lifted his head and growled.

‘Now, now,’ Flaxwith whispered. ‘You know Sir John loves you.’

‘I can’t stand the bloody animal!’ Cranston breathed. ‘He’s tried to have my leg on at least three occasions.’

The clerks led them into a small hall, full of jumble and clutter. The wooden wainscoting was cracked and covered in dust; the air stank of rotting rushes. The musicians’ gallery at the far end was beginning to sag, whilst huge cobwebs hung like banners in the corners. Rats squeaked and squealed in protest and slithered across the floor, angry at this intrusion. The room was dark except for the light which poured through the thrown-back shutters of a broken window.

Athelstan pulled across a stool, told Sir John to hold him steady and climbed up to examine the window. Even a cursory glance told him that the shutters had been forced, the bar gouged by a knife: the flyblown window had been cracked so that the clerk who had entered could put his hand in to pull up the handle of the square door window. Athelstan climbed down.

‘It’s as you say,’ he said. ‘Both window and shutter have been recently forced.’

‘I did that,’ Stablegate declared. His voice took on a desperate plea. ‘Sir John, Father, we know nothing of Bartholomew Drayton’s death or the theft of his silver.’

‘And you have nothing to add?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, Father, we have not.’

‘And what plans do you have for the future?’

Stablegate shrugged, then coughed at the dust swirling from the chamber. ‘Father, what can we do? It will be back to St Paul’s, walking in the middle aisle waiting for some rich merchant to hire us.’

‘Have you applied for any licence to travel either here or beyond the seas?’ Cranston asked.

He was not impressed by the puzzlement in their faces.

‘You know full well what I mean.’ He added, ‘Have you applied to the office of the Chancery of the Green Wax for permission to travel? Yes or no?’

‘No, Sir John.’

Cranston pushed his face closer. ‘Good,’ he purred. ‘Then keep it that way until this matter is finished. You are to stay in your lodgings. You are not to leave London without my written permission.’ He nodded. ‘You may go.’

The two clerks walked out of the room, slamming the door behind them, raising fresh puffs of dust.

‘What do you think, Brother?’ Cranston took the wineskin out. ‘Devil’s futtocks, this is a dry place!’

‘Every place is too dry for you, Sir John.’

Cranston winked, took a swig from the wineskin and patted his stomach. ‘It’s time we had refreshments, Brother, something to soak up the wine. You didn’t answer my questions.’

‘I think they are as guilty as Pilate and Herod,’ Athelstan replied. ‘In my view, Sir John, those two are evil young men who believed they have carried out the perfect crime.’ He sighed. ‘And they may well have.’

‘They killed Drayton?’ Cranston asked.

‘As God made little apples, Sir John, I believe they are guilty but how they did it is a mystery.’

‘Flaxwith!’ Cranston roared.

The bailiff hurried into the room, Samson trotting behind him, tongue hanging out. He took one look at Sir John’s juicy leg and would have launched himself forward. Flaxwith had the good sense to grab him by the leather collar and scoop him up into his arms.

‘Sir John, Samson and I are at your service.’

‘Bugger him!’ Cranston growled. ‘I want you to do three things. First, visit the bankers, the Frescobaldi, in Leaden-hall Street. Seek confirmation that they made a delivery of silver here yesterday. Secondly, go to my host at the Dancing Pig: did those two beauties spend last night there? Finally, I want them and their lodgings in Grubb Street watched; if they try to leave London arrest them!’

‘For what, Sir John?’

Cranston closed his eyes. ‘For cruelty to your dog.’