gesture of peace and stepped back. The friar sighed and made to go on.
‘Richard of Wallingford says something similar,’ he repeated. ‘He talks of black dogs roaming about at night with burning eyes and mangy coats. Every age,’ Athelstan continued, ‘has its own signs and wonders about the plague.’
‘I know,’ Cranston replied, eager to walk beside the pretty young Alison. ‘When I was a lad, knee-high to a cricket, my grandfather said the plague rode a black horse over London Bridge or floated down the Thames in a sombre barge.’
‘In Epping,’ Alison interrupted, ‘the peasants see the plague as a reaper who digs the earth with his scythe and lets out serpents, black blood and repulsive vermin. Last year, when the pestilence visited the town, a dismal wailing was heard from the cemetery. Some people saw ghosts dancing in the meadows. A taverner claimed he had seen thirty coffins in a neat line covered with black palls. On each stood a dark figure, a gleaming white cross in its hand.’
Athelstan stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘You are very knowledgeable, mistress. You know of Richard of Wallingford, astronomy, astrology, the Plague Virgin.’
‘My father schooled both myself and Edwin,’ she replied, a slight blush to her cheeks.
Athelstan grasped her fingers. ‘But you don’t study your horn book now?’
She smiled coquettishly and glanced at the friar from under lowering eyelashes.
‘No, Brother, I am a seamstress and a very good one.’ She came closer and kissed Athelstan gently on each cheek. ‘I thank you for your generosity and kindness, Brother. When Edwin is buried, and this is all finished, I shall fashion new altar clothes for your church.’
Athelstan saw Cranston grinning eagerly behind him, thoroughly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured and coughed in embarrassment. ‘But we really should move on, Sir John. Mistress Alison, there’s really no need for you to accompany us.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t care less about Peslep,’ she replied. ‘But I want to be there when you visit Edwin’s lodgings.’
They continued across the great open expanse of Smithfield. A water-tippler, who had drunk too deeply, staggered about, the buckets slung over his shoulder slopping out, much to the merriment of a group of ragged- arsed urchins.
Athelstan made for the looming mass of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. At first he thought the crowd assembled there was waiting to make their devotions at the tomb of the Blessed Rahere in the nearby priory or, perhaps, seeking sustenance from the hospital until a shriek of pain curdled his stomach.
‘Oh lord, no!’ Cranston whispered. ‘It’s branding day!’
Athelstan walked more quickly. ‘Don’t look,’ he whispered to Alison. ‘When you pass the door of the hospital, turn away.’
He pulled his cowl over his head, half closed his eyes and recited a prayer. Cranston, walking more leisurely behind, stared over the heads of the crowd to a small platform set up beside the hospital door. Beside it a line of felons from the Fleet and Newgate prisons waited to be branded: an ‘F’ for forger, a ‘B’ for the blasphemer, a ‘T’ for the twice-convicted thief. Pickpockets would have their ears clipped; whores, caught plying their trade within the city limits for the fourth time, had their noses slit. Some bore it stalwartly, others shrieked and protested, crashing their chains about as they were held down by burly city bailiffs.
‘Come, Sir John!’ Athelstan called over his shoulder. ‘This is no place for a lady’
‘It’s no place for anyone,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city…’ He stopped, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, in Caput Decimus, in chapter ten, “On the inflicting of petty punishments”, I argue that these brandings should be carried out in the prison yard.’
He opened his eyes but Athelstan and the young woman were now twenty paces ahead, going down Little Britain. Cranston hurried to catch them up. Athelstan paused to ask directions from a stallholder, then they continued on until he stopped before a four-storey, well-furnished mansion, which stood in its own small plot of land with an alleyway at either side. He brought the iron knocker down on the door. A young maid opened it, her face thin and white under a small mobcap. Her eyes rounded in fear as she looked at Brother Athelstan and then at the huge bulk of Sir John.
‘Did Luke Peslep live here?’ the coroner boomed.
‘Oh yes, your grace.’ The young maid bobbed and curtsied. ‘He has two chambers on the second floor.’
‘Two?’ Cranston murmured. ‘A wealthy man our clerk. Do you have a key?’
‘The master’s out,’ the maid replied. ‘But,’ she added hastily as Sir John drew his brows together, ‘I have a key here.’
She led them into a sweet-smelling passage, up the brightly polished oaken stairs and into a small recess. She inserted the key and flung open the door. Sir John, followed by Alison and Athelstan, entered.
The room was dark so the maid opened some shutters. As she did so, Cranston whistled and Athelstan exclaimed in surprise. Peslep’s lodgings were no paltry chamber but two rooms, a small parlour and a bedroom. As the maid lit candles and opened more windows, Athelstan could see that Peslep had lived a most luxurious life: damask hangings on the wall; a velvet cloth-of-gold bedspread; tables, chairs, stools and chests. On the far wall were two shelves, one with silver and pewter pots, the other with three books and a collection of rolled manuscripts. On the wall facing the bed hung a small tapestry depicting a scene from the Old Testament showing Delilah seducing Samson. Delilah wore hardly any clothing and stood in the most delightful poses.
‘Even the devil can quote scripture,’ Cranston whispered in Athelstan’s ear.
The young maid hurriedly left.
‘Come back!’ Athelstan called.
The young girl did so. Athelstan pointed to the key. ‘You know Master Peslep’s dead?’
She just stared blankly back.
‘We found no key on his corpse,’ Athelstan explained.
‘Oh,’ the young girl replied, ‘he always left it with me, sir, so I could clean the chamber.’
And he did so this morning?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And no one came here after he had left?’
‘No, sir, they didn’t,’ the maid replied. ‘But I saw Master Peslep go down the street. I was brushing the front step and, as I did so, I noticed someone else, another young man cloaked and cowled, spurs on his boots. He followed Master Peslep as if he’d been waiting for him.’
CHAPTER 4
‘Would you recognise him again?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh no, sir, just a glimpse then he was gone, Master Peslep with him.’
The young maid left. They went back to their searches. Alison seemed bored. She sat on a quilted cushion, tapping her foot as if impatient to be gone. At last Athelstan found the dead clerk’s writing box. It was locked, so Cranston prised the clasp loose with his dagger and emptied the contents on to the table. Prominent amongst them was a roll of parchment containing a list of riddles. Athelstan scrutinised this.
‘These clerks really love puzzles,’ he murmured.
‘It’s more than a game.’ Alison spoke up. ‘My brother was always talking about it, asking me to search for fresh ones.’
‘And the assassin knew that,’ Athelstan replied. He picked up a smaller scroll, undid it and whistled under his breath. ‘Sir John, look at this.’
Cranston grasped it and studied the list of figures.
‘It’s from Orifab, the goldsmiths in Cheapside,’ he muttered. He looked at the total at the bottom near the date, given some two weeks previously. ‘Master Peslep was a very rich man.’ he remarked. ‘So rich I wonder why he worked as a Chancery clerk.’
‘Many of them are from wealthy families,’ Alison intervened. She came across and peered over Sir John’s shoulder. ‘The younger sons of nobles,’ she continued. ‘Their elder brothers either inherited the estates or entered
