been more accommodating, everything would have gone smoothly! Elflain loosened the collar of his shirt and cursed as he slipped on the offal dripping along the cobbles from the butcher’s stall. On the corner of an alleyway he turned and stared back: was anyone following him? The crowds milled about, grouping round the stalls, haggling with the traders. Elflain heaved a sigh and continued on his journey. When he glimpsed the front of Dame Broadsheet’s house he felt a glow of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach. He hurried along until he reached the door. Naturally, it was closed and bolted because Dame Broadsheet only had a licence to sell ale in the evening. Elflain groaned. There would be the usual tarrying as he explained to a suspicious porter who he was and why he had come. Dame Broadsheet was ever suspicious of some bailiff or tipstaff trapping her and bringing a charge against her of conducting a house of ill repute.
Elflain banged on the door. Silence. He knocked again.
‘Elflain!’
He turned and stared at the hooded, cowled figure which had appeared like a ghost behind him.
‘What the…?’ Elflain stepped forward but it was too late.
The catch of the small arbalest was sprung and the barbed bolt took him full in the heart, smashing through flesh and bone. The clerk staggered back against the door, writhing in pain. He glimpsed the cowled figure drop a small parchment scroll at his feet and then he died, even as the door swung open.
CHAPTER 8
When Sir John Cranston left Blackfriars, his stomach was full of capon pie but his mind was totally bemused by what he had read in the library. As he and Athelstan reached Ludgate, the coroner took his hat off and shook his head.
‘Heaven knows, Brother,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have seen villainy enough in the city: how quickly and easily people are gulled. But what I read there is beyond all human understanding.’ He ticked the points off on his podgy fingers. ‘A goblet in which wine miraculously appears. Statues which move and cry. A cloth which is supposed to have wiped Jesus Christ’s face suddenly becoming blood-soaked. A rock on which Jesus stood that glows in the dark. Straw from the manger at Bethlehem which smells of some heavenly perfume.’ He laughed. ‘And that’s before we get on to the people! Was there really a man in Salisbury who dressed in goatskin, ate ants and honey and pretended to be John the Baptist?’
‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The human mind is a great marvel, Sir John: people are only too quick to believe. Go into any great church. I know of at least ten which claim to have the arm of St Sebastian; five which contain the dorsal fin of the whale that swallowed Jonah.’ Athelstan’s smile faded. ‘But, there again, nothing about a crucifix which drips blood.’
‘Do you think it could be real?’ Cranston asked.
‘I’d love to believe it, Sir John, I really would. I’m no different from the rest of humankind. I have a hankering for signs and wonders, but there’s something…’ Athelstan chewed his lip. ‘I don’t trust Watkin and the same goes for Pike the ditcher. But, talking of trickery, Master Flaxwith and Laveck must have arrived at Drayton’s house. I am eager to learn what they may have discovered.’
They made their way through the crowds, Cranston, full of good humour as well as capon pie, doffing his cap to the ladies of the town and answering their witticisms like with like. When they arrived at Drayton’s house, the small, nut-brown carpenter Laveck had been very busy. The door had been gouged, rows of the great iron studs being removed. Flaxwith sat in a corner, one hand round the ever-vigilant Samson who licked his lips and growled when he saw Cranston.
‘Keep your dog under control,’ the coroner warned. ‘Now, Master Laveck, what have you found?’
‘At first nothing, Sir John. The hinges are sound, the keys and locks are good.’ The man’s bright eyes grinned up at the coroner towering above him. ‘Master Flaxwith,’ he continued, ‘told me what this was all about. I knew Drayton. He was a mean old bugger.’
‘Yes, yes, quite,’ the coroner replied. ‘But what have you found?’
‘Nothing much, Sir John.’ Laveck picked up one of the great iron studs which fitted into the outside of the door. ‘This was held in place by a huge screw on the inside. It’s been loosened.’
‘What do you mean, loosened?’ Cranston gazed threateningly at Flaxwith. ‘I thought you examined the door?’
‘No, no, let me explain,’ Laveck intervened quickly. He was eager to keep the goodwill of the bailiff who had assured him he would be paid good silver for this day’s work. ‘When this door was constructed, the carpenter gouged holes in the wood then inserted these great iron studs facing outwards. They are held in place by a clasp or screw on the inside.’
‘Why is that done?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I know.’ He smiled at Laveck. ‘You can see them on any strongroom door but why?’
‘Because if someone tried to break in, Brother, these iron bosses outside take the force, protect the wood they do. It’s very, very difficult to remove them but, in this case, one has been. Here, in the second row beneath the eye grille. What seems to have happened is this.’ Laveck shuffled sideways to give them full view of the door. ‘The clasp on the inside was loosened, the bolt taken out.’ Laveck held up one of the iron bosses. ‘Look at that, Sir John. Clean as a whistle. It’s been removed, polished and greased. This,’ he picked up another one, ‘is all dark around the edge. Now, from what I can gather, a bolt was removed and greased then put back in again.’ He shrugged. ‘Is that of any help?’ He picked up the clasp or screw. ‘This held it from the inside. Notice again.’ He held it up. ‘How the rim has also been cleaned and oiled. Very clever indeed!’
‘Anything else?’ Cranston asked.
Laveck shook his head. ‘Do we put it back?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston answered, glancing over his shoulder. Athelstan was lost in some reverie. ‘Is there anything else, Brother?’ he asked.
Athelstan was about to reply when there was a pounding on the stairs and Sir Lionel Havant came striding down the passageway.
‘Do you have the Regent’s silver yet, Sir John?’
‘No, I bloody well don’t! Surely you haven’t come down to ask me that?’
‘No, Sir John, I haven’t!’ The young knight slapped his leather gloves against his thigh. ‘His Grace the Regent is now more concerned about his clerks at the Chancery of the Green Wax. Another one has been killed, outside the house of Dame Broadsheet: a crossbow quarrel straight through his heart. According to the porter there was no one in the street, certainly no one from Dame Broadsheet’s. Elflain died immediately. He tried to speak but nothing came from his mouth except a stream of blood. Naturally, the Regent is anxious…’
‘Naturally,’ Cranston repeated.
‘Oh.’ Havant handed across a greasy piece of parchment. ‘This was found near the corpse.’
Cranston undid the scroll, read it and handed it to Athelstan.
‘My third is like Fate,’ the scrawling hand had written.
‘What does it mean?’ Havant asked.
‘Heaven knows.’
‘Well,’ the knight replied. ‘You know as much as I do. Elflain has been killed, a riddle left by his corpse. The Regent has lost another clerk, not to mention his silver. He is not in the best of moods, Sir John.’
‘In which case you’d best tell his Grace that at least we have something in common,’ Cranston snapped back.
Havant hurried off.
Athelstan told Laveck to put the bolts back, then he joined Sir John further down the passageway.
‘Four clerks dead,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Each with a riddle left by his corpse. My third is like Fate. ’ He paused. ‘No, that’s strange, isn’t it, Athelstan?’
‘Sir John?’
‘Well, four clerks have been killed; Chapler, Peslep, Ollerton and now Elflain. However, no riddle was left by Chapler’s corpse whilst the assassin apparently regards Elflain as his third not fourth victim.’
Athelstan tweaked the coroner’s cheek. ‘My Lord Coroner, like a swooping hawk! The poppets should be
