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?’
CHAPTER 12
Athelstan crossed himself and murmured a silent prayer, as he always did when he approached the main gateway of Newgate prison. He and Sir John had just forced themselves through the press as the crowd assembled for Hanging Day. Six footpads who had preyed upon travellers along the old Roman road were now being dispatched as quickly as rats by a farmer. Newgate was a foulsome, horrid place. Athelstan could never decide which was the more offensive, the filth and dirt in which the prisoners were kept or the fawning attitude of the jailers and bailiffs: these smiled falsely and wrung their hands whenever Cranston appeared. Sir John had his own thoughts on the matter: whenever he entered the prison, the coroner never drank, joked or bothered to pass the time with any of its officials.
‘If I had my way,’ he growled as they followed the jailer across the great cobbled yard to the cells, ‘I’d burn this place to the ground, rebuild a new prison and put it under the governance of a good soldier. I’d certainly put an end to that.’ Sir John pointed to an unfortunate who had refused to plead before the Justices; he was stripped, ready to be pressed under a heavy, oaken door until he agreed to plead either guilty or not guilty.
They left the yard and entered a mildewed corridor which ran past cells, veritable hellholes. The air was gloomy and the stench made Athelstan gag. Paltry sconce torches fought against the murky air and Athelstan tried to ignore the terrible din, the oaths, rantings and ravings of mad prisoners and the filthy abuse hurled at the jailer going ahead of them. They passed cell chambers; in one the corpses of executed felons lay like slabs of meat upon a butcher’s stall. These would be placed in iron cages and taken out to be gibbeted along the roads leading into London. In another the corpses of executed criminals who had been hanged, drawn and quartered were being boiled and pickled before being given a coat of tar and placed over the gates of the city.
‘Never come here!’ Cranston warned ‘This is truly the abomination of the desolation. Every time I do,’ he added in a whisper, ‘I pray God will send fire from heaven to consume the place.’
They entered a large room where bailiffs and beadles were drinking or playing checkers or hazard.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’ A pox-faced beadle, one eye hidden beneath a patch, waved them over. The man pointed to the chessboard. ‘Would you like a game, Sir John? King against king, bishop against bishop?’
Cranston shook his head. ‘Some other time and certainly not here.’
They were about to follow the jailer down another narrow passageway when Athelstan stopped.
‘Brother?’
‘Sir John, the first riddle about a king defeating his enemies but, when the battle is over, both victor and vanquished lying in the same place: it describes a game of chess.’
Cranston told the jailer to wait. ‘Of course!’ he breathed. ‘A game of chess! What does it prove, Brother?’
Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘I don’t know, Sir John. I think our assassin sees the murders as a game and, at the same time, is clearly proclaiming that he will play the game, even if he has to end up in the same place as the vanquished.’
‘And that’s the grave,’ Cranston replied. ‘It makes sense, Brother. If Alcest is our assassin, there’s no doubt that he’ll die as well.’
‘But why should Alcest be prepared to put his own life at stake?’
‘That I don’t know, Brother.’ They continued down the passageway until the jailer stopped at a door. ‘At the heart of Newgate, Sir John.’ His chapped, dirty face brightened with malicious glee. ‘The Vicar of Hell deserves the best and the best he will get.’
He unlocked the door, swung it open and, going inside, fixed the sconce torch into a rusting clasp on the wall. The Vicar of Hell sat on a pile of straw in the corner; his ankles and wrists were loaded with chains which were clasped to iron rings in the wall. His face was covered in dirt and a large bruise darkened his right cheek, yet he still smiled cheekily.
‘Sir John, I would rise and bow but…’ He spread his hands in a rattle of chains. ‘I suppose you’ve come to tell me that the Bishop of London has decided to reinstate me as a priest or the Regent has issued a pardon?’
‘You’ll hang, me bucko.’ Cranston stood over him. ‘Yet, when you’ve gone, I’ll miss you.’ He waited until the jailer closed the cell door behind him.
‘Am I going to hang?’ the Vicar asked softly and stared piteously at Athelstan. ‘So many psalms yet to be sung. So much claret to be drunk.’ He sighed. ‘There again, I’ve seen the days and all good things must come to an end.’
Cranston stepped back to lean against the wall. Athelstan went over to the door and stared through the grille; the jailer, eavesdropping on the other side, scampered off.
‘You are not a bad man,’ Cranston continued ‘Not a really wicked soul. You are a rogue born and bred. You are attracted to villainy as a cat to cream.’ He lifted a hand. ‘But I swear, I don’t wish to see you hang. Exiled from London, perhaps for two or three years.’ Sir John paused and scratched his chin.
The Vicar of Hell was now all attention. ‘And the terms, Sir John? What are the conditions?’
‘The clerks of the Green Wax.’
