‘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.