‘Goodmorrow, sirs!’
‘Master Colebrooke, isn’t it?’ Athelstan asked, going forward to shake the man’s hand.
‘The same, now Constable of the Tower.’ Gilbert Colebrooke preened himself. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘Alcest,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Clerk of the Chancery of the Green Wax. He came here seeking shelter.’
‘Oh yes, so he did.’ Colebrooke scratched his chin. ‘In a fair fright he was, demanding all his rights. I gave him a chamber high in the Wakefield. What’s this all about, Sir John?’
‘Look, sir, you know better than to ask and I’m too astute to tell. I want to see him now!’
Colebrooke pulled a face. ‘Sir John, you know the rules of war. The Tower is under my direct authority. Any royal official who shelters here has my protection.’
‘Of course, Master Gilbert, you can be present when we question him.’ Cranston smiled. ‘I still want to see him now. Or I can take a barge down to the Savoy Palace and tell His Grace the Regent that I am unable to carry out his commands, at least at the Tower.’
Colebrooke almost ran from the hall. He returned a short while later, Alcest trailing behind, and led Sir John and Athelstan down a corridor into a small, whitewashed room. Athelstan studied Alcest closely. The clerk was dirty and dishevelled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept, whilst a muscle high in his right cheek kept twitching. Cranston waved him to a stool whilst Colebrooke slammed the door and stood with his back to it.
‘You find it restful here, Master Alcest?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes.’ The young man rubbed his eyes.
‘You came here late last night?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I had to collect my belongings but, yes, I came just before the gates were closed.’
‘Did you go to Southwark?’
Alcest shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I don’t know,’ Alcest mumbled.
‘Neither do we,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Because, sir, you are a liar. Your paramour, Clarice, tells us that on the night Chapler was killed you were not asleep with her all night but left and came back.’
‘I…’
‘What?’ Athelstan declared. ‘Are you going to confess that you put a sleeping potion into her wine which she did not drink? Quick of wit and sharp of eye is Mistress Clarice. Where did you go?’
Alcest licked his lips. He glanced furtively around as if seeking some bolt-hole.
‘Where did you go?’ Cranston demanded.
‘I returned to my own lodgings. I forgot the silver. I needed to pay Mistress Broadsheet’s girls.’
‘You are a liar,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You slipped along the alleyways to London Bridge. Chapler was well known for going to the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Lonely and deserted after dark, you went there, struck him on the head, pulled his corpse round to the rail and tossed it over, as easy as a leaf falling from a tree.’
Alcest’s hands went to his face, his legs began to shake.
‘You killed Edwin Chapler,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘because Chapler was a man of integrity. He knew about your subtle schemes, the issuing of licences and warrants to the villains and rogues of London’s underworld. The use of false names…’
‘Are you going to deny it?’ Cranston asked. ‘There are those like Stablegate and Flinstead who are more than prepared to buy their lives by sending you to the gallows.’
‘Where is the money?’ Athelstan asked. ‘The vast profits you and the others made. Collected together, is it in one account? With which goldsmith?’
Alcest swallowed hard.
‘When Sir John and I began our inquiries into this matter,’ Athelstan continued, ‘your companions panicked, didn’t they? Was that what you intended? Did you make the rest hand over their monies to you for safekeeping? Did you object to sharing out your ill-gotten gains and that’s why you plotted to kill them all?’
‘No, no!’ Alcest moaned.
‘I believe you did,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You are like Stablegate and Flinstead who wanted to get forged licences and letters from you. You are consumed by avarice; the pleasures of the belly and the crotch are your only guiding lights, yet you wanted more.’
‘But the riddles,’ Alcest wailed. ‘I wouldn’t leave riddles!’
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Athelstan replied. ‘I thought you were skilled in the art of the riddle. Moreover, Master Alcest, look at the way these young men died. Peslep sitting on a jakes with his hose about his ankles.’ Athelstan paused and stared at the light streaming through the arrow-slit window. Had he said something wrong?
‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes,’ Athelstan faltered. He didn’t feel so sure any more. ‘You followed Peslep to that tavern because you knew he went there every day. The same applies to the other murders. You knew their habits, their lifestyle. Did you send Napham back to his lodgings?’
‘Well, no, he wanted to go…’
‘Didn’t you arrange to meet him before coming to the Tower?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Or did you already know that Napham was going to walk into his chamber and have half his foot taken off by a caltrop? Were you busy in Southwark trying to terrify Mistress Alison, Chapler’s sister? You act like a court fop,’ Athelstan continued, ‘wearing your cloak and spurred boots.’
Alcest put his arms across his chest and began to rock gently backwards and forwards on the stool.
‘You do dress like that, don’t you?’
Alcest nodded.
‘So why did you stop?’ Cranston asked.
‘I became frightened,’ the clerk said. ‘When I heard that Peslep had been killed by a man wearing spurs on his boots…’
‘So easy, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘The poison in Ollerton’s cup just as you tried to poison Chapler.’
Alcest lifted his head.
‘Oh yes.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We know about that. Did Elflain tell you he was going to visit Dame Broadsheet? What next? Were you going to arrange some attack on yourself from which you would escape?’
‘I’m no murderer!’ Alcest retorted defiantly.
‘You are a thief,’ Cranston intervened. ‘You are a felon and an assassin. Master Alcest,’ the coroner intoned, ‘I arrest you for petty treason, homicide, theft, sustaining and nourishing known outlaws and wolfsheads.’ He walked over and, crouching down, stared into Alcest’s face. ‘I shall tell you something, Master Alcest: you will weep and bitterly regret entering this narrow place.’ He winked at Athelstan. ‘It was a mistake, wasn’t it, Master Colebrooke?’ Cranston asked, turning to the Constable.
Athelstan did not like the sneer on Colebrooke’s face: he was staring at Alcest as a cat would a mouse. The Constable came forward.
‘Master Alcest,’ he declared. ‘You are now my prisoner. You fled to the Tower and in the Tower you shall remain.’
‘You see,’ Cranston explained as Colebrooke dragged Alcest to his feet. ‘According to ancient law and customs, a felon can receive sanctuary in a church but, if he is found in the royal presence, be it Westminster, Eltham, Sheen or the Tower, he can be arrested and summarily tortured. Master Colebrooke here will help you remember.’
The Constable was already dragging Alcest to the door, shouting for guards. Within a few minutes the hapless clerk had been bundled out of the room, Colebrooke ordering him to be taken to the dungeons.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He’ll not confess,’ Cranston replied. ‘And we have to be careful, Brother. If Alcest left the Tower, he might flee to a church, seek sanctuary and, as a royal clerk, claim benefit of clergy.’
‘In which case,’ Colebrooke continued, ‘he would demand to be tried by the Church courts. Brother Athelstan, I am afraid you have no choice in the matter. Sir John mentioned the Regent. He will insist that Alcest be closely questioned.’