‘I don’t think so,’ Cranston replied.
‘Sir John?’
‘The deaths of the clerks are important, Brother, but the Regent is breathing down my neck. I want to go back to Drayton’s house. I want to search that counting house from top to bottom.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘we are in the city now. Chancery Lane is not far away. Drayton’s murder is due to a subtle mind rather than some secret passageway. Moreover,’ he pulled the scrap of parchment out of his purse, ‘why should these riddles be left? What message did the assassin intend to leave? I believe, Sir John, that Peslep and Chapler were killed by one of their number, another clerk. So arise, Sir John, it’s not yet noon.’
Cranston grudgingly conceded, hiding his bitter disappointment at not being able to buy a juicy meat pie in the Holy Lamb of God. They left the Ink and Pot, Cranston barking orders at the landlord about Peslep’s corpse, and made their way up Cheapside, past the Shambles, the noisy meat market outside Newgate prison, then into Holborn Street. For a while they had to pause: a travelling troupe of players had attracted the crowds, those who loafed about the streets or sprawled on church steps. Anyone who had a measure of free time had flocked on to a piece of nearby wasteland to watch the somersaulting, fire-sprouting, rope-dancing guild of entertainers and jugglers. Garishly dressed whores had also clustered around and, as Sir John Cranston was recognised, the occasional catcall was heard, but the braggart boys, cardsharpers and pickpockets stayed well away from him.
At last Sir John, shouting and waving his hamlike fists, forced a way through. They passed the Bishop of Ely’s inn and entered the lawyers’ quarter, thronged with soberly dressed men in fur-edged robes, clerks and scriveners in dull browns and greens. They turned into Chancery Lane and Cranston stopped before a large, mouldering four-storey house. The windows were dusty, the plaster and woodwork fading and crumbling.
‘It’s been like this,’ Cranston remarked, bringing down the iron knocker in the shape of a quill, ‘since I was a boy’ He wagged a finger at Athelstan. ‘A veritable house of secrets.’
He was about to continue when the door swung open. The man who greeted them was dressed, despite the heat, in a fur-edged robe stretching from neck to slippered feet. In one hand he held an eyeglass, in the other a quill; inkstains covered his fingers. He was balding, with a grey seamed face; his eyes were bright, his nose sharp and pointed like a quill. Bloodless lips puckered in irritation at being disturbed.
‘What business, sirs?’ He scratched his scrawny neck.
‘King’s business,’ Cranston replied, pushing him aside.
‘Well I never, I beg your pardon, sir.’ The man grasped Cranston’s arm.
‘Who are you?’ the coroner barked.
Tibault Lesures, Master of the Rolls. How dare you…?’
Cranston gripped his hand. ‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city here on the express orders of the Regent. This monk is Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s and my secretarius.’
‘Then why didn’t you say that in the first place? Lesures’ head came forward like that of an angry chicken. He plucked at the cambric belt round his waist and smiled at Athelstan. ‘You are here about the murders?’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Two young men killed in their prime. Violent times, Father! Satan is always an assassin and there are more sons of Cain than there are of Abel. Ah well, come on.’
He led them along a gloomy passageway, past chambers where scribes and scriveners scratched away, copying or preparing rough drafts of documents.
‘The Chancery of the Green Wax,’ Lesures turned at the foot of the stairs, ‘is on the first gallery. On the second gallery is the Chancery of the Red Wax and on the…’
‘Thank you,’ Cranston replied. ‘I once worked in the Chancery myself, Master Tibault.’
‘Did you really?’ Lesures became all friendly.
‘Please!’ Cranston insisted.
Lesures took them up the stairs, along the gallery and into a large furnished room. This was more comfortable than the others they’d passed. Damask cloths and coloured tapestries hung above the wooden wainscoting next to shields bearing the arms of England, France, Scotland and Castille. The floor was of polished wood; high desks and stools were placed neatly around but these were now empty. Four clerks were gathered at the far end of a long table which ran down the centre of the room. They were grouped round a fair-haired young woman who sat in a chair, her face in her hands.
The young men looked up as Cranston approached. They were all in their early thirties, dressed in jerkin and hose, white shirts with clean, crisp collars coming up under the neck. They were neat, tidy and all wore the Chancery ring on their left hands. Athelstan recalled how the Chancery always recruited the best from the Halls of Oxford and Cambridge: young men of good families. Some of them would enter the Church whilst others, if they won royal favour, would rise to be sheriffs, court bailiffs or royal commissioners.
Lesures introduced them: William Ollerton, small and thickset, his clean-shaven face marred by a scar which ran from his nose down to his mouth. His dark hair was carefully oiled and he wore an earring in one lobe. Quite the dandy, Athelstan thought. Robert Elflain was tall and thin as a spear shaft: arrogant, his face puckered in a permanent expression of disdain, his eyes watchful. Thomas Napham was tall, broad and chubby-faced, his hair not so neatly coifed as the rest, rather nervous, eager to please. Finally, Andrew Alcest, apparently the leader of the group: loose-limbed, rather girlish with his smooth-skinned face and large round eyes. Yet Athelstan sensed mischief, a man who, despite his innocent looks, was attracted to plotting as a cat to mice.
Lesures finished the introductions. The clerks shook Sir John’s hand and that of Athelstan, then stood aside. The young woman, round whom they had been grouped, still sat in the chair, her chin resting on the heel of her hand. She smiled tearfully at Cranston who towered over her. Athelstan was struck by how pleasing her face was, not beautiful but pretty: large grey eyes, sweet mouth, her oval-shaped face still comely despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked tired. Wisps of auburn hair peeped from under the serge-cloth wimple she wore. Athelstan noticed the mud stains on her grey cloak, slung over the arm of the chair, whilst her bodice and dress, clasped close at the neck, looked crumpled and travel-worn. She wore a ring on one finger but otherwise, apart from a silver cross hanging on a chain round her neck, no other jewellery. The friar was fascinated by her fingers, long and very slender; he noticed the indentations around the nails and wondered if she was a woman who had spent her life as an embroiderer or seamstress. Cranston still gazed beatifically down at her until the young woman, rather disconcerted, blinked and turned to Athelstan for help.
‘Sir John Cranston, mistress,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Coroner of the city. We are here to investigate the murders of Luke Peslep and Edwin Chapler.’
‘Good!’ the woman exclaimed, her face becoming hard. She rose, grasped Cranston’s hand and, before he could stop her, kissed it. ‘I am Edwin’s sister, Alison Chapler. I have just heard the news, Sir John. I demand vengeance and justice for my brother’s murder.’
CHAPTER 3
Sir John released the young woman’s hand.
‘Sit down, mistress,’ he said softly, walking backwards.
Athelstan closed his eyes at the muffled giggles from the clerks. Cranston, the rich claret now making its full effect felt, gazed round benevolently.
‘All of you, sirs, sit down at the table here.’ He placed himself at the top, snapping his fingers for Athelstan to take the stool beside him. ‘Now,’ Cranston began, once the clerks were sat on either side of him. ‘Now, now, a pretty mess, two royal clerks horribly murdered.’ He wagged a stubby finger. ‘And you know what they’re going to say, don’t you?’