The Assassin's Riddle by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

nudged his companion, who was lost in thought. ‘What are you thinking about, monk?’
    ‘This friar, Sir John, is mystified, not just by Drayton’s death: we have Chapler knocked on the head and thrown over the bridge, and now Peslep is stabbed to death in a privy.’
    ‘Which means?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘These clerks were killed by someone who knew all their habits and customs.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘I wager Chapler was accustomed to praying in the chapel of St Thomas à Becket and, as Meg has just told us, Peslep was in the habit of coming here every morning.’
    ‘And the killer?’
    ‘That young man,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He came in here with his war belt. He waited till Peslep went out and followed. It would have been easy: Peslep sitting on the jakes, his hose around his ankles; the door is flung open, a thrust to his stomach followed by one to the neck, then the assassin flees down the alleyway. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘We’ll have refreshment soon enough. Let’s go down to the Chancery Office.’
    ‘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 . .