The Assassin's Riddle Read Free Page A

square of stone. The ceilings are plaster but that’s unbroken, the walls are of pure stone as is the floor. If Drayton wanted fresh air he’d simply open the door. Father, I know house-breakers. They go through a window as quickly as a priest into a brothel . . .’ He abruptly stopped. ‘I mean a ferret down a hole: it would take a nightwalker hours to break into that strongroom.’
    ‘Then let’s see it.’
    Flaxwith rose and led them out of the chamber. Cranston grasped Athelstan by the arm. ‘Brother, you are well?’
    ‘Why, of course, Sir John. Rather sleepy, I . . .’
    ‘You never slept last night, did you?’ Cranston accused. ‘You were on that tower studying your bloody stars again, weren’t you?’
    Athelstan smiled apologetically. ‘Yes, Sir John, I was.’
    ‘It’s nothing else, is it?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean Father Prior has not written to you about relieving you of your duties at St Erconwald’s and sending you to the Halls of Oxford?’
    Athelstan seized Cranston’s huge podgy hand and squeezed it. ‘Sir John, Father Prior asked me a month ago if I would like such a move. I replied I would not.’
    Cranston hid his relief. He loved his wife, Lady Maude, his twin sons, the ‘poppets’, his dogs Gog and Magog, but especially this gentle friar with his sharp brain and dry sense of humour. Cranston had served as a soldier, as well as a coroner, for many a year. He’d met many men but, as he told the Lady Maude, ‘I can number my friends on one hand and still have enough fingers left to make a rude gesture at the Regent. Athelstan’s my friend.’ Cranston stared mournfully at the friar.
    ‘You won’t go to Oxford, will you, Brother?’
    ‘No, Sir John. I am going down to the strongroom.’
    Athelstan stared round the paltry parlour. ‘This is a subtle murder, Sir John, but why are you here?’ He added, ‘Why are you so anxious about it?’
    ‘Drayton usually kept his money with the Lombards,’ Cranston replied. ‘The Frescobaldi and the Bardi brothers in Leadenhall Street. He drew most of it out: he was about to give our most noble Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, a loan of five thousand pounds silver.’
    Athelstan sighed.
    ‘So you see, Brother, Gaunt couldn’t give a fig if Drayton is in heaven or hell. He wants that silver, particularly now as Drayton has no heirs and he won’t have to pay it back. He also wants the thief captured. As you know, my dear monk . . .’
    ‘Friar, Sir John!’
    ‘As you know, my dear friar, no one upsets our Regent and walks away scot-free.’ Cranston paused as he heard Flaxwith calling. ‘We’d best go, Brother.’
    They went out into the passageway, dingy and gloomy, smelling of tallow fat, boiled oil and other unsavoury odours.
    ‘Flaxwith found the chamber pot upstairs full of stools,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Drayton was as dirty as he was mean.’
    At the top of the steps Flaxwith was waiting with a cresset torch. ‘Sir John, what about Samson?’ the bailiff pleaded.
    ‘Bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘Henry, your dog will live for eternity, which is more than I can say for myself if we don’t get this silver back.’
    Flaxwith shrugged and led them down the narrow stone steps. At the bottom, the huge door he had described was leaning against the wall. Flaxwith led them into the counting house and put the torch in a cresset holder.
    Athelstan stared down at the corpse sprawled on the stone floor. A pool of blood had seeped out, and now ran in rivulets down the paving stones. He crouched down and stared pityingly at Drayton’s scrawny features: the eyes closed in death, the blood-encrusted mouth sagging. He felt the neck; the skin was cold and clammy. Athelstan closed his eyes; he prayed that Christ, in His infinite compassion, would have mercy on this man who had lived beneath his dignity and died like a dog. He turned the body over. Drayton was dressed in a shabby jerkin and hose. The battered boots looked