As Athelstan and Cranston arrived in Ratcat Lane, Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax, swaggered into the Ink and Pot tavern on the corner of Chancery Lane to break his fast. Peslep, a young man of good family and even better prospects, felt all was well with the world. Three nights ago he had dined well and been entertained by the most delicious whore. He was still elated by it all. This morning he had risen, washed and put on new robes ready for another day in the office of the Green Wax. He stood in the taproom of the Ink and Pot and beamed round. He looked through into the back, so happy and contented he did not see the animals: a mongrel dog, a mangy cat, or the scraps of food and stable manure piled high in the midden. Nor did he notice the smell from the privies at the far end of the yard behind a hedge of scrawny bushes. Peslep only saw the sunshine reflected in the puddles, heard the clack of geese and, closing his eyes, savoured the appetising odours from the buttery. He took his usual seat in the far corner and, when Meg the slattern came up, he ordered his usual pot of ale and trauncher of sliced bread, apple and cheese. Peslep, as always, put his hand down Meg’s low-cut bodice and clutched one of her breasts, squeezing it gently.
‘Riper every day, eh, Meg? Soon fresh for the plucking?’
Meg wiped her hair from her grease-stained face and forced a smile. She could not object. Peslep always paid in good silver and, if she protested, the landlord would only cuff her ears until they burnt. Peslep sat munching his apple, listening to the sounds drifting through the tavern. A choir carolling from a nearby church, women gossiping in the street, children shrieking, a lazy cock crowing to greet the dawn, a pedlar crying his wares. From the open work-shops near the Fleet prison came a medley of sounds: planing and hammering, clanging and forging, seething and hissing. Peslep closed his eyes. This was the London he loved.
A guild of beggars entered the tavern and gathered round a table to count the coins they had collected from the crowds coming out of morning Mass. Their leader ordered jugs of wine and hot dishes. Peslep knew they would stay there until all their money was gone and they fell to the floor blind drunk to be fleeced by the wily landlord. One of the beggars pulled a flute from his doublet and began to play. Another took a lute from a bag and struck a few chords; the rest began to sing, beating time on the heavy wooden tables, rattling the jars and wooden plates. Peslep, leaning back, watched them through heavy-lidded eyes. He was pleased with the way life was going: the threatening clouds had receded; all would be well. Peslep intended to buy a new house, perhaps north of Clerkenwell. He opened his eyes as a young man entered the tavern, cowl pulled over his head, the spurs on his boots jingling; a war belt, carrying a sword and dagger, was slung over his shoulder. He snapped his fingers and whispered at Meg who hurried off to bring him a blackjack of ale.
The young man sat down. Peslep sniffed contemptuously and glanced away. A court popinjay! One of those foppish young men whom Peslep and his companions openly envied, yet secretly admired, with their wealth and lazy good manners. Alcest even aped them. One day Peslep would be like that. His stomach began to churn. He drained his tankard.
‘Master taverner!’ He rose, snapping his fingers.
The fellow came hurrying out of the buttery with fresh rags which he placed in Peslep’s hand. The routine was always the same. Peslep came to break his fast, he would then go out into the privies and return for one final pottle of ale before going on to work. Peslep walked out into the yard, pinching his nose as he passed the midden. The privies at the far end, behind the scrawny hedgerow, were a series of cubicles set over a ditch. Peslep went inside, pulled down his hose and made himself comfortable.
Clutching the rags, he closed his eyes and sat thinking about the money he had salted away. Suddenly the door opened; Peslep, startled, tried to rise. He glimpsed the young man he had seen in the tavern and the sword aiming straight for his stomach. Peslep could do nothing; the sword was thrust in, turned, out again. Peslep writhed at the sheet of pain even as the swordsman struck once more, driving his pointed weapon deep into Peslep’s neck.
Sir John Cranston and Athelstan had returned to study Master Drayton’s counting house when there was a furious knocking on the front door. They both went up the stairs. Athelstan glimpsed a tall, elegant figure framed against the sunlight. The fellow came forward, jewelled bonnet in his hand; spurs on the heels of his boots jingled musically on the floorboards. He had no sword but one hand rested on the jewelled dagger pressed into his leather sword belt; his cloak of dark saffron was tossed elegantly over one shoulder. Cranston studied the handsome, swarthy face and mocking green eyes; he noticed how the young man’s moustache and beard were clipped in the neat French fashion. A memory stirred.
‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’
‘I sincerely hope so. I asked you a question, sir.’
‘I am Sir Lionel Havant, a member of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster’s household.’
‘Ah, one of John of Gaunt’s boys, aren’t you? One of the Regent’s henchmen?’ Cranston stood, feet apart, studying the man from head to toe. Then he walked forward, hand extended. ‘Oh, don’t take offence, man. I knew your father, Sir Reginald Havant of Crosby in Northampton.’
The young man smiled, then straightened up as if remembering his task. ‘Sir John, it’s good to see you but I come direct from the Regent. He would like his five thousand pounds in silver.’
‘He’ll have to wait!’ Cranston snarled. ‘I am a coroner, not a damn miracle-worker!’
Havant looked at Brother Athelstan who raised his eyes heavenwards.
‘Sir Lionel,’ Athelstan intervened, before Cranston got into full stride, ‘we’ve scarce been here long; progress will be made.’
The young knight nodded.
‘And you have a message for us?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, how did you…?’
Athelstan pointed to the small scroll tucked into the man’s war belt.
‘Ah yes.’ Havant took it out. ‘Sir John.’ He undid the piece of parchment. ‘His Grace the Regent is also concerned about one of his clerks, Edwin Chapler of the Chancery of the Green Wax. His corpse was fished from the Thames last night. It now lies in the hands of the Fisher of Men. Chapler’s been missing for about two days. His Grace wants you to claim the corpse, pay the fine and investigate the cause of death.’
‘I am too busy for drunken clerks!’ Cranston snapped.
‘He wasn’t drunk, Sir John,’ Havant retorted. ‘Chapler was murdered.’
A few minutes later Cranston, with Athelstan trotting beside him, strode across Cheapside and down Bread Street. The coroner wanted to visit the ‘Barque of St Peter’, the rather eccentric name the Fisher of Men gave to his ‘chapel’ or death house. Cranston pushed himself through the crowds, making his way along the thronged streets. Above and around them the two- or three-storey houses, pinched and narrow, blocked out the sunlight and forced people to knock and push each other in the busy lanes below. The stalls and shops were open. The air dinned with the cries of apprentices, particularly the clothiers, their huge barrows or tables covered with a rich variety of materials: brightly embroidered with brilliantly coloured Brussels linen; English broadcloths; textiles from Louvain and Arras. Further down, along the streets of Trinity, the stalls were stacked high with merchandise from Lebanon to Venice: chests of cinnamon, bags of saffron and gingers; casks full of figs; bitter oranges and exotically scented candied lemon peel. There were crates full of locust pots, almonds and mace; sacks of sugar and pepper; casks of wine; writing tablets and boxes of chalk; leather goods in every shade of brown. Herrings were displayed in open crates beside stacked mounds of fruits and vegetables.
Athelstan would have loved to question Sir John but the noise was absolutely deafening. The coroner was busy shaking his fists at the cheeky apprentices who tried to jump up to catch his arm. Cranston would roar and shake himself as a bear would rage at baiting dogs. Athelstan trailed desolately behind, trying not to pay any attention to the shouts, the haggling and bartering. He was bumped and knocked by peasants, craftsmen and townsfolk. Now and again he would stumble and have to profusely apologise to some lady trying to walk arm in arm with her gentleman. As they went down La Reole, towards Vintry and the less salubrious parts of the city, Athelstan kept his hand on his purse. Here the quacks and fortunetellers had set up their temporary booths and attracted the pickpockets and cutpurses. These always gathered in such places, as quickly as bees round honey or, as Sir John would more caustically put it, ‘flies round a turd’.
At last Athelstan glimpsed the rigging of ships and, on the morning breeze, smelt the fresh, tangy air of the river. Cranston, now in a black mood and taking copious swigs from his miraculous wineskin, turned down an alleyway leading to the Barque of St Peter. A relic-seller came whining up, carrying in his hands a box allegedly contain-ing the toenails of the Pharaoh who had persecuted Moses. Cranston pulled back his cowl.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ the man yelled and fled like a whippet back into the shadows.
The Fisher of Men was sitting on a bench outside his chapel. He was surrounded by his strange coven, beggars and lepers, their faces and hands covered with sore open wounds. Some were so disfigured they wore masks. Beside the Fisher of Men stood Icthus. The boy had no eyebrows or eyelids; he looked like a fish and could swim like one. Sir John stopped and bowed: he had great respect for the Fisher of Men.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’
‘And you, my lovelies.’ Cranston smiled whilst Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction.
The Fisher of Men rose, hands by his side, and bowed from the waist. ‘Welcome to our humble church, Sir John.’ His watery eyes shifted. ‘And you, Brother Athelstan. Once again death brings us together.’
‘The corpse of Edwin Chapler?’ Cranston asked.
The Fisher of Men handed his pottle of ale to Icthus, opened the chapel door and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan forward. The inside was a long, narrow shed. Against the far wall a makeshift altar had been set up; on it stood two candlesticks either side of a huge crucifix. On the flanking wall were paintings, crudely drawn with charcoal then filled in with paint. One depicted Jonah being swallowed by the whale. The other showed Christ and his apostles, who looked suspiciously like the Fisher of Men and his coven, sailing in a laden barge across the Sea of Galilee. An eerie place, lit by rushlights and oil lamps. Down either side were tables; on each a corpse, plucked from the Thames, lay underneath a dirty piece of canvas. The air smelt stale and, despite the huge herb pots beneath each table, Athelstan detected the sickening odour of corruption. The Fisher of Men, however, seemed all at home, chattering to himself as he led them forward. He stopped at a table and pulled back the sheet. The corpse of a young man lay sprawled there, his hair, body and clothes soaked in river water, eyes half-open, face a liverish white. Athelstan noticed faint crusts of dried blood on the corners of the mouth.
‘It was no accident,’ the Fisher of Men intoned. He turned the corpse over.
Athelstan, trying to control his nausea, studied the mass of loose flesh on the back of the young man’s head.
‘Any other wounds?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to his wineskin.
This time Athelstan accepted the coroner’s kind offer and took a deep mouthful himself.
‘None that I could see.’ The Fisher of Men held out his hand. ‘Three shillings, Sir John! Three shillings for pulling a murder victim from the Thames!
‘The Guildhall will pay you,’ Cranston retorted.
The Fisher of Men smiled; his hand remained outstretched. ‘Come, come, Sir John, don’t play cat and mouse with me. If you go to the Guildhall for three shillings, three shillings you’ll get. If I go, I’ll be beaten round the head and rolled down the steps.’
Cranston sighed and handed the money over.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men declared. ‘We know he was Edwin Chapler, his seals of office were found in his pouch. Being a royal clerk, we sent these to the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy.’
‘Anything else?’ Cranston asked.
‘A few coins but…’ The Fisher of Men shrugged.
Athelstan turned the corpse over and, kneeling down, began to whisper the words of absolution. The Fisher of Men waited patiently whilst Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over the young man’s face and whispered the Requiem.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men continued. And, knowing the run of the river, I believe he was thrown from London Bridge three evenings ago.’
‘Wouldn’t his body be bruised by the starlings and bridge supports?’
‘No, Sir John, the river runs fast and furious between the arches of the bridge. He was certainly thrown down there: as his body swirled in the water, bits of seaweed became entangled in his clothing. If you climb down and look at the arches underneath the bridge, it’s one of the few parts of the river where seaweed is caught and held.’ The Fisher of Men laughed. ‘But I’m showing off, Sir John. One of my lovely boys out there, he talks to old Harrowtooth, the witch, the wise woman, who lives in a hovel near the city end of the bridge. Three evenings ago she went into the chapel of St Thomas a Becket, and met a young man who matches this man’s description.’
‘Of course,’ Sir John breathed. ‘And behind the chapel is a small, deserted area. It’s well known as a place for suicides. What time did Harrowtooth see him?’
‘Well after Vespers, the sun had disappeared. Very agitated he was, praying just within the porch, as if he didn’t really want to be there.’
‘I know old Harrowtooth,’ Athelstan added. ‘I’ll have a talk with her.’
‘And the corpse?’ the Fisher of Men asked.
‘Keep it for twenty-four hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘If no one claims it, send it to the priest at St Mary Le Bow for interment. There’s a plot in the cemetery there… ’
‘I can’t do that,’ the Fisher of Men responded. ‘They refused the last one and will continue to do so until the graveyard is cleared and a new charnel house is built.’
Athelstan stared down at the corpse, full of pity at this young life so brutally wiped out.
‘Send it to St Erconwald’s,’ he declared. ‘If no one wants him, St Erconwald’s will take him.’
Athelstan abruptly turned as the door swung open. Havant, the Fisher of Men’s coven protesting and fluttering like a group of starlings around him, swept into the corpse house.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Don’t say I’m going to see you on the hour every hour, Sir Lionel?’
‘A rash of deaths, Sir John. Another clerk has been murdered.’
‘In the river?’ the Fisher of Men asked hopefully.
Sir Lionel didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. ‘Luke Peslep was killed on the privy at the Ink and Pot tavern: stabbed through the belly and the gullet. The assassin has vanished like smoke.’
‘Robbery?’ Cranston asked.
‘Nothing taken from him except his life, though this was left.’
Havant handed across a dirty piece of parchment; the ink was dark blue, the writing sprawling. Cranston passed it to Athelstan.
‘My eyes are rather bad this morning.’ Cranston’s usual explanation when he’d drunk too much.
Athelstan read it in the light of an oil lamp.
‘Two riddles,’ he said slowly. ‘The first reads: “A king once fought an army. He defeated them but, in the end, victor and vanquished lay in the same place.”’
‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cranston asked.
‘God only knows,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And here’s the second: “My first is like a selfish brother.” Did this belong to Peslep?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Havant replied. ‘The assassin must have left it on the corpse. You’d best come and see.’
Cranston and Athelstan thanked the Fisher of Men then followed Havant back out into the streets.
The bells of the city were pealing for midmorning prayers. The traders and their customers ignored this invitation, but had taken a rest for something to eat and drink so the crowds were thinner, the alleyways and lanes easier to manage. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tired by the time they reached the Ink and Pot. Havant strode like a giant whilst Sir John, eager to accept the challenge, was intent, as always, on showing that he was a puissant knight able to compete with the youngest and the best. A crowd had assembled outside the Ink and Pot tavern, kept back by archers from the Tower wearing the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt. Havant pushed his way through, spoke to the captain of the guard then led Cranston and Athelstan into the taproom and out across the dirty yard. An archer, gnawing at a chicken bone whilst flirting with Meg the scullion, indicated with his thumb.
‘He’s in there,’ he shouted. ‘The captain pulled up his hose and made him decent. He said no man should be found like that.’
Athelstan opened the door. Peslep was sitting slumped on the privy bench, his jerkin caked in blood from the wound in his neck and the deep sword thrust to his belly.
‘Bring him out,’ he whispered.
Cranston snapped out an order. The archer, assisted by Athelstan, removed the corpse and laid it down upon the cobbles. Athelstan gave absolution and examined the two wounds. He took out the dead man’s purse and emptied the contents out on his hand: there was nothing except a few coins, a pumice stone and a small St Christopher medal.
Athelstan recited the short Office for the Dead, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. The landlord, his face creased in mock sorrow, came out rubbing his hands, eyes rolling heavenwards.
‘Lord have mercy!’ he wailed. ‘Lord have mercy on us all! We’ll all be slain in our beds!’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Don’t worry, master taverner, the corpse will be removed. You’ll be back to coining your silver within the hour. Now, what has happened?’
‘I sent a runner to the Tower,’ the taverner gabbled. ‘Because he’s Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
‘You didn’t send the boy to the Tower,’ Meg scoffed.
‘For God’s sake, gather your wits,’ Havant snapped. ‘You sent the boy to the Chancery Office off Fleet Street. I was there when he arrived.’
The landlord fluttered his fingers; he took a dirty rag from his greasy apron and mopped his face. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy! You are right, you are right! I kept thinking we should go to the Tower, maybe the French had landed.’
Cranston grasped the man’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Good friend,’ he said. ‘A royal clerk has been murdered and you are bleating like a lamb.’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ the landlord whined.
‘Too busy watching the customers,’ Meg hinted.
Athelstan beckoned her over and slipped a penny into her callused hand. ‘What did you see, girl?’
She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘As normal, Peslep came in here to break his fast. As normal, he squeezed my tits and sat like a prince stuffing his face and then, as normal, he went out into the jakes to relieve himself.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone leave after him. Simon, the ironmaster, went out, bladder full of ale he had. We hears him screaming. The rest you know’
‘Did you see anyone in the tavern this morning? A stranger?’
The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face. ‘We had some beggars,’ she replied. ‘Oh yes, and a young man.’ She opened one eye and pointed at Havant. ‘He was dressed like you. In good clothes. He carried a war belt, long leather riding boots with spurs on.’
Havant smiled bleakly. ‘But it wasn’t me?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied coyly. ‘You are much more handsome than he.’
‘So you saw his face?’ Athelstan asked.
‘He was clean-shaven,’ Meg responded. ‘But no, Father, I really didn’t have a good look. I was too busy.’
Cranston, who had been swaying on his feet, eyes half-closed, smacked his lips noisily. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he declared. ‘Master taverner,’ he took the coins Athelstan had handed over from Peslep’s purse, ‘have the body removed.’
‘Where to?’
‘Your parish church,’ Cranston retorted, grasping the man’s wrist and squeezing it. ‘Tell the priest there that Sir John Cranston sent it for burial.’
The landlord, followed by Meg, strode away.
‘Why were you at the Chancery Office?’ Cranston asked.
Havant shrugged. ‘The Regent’s orders, Sir John. I was to tell them about Chapler’s corpse being discovered.’
And?’
‘They were upset, sad, then the boy arrived from the tavern.’ Havant looked up at the blue sky. ‘Sir John, I must be going.’ He smiled at Athelstan, spun on his heel and walked back into the taproom.
Cranston sat down on a wooden bench and stared glumly at the corpse whilst Athelstan inspected the yard.
‘You won’t find anything,’ the coroner moaned. ‘This one came like a thief in the night.’
Athelstan went to the back of the privies and opened a small wicket gate which led into a mean alleyway. He looked up and down: at the far end a group of children played with a pet toad watched by a mangy cat; at the other, an empty gap between huddled houses led out into a street. Athelstan closed the wicket gate, returned and sat down beside Sir John.
‘Too many killings,’ the coroner murmured. He rubbed his face. ‘Brother Athelstan, I need refreshments.’ He 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 a 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…?’
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.’