Free The Assassin's Riddle by Paul Doherty Page B

Judas but how they killed poor Drayton is a mystery.’ He sighed. ‘As for the murder of those two clerks of the Green Wax, their deaths are as puzzling as their lives.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Cranston ignored the pun.
    ‘Well.’ Athelstan cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘Here we have one clerk knocked on the head and thrown in the Thames; the other is stabbed to death whilst sitting on a privy. Riddles are left with the second corpse. Chapler was poor but Peslep rich. And who is this strange young man who apparently knew both of them?’
    ‘So, what do we do now?’ the coroner asked.
    ‘Get Flaxwith,’ Athelstan drained his tankard, ‘to check that Stablegate and Flinstead were where they claimed to be. And the same with those clerks of the Green Wax. Did they spend the night at the Dancing Pig? And where was Master Lesures, the Master of the Rolls?’
    Anything else?’
    ‘Yes. Use your authority, Sir John, to question Orifab. Discover the source of Peslep’s wealth.’
    Cranston looked at him mournfully. ‘You’ll stay for another blackjack of ale?’
    ‘No, Sir John, and neither should you. Lady Maude and the poppets are waiting.’
    Athelstan rose, sketched a blessing in the air and left the tavern. He pulled the cowl over his head and, wrapping his hands in the sleeves of his gown, made his way through the crowds. He kept his eyes to the ground. As he turned up the Poultry to Walbrooke, he felt hot and sticky and wondered if he should go down to the riverside. Moleskin the boat-man might take him across to Southwark. The river breeze would be cool, fresh, and Athelstan liked its salty tang. Moreover, he was forever curious about what ships came into port. Sometimes, if there was a Venetian caravel, Athelstan would love to seek out the navigator, for there had been whispers in his order that the Venetians owned secret maps and were sailing seas where no English cog would dare to go. Legendary stories, about slipping out through the Pillars of Hercules and, instead of turning north into the Bay of Biscay, sailing south down the west coast of Africa.
    Athelstan paused before a small statue of Our Lady placed near the London stone in Candlewick Street. He closed his eyes and said the Ave Maria but he was still distracted. He would love to talk to these navigators. If the earth was flat, why didn’t they ever reach the edge? And were the stars in heaven different the further south they sailed?
    A child ran up, smutty-faced. ‘Give me your blessing, Father!’ he piped, jumping from foot to foot.
    ‘Of course.’ Athelstan pulled back his cowl.
    ‘A real blessing, Father.’ The young boy’s eyes were bright.
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked curiously.
    ‘Because I’ve just nipped my sister,’ the urchin replied. And my mother will beat me but if you’ve given me a blessing . . .’
    Athelstan put his hand on the boy’s hot brow. ‘May the Lord bless you and protect you,’ he prayed. ‘May He show you His face and have mercy on you.’ He raised his right hand for the benediction. ‘May He smile on you and give you peace. May the Lord bless you and keep you all the days of your life.’ He still grasped the boy as he dug into his purse and took out a penny. ‘Now, buy your sister some sweet-meats. Give some to her and to your mother. Always be kind and the Lord will be kind to you.’
    The young boy grabbed the coin and scampered off. Athelstan felt better. I won’t go to the river, he thought, I’ll go along to see old Harrowtooth.
    He continued along Candlewick into Bridge Street. Near the gatehouse he met Master Robert Burdon, the diminutive constable of the bridge and the proud father of nine children. The little fellow was strutting up and down, gazing at long poles which stretched out over the river bearing the heads of executed traitors.
    ‘Goodmorrow, Master Burdon, do I have permission to cross your bridge?’
    ‘You carry the warrant of Holy Mother Church,’ Burdon teased tack.