found.
‘True bills, Sir John, drawn up by a notary in Coggeshall, Scrope’s home town. They contain a confession of one Alain Taillour, housebreaker. Apparently, about ten years ago, around the Feast of Michaelmas, Scrope’s house in Coggeshall was burgled and ransacked. Scrope was attending a guild meeting in town. On his return he found his house a place of mayhem and murder. Scrope’s wife and their manservant had been brutally slain. During the first week of Advent last, Taillour was caught red-handed breaking into a warehouse. He turned king’s approver; applying for a pardon he named all his confederates in his life of robbery.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘He clearly accused Edmund Marsen as the person responsible for the murder of Scrope’s wife and manservant. Taillour swore this on oath before a local justice providing the names of other witnesses. Apparently Scrope made his pilgrimage to Glastonbury in grateful thanks and as well as to seek divine help …’
‘To indict Marsen,’ the coroner interrupted. ‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Marsen is, or was, a royal official. Scrope was planning to appear before the Court of King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. He would swear out a true indictment which Marsen would have to answer before a jury and three royal justices.’ Cranston sat down on a stool, cradling the miraculous wineskin. ‘Now both are dead,’ he continued, ‘sent to appear before Christ’s Assize. But how was Scrope murdered? Who was responsible and how? Friar Roger claims he was sure he heard a loud knocking on Scrope’s door and that this was repeated, but that is all. Father Roger opened his door but could see nobody. The assassin could not have entered by the window as the entire tavern would have seen him. So how could the assassin enter this room, kill Scrope then leave, locking and bolting the door behind him?’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘The same quarrels were used in the Barbican, loosed from a hand-held arbalest.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘Brother, what is the matter – what are you staring at?’
‘Go back outside, Sir John. Ask Thorne, Mooncalf and the rest what our learned physician did after he arrived here two days ago. Did he go out? Were his boots cleaned? Please, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at the coroner who shrugged and left, shouting for Thorne. Athelstan knelt by the lantern horn, standing on a small stool. The copper casing was mud-stained around the base, the horn covering was dirt-splattered and the squat tallow candle had burnt low. Athelstan then scrutinized the heavy cloak hanging from a wall peg. It was pure wool dyed a deep green but its silver-threaded hem was splattered with crusts of mud. The expensive Spanish riding boots standing nearby were also marked; their leggings were polished but the sole, heel and toe were caked in drying dirt. He glanced up as Cranston re-entered the chamber.
‘Brother, according to what I’ve heard, Scrope remained in his own chamber, probably preparing that indictment. Mooncalf and others polished his boots to a gleam after he arrived.’
‘Nevertheless, he did go out.’ Athelstan gestured at the cloak and boots. ‘That’s what caught my attention. According to reports our fastidious physician remained closeted in this chamber, never going out, making sure the likes of Mooncalf cleaned his boots. Yet Scrope’s cloak and boots are muddied, as is the lantern horn where it’s been put down, whilst its candle must have burnt for some time. Look, Sir John, at the mud drying on your boots – it’s similar in colour and texture to this. I suspect our physician went out last night. The mud is fairly recent. I believe he entered the Palisade and approached the Barbican.’
‘Is he the killer?’
‘No, but I suspect Scrope might have glimpsed the assassin or nursed deep suspicions about who he really is. That is why he was murdered, to silence him.’ Athelstan rose to his feet, stretched and
‘True bills, Sir John, drawn up by a notary in Coggeshall, Scrope’s home town. They contain a confession of one Alain Taillour, housebreaker. Apparently, about ten years ago, around the Feast of Michaelmas, Scrope’s house in Coggeshall was burgled and ransacked. Scrope was attending a guild meeting in town. On his return he found his house a place of mayhem and murder. Scrope’s wife and their manservant had been brutally slain. During the first week of Advent last, Taillour was caught red-handed breaking into a warehouse. He turned king’s approver; applying for a pardon he named all his confederates in his life of robbery.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘He clearly accused Edmund Marsen as the person responsible for the murder of Scrope’s wife and manservant. Taillour swore this on oath before a local justice providing the names of other witnesses. Apparently Scrope made his pilgrimage to Glastonbury in grateful thanks and as well as to seek divine help …’
‘To indict Marsen,’ the coroner interrupted. ‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered, ‘Marsen is, or was, a royal official. Scrope was planning to appear before the Court of King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. He would swear out a true indictment which Marsen would have to answer before a jury and three royal justices.’ Cranston sat down on a stool, cradling the miraculous wineskin. ‘Now both are dead,’ he continued, ‘sent to appear before Christ’s Assize. But how was Scrope murdered? Who was responsible and how? Friar Roger claims he was sure he heard a loud knocking on Scrope’s door and that this was repeated, but that is all. Father Roger opened his door but could see nobody. The assassin could not have entered by the window as the entire tavern would have seen him. So how could the assassin enter this room, kill Scrope then leave, locking and bolting the door behind him?’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘The same quarrels were used in the Barbican, loosed from a hand-held arbalest.’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘Brother, what is the matter – what are you staring at?’
‘Go back outside, Sir John. Ask Thorne, Mooncalf and the rest what our learned physician did after he arrived here two days ago. Did he go out? Were his boots cleaned? Please, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled at the coroner who shrugged and left, shouting for Thorne. Athelstan knelt by the lantern horn, standing on a small stool. The copper casing was mud-stained around the base, the horn covering was dirt-splattered and the squat tallow candle had burnt low. Athelstan then scrutinized the heavy cloak hanging from a wall peg. It was pure wool dyed a deep green but its silver-threaded hem was splattered with crusts of mud. The expensive Spanish riding boots standing nearby were also marked; their leggings were polished but the sole, heel and toe were caked in drying dirt. He glanced up as Cranston re-entered the chamber.
‘Brother, according to what I’ve heard, Scrope remained in his own chamber, probably preparing that indictment. Mooncalf and others polished his boots to a gleam after he arrived.’
‘Nevertheless, he did go out.’ Athelstan gestured at the cloak and boots. ‘That’s what caught my attention. According to reports our fastidious physician remained closeted in this chamber, never going out, making sure the likes of Mooncalf cleaned his boots. Yet Scrope’s cloak and boots are muddied, as is the lantern horn where it’s been put down, whilst its candle must have burnt for some time. Look, Sir John, at the mud drying on your boots – it’s similar in colour and texture to this. I suspect our physician went out last night. The mud is fairly recent. I believe he entered the Palisade and approached the Barbican.’
‘Is he the killer?’
‘No, but I suspect Scrope might have glimpsed the assassin or nursed deep suspicions about who he really is. That is why he was murdered, to silence him.’ Athelstan rose to his feet, stretched and
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