poor Peslep is also slain,’ Napham added.
‘Two deaths,’ Cranston trumpeted, eyes rolling. ‘Two royal clerks killed in a matter of days.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s not accident, sirs. We are given to understand that Chapler was killed whilst praying in the chapel of St Thomas à Becket on London Bridge and his body thrown over into the Thames. Peslep was stabbed in the Ink and Pot tavern. To cut a long story short, sirs, the assassin knew where to strike. We have a story of a young man, a stranger, at the Ink and Pot dressed in a cloak, war belt and boots armed with spurs. How many of you here could fit that description?’
The clerks looked at each other in surprise.
‘The lord coroner,’ Athelstan broke in, ‘asked you a question. How many of you might fit this description? Perhaps if you could indicate?’
Slowly, led by Alcest, each of the clerks held up a hand.
‘But,’ Elflain protested, ‘there are countless young men in London who would fit that description.’
‘And how many of those young men,’ Athelstan asked, ‘knew that Chapler prayed at St Thomas à Becket or that Peslep frequented the Ink and Pot?’
‘You are saying that the killer is one of us?’ Alcest demanded.
‘Yes, sir, I am,’ Athelstan replied. And please don’t take offence or stand up to protest your innocence. We are here on the orders of His Grace the regent, John Duke of Lancaster.’ He was pleased to see their smugness and arrogance fade. ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I could temper my words. At this moment, suspicion falls on all of you but, there again, if honesty is your guide and truth your response to our questions, suspicion might fall elsewhere.’
‘What questions?’ Ollerton asked.
Athelstan glanced at Lesures who was sitting open-mouthed. The friar had already concluded that the Master of the Rolls, despite his title, exercised very little control over these young fighting cocks. These clerks earned good silver and were patronised by the great and mighty at court who always needed the services of a good scribe.
‘Questions!’ Cranston barked. ‘Questions, sir! Yes, sirs, I will ask you questions, all of you. First, where were you this morning, when Peslep was killed?’
‘Oh, for the Love of God, Sir John,’ Alcest replied, his handsome face twisted in disdain. All of us here live in different parts of the city. We arrived here just after Matins. Some of us go to Mass, others stroll the fields of Clerkenwell. Peslep liked to eat, drink and feel the tits of a young tavern wench.’
And what did Chapler do?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A dutiful clerk.’ Lesures now spoke up, as if eager to extol the dead man’s virtues. ‘He always went to Mass at St Mary Le Bow and said the Angelus at noon. He was known for his generosity to beggars along Cheapside.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Athelstan said, imitating Cranston. ‘But none of you can account for where you were and what you were doing this morning when Peslep was killed?’
The clerks stared at him and shook their heads.
‘You have no witnesses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘saying that such and such a person was there at such and such a time?’
‘Does any man in London?’ Napham scratched his head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we get up, we wash, we get dressed and we go about our daily duties. We do not keep a faithful check of every minute and every second we spend.’
‘Then let us discuss what you were doing three nights ago . . .’
Athelstan heard a snore and looked round. Cranston had leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, smacking his lips. The coroner burped gently. The friar stared round the table. The young woman was gazing, fascinated, at Sir John. In ordinary circumstances the rest of the group would have been sniggering, laughing behind their hands, but now the clerks were watchful. They might dismiss Cranston as a drunken buffoon but they watched this little friar with his innocent face and short,
‘Two deaths,’ Cranston trumpeted, eyes rolling. ‘Two royal clerks killed in a matter of days.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s not accident, sirs. We are given to understand that Chapler was killed whilst praying in the chapel of St Thomas à Becket on London Bridge and his body thrown over into the Thames. Peslep was stabbed in the Ink and Pot tavern. To cut a long story short, sirs, the assassin knew where to strike. We have a story of a young man, a stranger, at the Ink and Pot dressed in a cloak, war belt and boots armed with spurs. How many of you here could fit that description?’
The clerks looked at each other in surprise.
‘The lord coroner,’ Athelstan broke in, ‘asked you a question. How many of you might fit this description? Perhaps if you could indicate?’
Slowly, led by Alcest, each of the clerks held up a hand.
‘But,’ Elflain protested, ‘there are countless young men in London who would fit that description.’
‘And how many of those young men,’ Athelstan asked, ‘knew that Chapler prayed at St Thomas à Becket or that Peslep frequented the Ink and Pot?’
‘You are saying that the killer is one of us?’ Alcest demanded.
‘Yes, sir, I am,’ Athelstan replied. And please don’t take offence or stand up to protest your innocence. We are here on the orders of His Grace the regent, John Duke of Lancaster.’ He was pleased to see their smugness and arrogance fade. ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I could temper my words. At this moment, suspicion falls on all of you but, there again, if honesty is your guide and truth your response to our questions, suspicion might fall elsewhere.’
‘What questions?’ Ollerton asked.
Athelstan glanced at Lesures who was sitting open-mouthed. The friar had already concluded that the Master of the Rolls, despite his title, exercised very little control over these young fighting cocks. These clerks earned good silver and were patronised by the great and mighty at court who always needed the services of a good scribe.
‘Questions!’ Cranston barked. ‘Questions, sir! Yes, sirs, I will ask you questions, all of you. First, where were you this morning, when Peslep was killed?’
‘Oh, for the Love of God, Sir John,’ Alcest replied, his handsome face twisted in disdain. All of us here live in different parts of the city. We arrived here just after Matins. Some of us go to Mass, others stroll the fields of Clerkenwell. Peslep liked to eat, drink and feel the tits of a young tavern wench.’
And what did Chapler do?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A dutiful clerk.’ Lesures now spoke up, as if eager to extol the dead man’s virtues. ‘He always went to Mass at St Mary Le Bow and said the Angelus at noon. He was known for his generosity to beggars along Cheapside.’
‘Quite, quite,’ Athelstan said, imitating Cranston. ‘But none of you can account for where you were and what you were doing this morning when Peslep was killed?’
The clerks stared at him and shook their heads.
‘You have no witnesses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘saying that such and such a person was there at such and such a time?’
‘Does any man in London?’ Napham scratched his head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we get up, we wash, we get dressed and we go about our daily duties. We do not keep a faithful check of every minute and every second we spend.’
‘Then let us discuss what you were doing three nights ago . . .’
Athelstan heard a snore and looked round. Cranston had leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, smacking his lips. The coroner burped gently. The friar stared round the table. The young woman was gazing, fascinated, at Sir John. In ordinary circumstances the rest of the group would have been sniggering, laughing behind their hands, but now the clerks were watchful. They might dismiss Cranston as a drunken buffoon but they watched this little friar with his innocent face and short,
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