The Assassin's Riddle by Paul Doherty Page A

he’d hoped they had forgotten that.
    ‘You know, Father,’ Pernell continued, ‘a cross is always taken round the cemetery. Who’ll be Christ this year?’
    After that came the descent into hell, as bitter words were exchanged about who would do what. Athelstan stared across at Alison. She, like Benedicta, was desperately trying not to laugh. At last peace reigned but only after Athelstan had got up, clapped his hands and glared around. Ranulf the rat-catcher would carry the cross, he decided; Watkin and Pike would be Roman soldiers; other roles were shared out. In the end, only one person didn’t have a part, Pike the ditcher’s wife. She boiled with fury as she paid the price for her spiteful tongue and malicious comments. Time and again Athelstan tried to reallocate or introduce a new role but the woman refused to be mollified. More dangerously, the virago was glaring malevolently at Cecily the courtesan who, of course, smiled sweetly back.
    ‘Father.’ Alison Chapler got to her feet. ‘Father, I have a suggestion. My family originally came from Norfolk. We always celebrated Holy Rood Day. I notice you have one thing missing, the Kitsch Witch.’
    ‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘According to legend,’ Alison continued, clearly enjoying herself, ‘the witch was a woman who lived in the Valley of Death near Jerusalem: she was despised by all.’
    Athelstan just prayed that no one would make a comment.
    ‘Anyway,’ Alison continued, ‘when Christ was crucified she stood afar off and, because of her faith, she was transformed and became a saint.’
    Everyone clapped and peace was restored.
    In a small chamber on the ground floor of the Chancery of the Green Wax, Sir John Cranston surveyed the ruined corpse of William Ollerton, former clerk.
    ‘The poison must have been deadly.’ Cranston tapped the dead man’s boot with the toe of his own. ‘Pernicious and venomous, eh?’
    The coroner drummed his fingers on his stomach. He had been sitting in his garden, watching the poppets play with Gog and Magog and reflecting on his learned treatise, ‘On the Governance of London’, when Bailiff Flaxwith had arrived with the news. Cranston had cursed but left: the report of Ollerton’s death would soon reach the Savoy Palace and the Regent would begin asking questions. Now Cranston had a few of his own. Beside him Master Tibault Lesures seemed to be on the point of fainting, his face pallid and sweat-soaked, eyes blinking. The Master of the Rolls licked his lips, making small, nervous gestures with his fingers. The three clerks Elflain, Napham and Alcest were more composed.
    ‘Let us begin again,’ Cranston said. ‘You have a cup . . .?’
    ‘Yes, Sir John,’ Lesures agreed. ‘Each of us has a cup with the first letter of our surname on it. Late in the afternoon, just before we finish, it is customary for us to have a goblet of malmsey. It washes away the dust and sweetens the mouth.’
    ‘And these cups were on a tray?’
    Cranston left the corpse and walked over to a small table where all the cups, some still half full, stood on a pewter dish. He picked up Ollerton’s and sniffed at it. He caught the sweet smell of honey and a more acrid odour. Sir John recalled Athelstan’s words about arsenic and deadly nightshade.
    ‘They are both deadly in their effect,’ the friar had declared, ‘yet easy to disguise.’
    Cranston picked up all the cups and sniffed carefully. He tried to stop the juices in his own mouth gathering by remembering the corpse now lying stretched out on the floor.
    ‘And who washed these cups every morning?’
    ‘We took it in turns, Sir John.’
    ‘And this morning?’
    Napham lifted a hand. ‘But, Sir John, they were all clean.’
    ‘Fine, fine.’ Sir John leaned against the wall; he wished Athelstan was here.
    ‘And who entered the Chancery of the Green Wax today? Give me a list.’
    ‘Well, well.’ Lesures came forward, ticking the names off on his fingers. ‘Myself and