the clerks, Sir Lionel Havant, yourself, Sir John, Brother Athelstan and Mistress Chapler.’
‘And anyone else?’
‘Oh, the occasional servant. They would come in with messages or bring fresh parchment and quills.’
‘But it’s interesting, isn’t it,’ the coroner continued, ‘that the poison was put in at the same time as this cryptic message arrives, about the second being the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror.’ Cranston glanced at the clerks. ‘I thought you liked puzzles and riddles. Do any of you know what it means?’
They shook their heads.
‘Let me continue,’ Cranston said. ‘Whoever put the poison in knew what time you drank the mead. He also arranged for the message to be delivered at the same time: that reduces the number somewhat, doesn’t it?’ He leaned forward.
‘What are you saying?’ Alcest snapped.
‘What I am saying, young man, is this. When Ollerton died, I was in my garden, Athelstan and Mistress Chapler were in Southwark. Havant was probably at the Savoy Palace – that takes care of the principal visitors here. In my view, Ollerton’s assassin works in the Chancery of the Green Wax and could very well be in this room.’
A chorus of hoarse denials greeted his words. Cranston clapped his hands for silence.
‘I am a man of law. I show where the evidence lies. Now I could ask for you to be searched: not everyone carries a small bag of poison around with them.’
‘Pshaw!’ Napham made a contemptuous gesture with his hand and walked to the door as if to leave.
‘Do so,’ Cranston shouted, ‘and I’ll have you arrested, sir! My bailiff’s in the street outside.’
Napham returned.
‘Anyone could have come in here!’ Alcest cried.
‘Anyone?’ Cranston asked. ‘You were here when Ollerton died and any one of you could have visited that tavern and killed Peslep.’
‘But what about Chapler?’ Alcest declared defiantly. ‘Sir John, we can prove that we were carousing in a chamber at the Dancing Pig when our companion died.’
‘Did you like him?’ Cranston asked abruptly.
‘Who?’
‘Chapler. Did you like him? You called him your companion.’
‘He wasn’t one of us,’ Alcest retorted. ‘Ask Master Tibault here. Chapler kept to himself. When the office closed on Saturday morning before the Angelus, he would leave for his beloved sister in Epping.’
‘Was Peslep a rich man?’ Cranston asked.
‘He came of good family.’
Cranston closed his eyes; he felt so tired. He would have loved to question these young men but there was nothing more he could say. No real evidence to work on. The coroner walked to the door.
‘Have the body sheeted,’ he ordered. He thought of the Holy Lamb and then recalled Alcest’s words about the Dancing Pig. He turned, hand on the latch. ‘Master Alcest, the night Chapler died. You left the Chancery of the Green Wax and went straight to the Dancing Pig?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘And you were in a chamber all by yourselves?’
‘Well, with the rest.’
‘And some young ladies? Where were they from?’
Alcest rubbed his mouth.
‘Come on!’ Sir John barked. ‘You hired a group of whores, didn’t you? Young courtesans. Who was the mistress of this troupe?’
‘Nell Broadsheet.’
Cranston grinned. ‘By, sir, you pay well. Broadsheet’s girls are the comeliest and most expensive in London. They keep a house, do they not, near Greyfriars, just past Newgate?’
The young man nodded.
‘Good, then I think I’ll pay her a visit.’
Cranston walked out into the street where Flaxwith leaned against a wall, his ugly dog beside him.
‘Keep that bloody thing away from me!’ Cranston growled. ‘Now, Henry, I’m going to give you a treat. We are going to visit Mistress Broadsheet’s establishment. You know it well?’
The bailiff’s face coloured and he shuffled his feet; even Samson seemed to hang his head a little lower.
‘Henry, Henry!’ Cranston chucked the bailiff under his chin
‘And anyone else?’
‘Oh, the occasional servant. They would come in with messages or bring fresh parchment and quills.’
‘But it’s interesting, isn’t it,’ the coroner continued, ‘that the poison was put in at the same time as this cryptic message arrives, about the second being the centre of woe and the principal mover of horror.’ Cranston glanced at the clerks. ‘I thought you liked puzzles and riddles. Do any of you know what it means?’
They shook their heads.
‘Let me continue,’ Cranston said. ‘Whoever put the poison in knew what time you drank the mead. He also arranged for the message to be delivered at the same time: that reduces the number somewhat, doesn’t it?’ He leaned forward.
‘What are you saying?’ Alcest snapped.
‘What I am saying, young man, is this. When Ollerton died, I was in my garden, Athelstan and Mistress Chapler were in Southwark. Havant was probably at the Savoy Palace – that takes care of the principal visitors here. In my view, Ollerton’s assassin works in the Chancery of the Green Wax and could very well be in this room.’
A chorus of hoarse denials greeted his words. Cranston clapped his hands for silence.
‘I am a man of law. I show where the evidence lies. Now I could ask for you to be searched: not everyone carries a small bag of poison around with them.’
‘Pshaw!’ Napham made a contemptuous gesture with his hand and walked to the door as if to leave.
‘Do so,’ Cranston shouted, ‘and I’ll have you arrested, sir! My bailiff’s in the street outside.’
Napham returned.
‘Anyone could have come in here!’ Alcest cried.
‘Anyone?’ Cranston asked. ‘You were here when Ollerton died and any one of you could have visited that tavern and killed Peslep.’
‘But what about Chapler?’ Alcest declared defiantly. ‘Sir John, we can prove that we were carousing in a chamber at the Dancing Pig when our companion died.’
‘Did you like him?’ Cranston asked abruptly.
‘Who?’
‘Chapler. Did you like him? You called him your companion.’
‘He wasn’t one of us,’ Alcest retorted. ‘Ask Master Tibault here. Chapler kept to himself. When the office closed on Saturday morning before the Angelus, he would leave for his beloved sister in Epping.’
‘Was Peslep a rich man?’ Cranston asked.
‘He came of good family.’
Cranston closed his eyes; he felt so tired. He would have loved to question these young men but there was nothing more he could say. No real evidence to work on. The coroner walked to the door.
‘Have the body sheeted,’ he ordered. He thought of the Holy Lamb and then recalled Alcest’s words about the Dancing Pig. He turned, hand on the latch. ‘Master Alcest, the night Chapler died. You left the Chancery of the Green Wax and went straight to the Dancing Pig?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘And you were in a chamber all by yourselves?’
‘Well, with the rest.’
‘And some young ladies? Where were they from?’
Alcest rubbed his mouth.
‘Come on!’ Sir John barked. ‘You hired a group of whores, didn’t you? Young courtesans. Who was the mistress of this troupe?’
‘Nell Broadsheet.’
Cranston grinned. ‘By, sir, you pay well. Broadsheet’s girls are the comeliest and most expensive in London. They keep a house, do they not, near Greyfriars, just past Newgate?’
The young man nodded.
‘Good, then I think I’ll pay her a visit.’
Cranston walked out into the street where Flaxwith leaned against a wall, his ugly dog beside him.
‘Keep that bloody thing away from me!’ Cranston growled. ‘Now, Henry, I’m going to give you a treat. We are going to visit Mistress Broadsheet’s establishment. You know it well?’
The bailiff’s face coloured and he shuffled his feet; even Samson seemed to hang his head a little lower.
‘Henry, Henry!’ Cranston chucked the bailiff under his chin
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