‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cranston asked.

‘God only knows,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And here’s the second: “My first is like a selfish brother.” Did this belong to Peslep?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Havant replied. ‘The assassin must have left it on the corpse. You’d best come and see.’

Cranston and Athelstan thanked the Fisher of Men then followed Havant back out into the streets.

The bells of the city were pealing for midmorning prayers. The traders and their customers ignored this invitation, but had taken a rest for something to eat and drink so the crowds were thinner, the alleyways and lanes easier to manage. Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tired by the time they reached the Ink and Pot. Havant strode like a giant whilst Sir John, eager to accept the challenge, was intent, as always, on showing that he was a puissant knight able to compete with the youngest and the best. A crowd had assembled outside the Ink and Pot tavern, kept back by archers from the Tower wearing the personal escutcheon of John of Gaunt. Havant pushed his way through, spoke to the captain of the guard then led Cranston and Athelstan into the taproom and out across the dirty yard. An archer, gnawing at a chicken bone whilst flirting with Meg the scullion, indicated with his thumb.

‘He’s in there,’ he shouted. ‘The captain pulled up his hose and made him decent. He said no man should be found like that.’

Athelstan opened the door. Peslep was sitting slumped on the privy bench, his jerkin caked in blood from the wound in his neck and the deep sword thrust to his belly.

‘Bring him out,’ he whispered.

Cranston snapped out an order. The archer, assisted by Athelstan, removed the corpse and laid it down upon the cobbles. Athelstan gave absolution and examined the two wounds. He took out the dead man’s purse and emptied the contents out on his hand: there was nothing except a few coins, a pumice stone and a small St Christopher medal.

Athelstan recited the short Office for the Dead, blessed the corpse and got to his feet. The landlord, his face creased in mock sorrow, came out rubbing his hands, eyes rolling heavenwards.

‘Lord have mercy!’ he wailed. ‘Lord have mercy on us all! We’ll all be slain in our beds!’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston growled. ‘Don’t worry, master taverner, the corpse will be removed. You’ll be back to coining your silver within the hour. Now, what has happened?’

‘I sent a runner to the Tower,’ the taverner gabbled. ‘Because he’s Luke Peslep, clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’

‘You didn’t send the boy to the Tower,’ Meg scoffed.

‘For God’s sake, gather your wits,’ Havant snapped. ‘You sent the boy to the Chancery Office off Fleet Street. I was there when he arrived.’

The landlord fluttered his fingers; he took a dirty rag from his greasy apron and mopped his face. ‘Oh Lord, have mercy, Lord, have mercy! You are right, you are right! I kept thinking we should go to the Tower, maybe the French had landed.’

Cranston grasped the man’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘Good friend,’ he said. ‘A royal clerk has been murdered and you are bleating like a lamb.’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ the landlord whined.

‘Too busy watching the customers,’ Meg hinted.

Athelstan beckoned her over and slipped a penny into her callused hand. ‘What did you see, girl?’

She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘As normal, Peslep came in here to break his fast. As normal, he squeezed my tits and sat like a prince stuffing his face and then, as normal, he went out into the jakes to relieve himself.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone leave after him. Simon, the ironmaster, went out, bladder full of ale he had. We hears him screaming. The rest you know’

‘Did you see anyone in the tavern this morning? A stranger?’

The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face. ‘We had some beggars,’ she replied. ‘Oh yes, and a young man.’ She opened one eye and pointed at Havant. ‘He was dressed like you. In good clothes. He carried a war belt, long leather riding boots with spurs on.’

Havant smiled bleakly. ‘But it wasn’t me?’

‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied coyly. ‘You are much more handsome than he.’

‘So you saw his face?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He was clean-shaven,’ Meg responded. ‘But no, Father, I really didn’t have a good look. I was too busy.’

Cranston, who had been swaying on his feet, eyes half-closed, smacked his lips noisily. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he declared. ‘Master taverner,’ he took the coins Athelstan had handed over from Peslep’s purse, ‘have the body removed.’

‘Where to?’

‘Your parish church,’ Cranston retorted, grasping the man’s wrist and squeezing it. ‘Tell the priest there that Sir John Cranston sent it for burial.’

The landlord, followed by Meg, strode away.

‘Why were you at the Chancery Office?’ Cranston asked.

Havant shrugged. ‘The Regent’s orders, Sir John. I was to tell them about Chapler’s corpse being discovered.’

And?’

‘They were upset, sad, then the boy arrived from the tavern.’ Havant looked up at the blue sky. ‘Sir John, I must be going.’ He smiled at Athelstan, spun on his heel and walked back into the taproom.

Cranston sat down on a wooden bench and stared glumly at the corpse whilst Athelstan inspected the yard.

‘You won’t find anything,’ the coroner moaned. ‘This one came like a thief in the night.’

Athelstan went to the back of the privies and opened a small wicket gate which led into a mean alleyway. He looked up and down: at the far end a group of children played with a pet toad watched by a mangy cat; at the other, an empty gap between huddled houses led out into a street. Athelstan closed the wicket gate, returned and sat down beside Sir John.

‘Too many killings,’ the coroner murmured. He rubbed his face. ‘Brother Athelstan, I need refreshments.’ He nudged his companion, who was lost in thought. ‘What are you thinking about, monk?’

‘This friar, Sir John, is mystified, not just by Drayton’s death: we have Chapler knocked on the head and thrown over the bridge, and now Peslep is stabbed to death in a privy.’

‘Which means?’ Cranston asked.

‘These clerks were killed by someone who knew all their habits and customs.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘I wager Chapler was accustomed to praying in the chapel of St Thomas a Becket and, as Meg has just told us, Peslep was in the habit of coming here every morning.’

‘And the killer?’

‘That young man,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He came in here with his war belt. He waited till Peslep went out and followed. It would have been easy: Peslep sitting on the jakes, his hose around his ankles; the door is flung open, a thrust to his stomach followed by one to the neck, then the assassin flees down the alleyway. Come on, Sir John.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. ‘We’ll have refreshment soon enough. Let’s go down to the Chancery Office.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Cranston replied.

‘Sir John?’

‘The deaths of the clerks are important, Brother, but the Regent is breathing down my neck. I want to go back to Drayton’s house. I want to search that counting house from top to bottom.’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘we are in the city now. Chancery Lane is not far away. Drayton’s murder is due to a subtle mind rather than some secret passageway. Moreover,’ he pulled the scrap of parchment out of his purse, ‘why should these riddles be left? What message did the assassin intend to leave? I believe, Sir John, that Peslep and Chapler were killed by one of their number, another clerk. So arise, Sir John, it’s not yet noon.’

Cranston grudgingly conceded, hiding his bitter disappointment at not being able to buy a juicy meat pie in the Holy Lamb of God. They left the Ink and Pot, Cranston barking orders at the landlord about Peslep’s corpse, and made their way up Cheapside, past the Shambles, the noisy meat market outside Newgate prison, then into Holborn Street. For a while they had to pause: a travelling troupe of players had attracted the crowds, those who loafed about the streets or sprawled on church steps. Anyone who had a measure of free time had flocked on to a piece of nearby wasteland to watch the somersaulting, fire-sprouting, rope-dancing guild of entertainers and jugglers. Garishly dressed whores had also clustered around and, as Sir John Cranston was recognised, the occasional catcall was heard, but the braggart boys, cardsharpers and pickpockets stayed well away from him.