Crowner Royal

CHAPTER EIGHT

At supper in the Lesser Hall that evening, even the coming visit of Queen Eleanor was eclipsed as a topic of conversation. Apart from the usual clique around de Wolfe, other diners gravitated as best they could to be within earshot of the coroner, trying glean any titbits of gossip about the notorious theft of the king’s treasure. After vegetable potage and several fish dishes, including grayling, gudgeon and dace, for it was Friday, the eager questioning began. Relaxed after a stressful day by a few cups of wine, de Wolfe saw no reason not to respond, especially as he had very little to tell them.

‘There is no secret about this, for every man-at-arms and kitchen scullion knows as much as I concerning the matter,’ he said in answer to Archdeacon Bernard’s demand.

Ranulf nodded in gloomy agreement. ‘Almost everyone in London will know by now, though the king has yet to learn about it. There’ll be hell to pay if it’s not found before the news gets to him.’

‘We heard only that a fabulous golden treasure had vanished from the Tower!’ said Hawise in a suitably breathless voice.

‘Valuable, but hardly fabulous,’ grunted John. ‘It was part of treasure trove collected from the West Country.’

‘I understand that you had a private audience with the Justiciar after that meeting in the Exchequer,’ said Renaud de Seigneur. De Wolfe wondered how he knew that — the palace grapevine must have been working overtime.

‘It was only to give me a parchment carrying his seal with instructions for all men to give me every assistance in the name of the king,’ replied John. ‘He has commissioned me as Coroner of the Verge to make enquiries as to how this crime was committed and to retrieve the stolen property.’

Hubert Walter had in fact said a great deal more than this, but John was not going to share such confidences with this nosey crowd.

‘It is said that the golden objects vanished from a doubly locked chest, one whose keys were shared between two senior officials,’ persisted Bernard de Montfort. ‘But how could that possibly happen?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘That’s what I’m deputed to discover, God help me!’

Hawise d’Ayncourt, who was sitting opposite him, stretched her shapely leg to touch his calf, almost as if by accident.

‘It seems like a miracle, Sir John,’ she said, her big eyes opening even wider in pretended awe. ‘Do you believe in the supernatural?’

He grinned crookedly. ‘Not when nine hundred pound’s worth of treasure is missing, my lady! Miracles may still occur in the religious world and if a statue of Our Lady begins to weep tears of milk, then I am prepared to accept a bishop’s assurances that it is genuine. But where solid gold is concerned, I remain a confirmed unbeliever!’

Her ankle caressed his leg again and he pulled it back sharply, causing a flicker of annoyance to cloud her face. Then Ranulf, who seemed aware of what was going on beneath the table, intervened with a question.

‘Do you wish for William Aubrey and myself to assist you in this venture, John? We feel as responsible as you, as we were part of the same escort that brought those damned chests to London.’

De Wolfe shook his head. ‘The Justiciar instructed me to carry out this task personally, with only my officer and clerk. He wishes for everyone else to remain outside the investigation, to demonstrate that there can be no partiality, as everyone is both potentially innocent or guilty — even the Constable of the Tower, though he seems highly incensed at being included.’

‘How will you go about this?’ asked Ranulf.

‘I must question everyone involved in the custody of the treasure in the Tower — from the Constable down to each of the guards. Even the Exchequer men like Simon Basset and Treasury clerks cannot be exempt. Anyone who seems to be suspect will be subject to arduous interrogation — even put to the torture if that seems necessary.’

His listeners heard his words in silence, impressed by the sternness of his manner. John de Wolfe was well known for his unswerving devotion to the king and it sounded as if he meant to pursue this quest with ruthless determination.

When he escaped from the inquisitive residents, John waited outside for Ranulf and William and they walked in the cooling evening across the yard at the rear of the palace towards the Marshalsea stables and accommodation where the two men lived.

‘Those people from France seem to have more knowledge of this place than ourselves,’ complained Ranulf. ‘If this rumour about spies is true, then surely they must be the obvious candidates, always wanting to know every detail of what’s going on!’

The younger marshal, William Aubrey, leaned in from the other side of Ranulf to join the debate.

‘Even that priest from the Auvergne seems more concerned with palace politics and scandal than he is with the curing of souls,’ he observed. ‘These days, you never know who to trust.’

De Wolfe shrugged off their concerns. ‘I think they are just bored and ready to feast on any bit of tittle-tattle they can find. The sooner the old queen comes, the better — then we can get this circus on the road and stop staring at our own navels!’

He said much the same thing to Gwyn and Thomas a little later, when they were sitting in the main room of the house in Long Ditch Lane. His main purpose was to discuss how they were to carry out this unwelcome commission that the Justiciar had thrust upon him.

‘We have only a week or so before the court moves off, if Queen Eleanor arrives when they forecast,’ he said. ‘Hubert Walter will not be pleased if nothing is achieved before then.’

‘We can’t be blamed for that,’ complained Gwyn indignantly. ‘The bloody theft was nothing to do with us. We’ve already been cleared of any involvement, thank God.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ said John grimly. ‘In spite of Hubert Walter extolling our good behaviour, if nothing is found before the king gets to hear of it, no one will escape his wrath — not even us.’

‘But we’ve got a cast-iron defence against any accusations,’ protested Gwyn.

‘That’s as may be, but I’ve been saddled with solving the crime, so what are we going to do about it?’ grunted John, reaching for his pot of Aedwulf’s ale.

‘I suppose we had better visit the scene of the crime,’ offered Thomas, hesitantly. ‘I presume the two chests are still there.’

‘The pox-ridden guards may be at the bottom of this,’ growled Gwyn. ‘Surely no one could get into that chamber without a sentry seeing them? It was at the end of a passage and behind a couple of locked doors, with a sentinel outside the outer one.’

Thomas voiced what John was thinking. ‘Then the thief can only be someone who had a right to be in that strongroom. I wonder how big the stolen objects were? Could they be concealed under a cloak or tunic and smuggled out?’

De Wolfe scratched his black stubble, which was due for his weekly shave.

‘The plate was the largest thing. I remember it when the inventory was made in Winchester. Placed flat against a belly or chest, it could be taken out. The other treasures were small enough to be slipped into a deep pocket.’

‘And they were all of gold — the less valuable silver was left behind,’ added Thomas.

The three of them thought about this scenario for a moment.

‘So who would have had legitimate reason to be in the chamber?’ asked Gwyn.

‘The Constable, Herbert de Mandeville, for one,’ replied John. ‘Then Simon Basset, of course, and those knights from the Tower garrison, and a couple of the guards and their sergeant.’

The sharp wits of Thomas pointed out that both the knights and the Tower guards might well be different each time the chamber was visited, as chests were presumably arriving and departing frequently, requiring inventories to be made.

‘We mention Simon Basset, but there are a legion of Treasury and Exchequer barons, clerks and officials who might have reason to enter the room,’ added Thomas.

John groaned. ‘I’ll have to talk to them all, I suppose!’ he muttered. ‘Though no one is going to confess, if it means hanging or disembowelling.’

‘What about this key business?’ asked Gwyn. ‘It could only be someone who has managed to get hold of the correct two keys to the pair of locks on that chest.’

De Wolfe felt a shiver run up his spine. ‘Keys which I had in my possession for only four days,’ he reminded them. ‘Thank Christ the Justiciar has enough faith in me to dismiss any thought of my guilt.’

‘But even if you had the keys now, you had no way of getting into that chamber after the boxes were put there — and we know the contents were intact when we left,’ pointed out Thomas consolingly.

The coroner swallowed the last of his ale with an almost savage gesture and slammed the empty pot on the table.

‘I wish to hell I’d never had to leave Devon,’ he snarled. ‘We had problems enough there, God knows, but nothing like the things these slippery, scheming courtiers seem able to dream up. Sod it, I’m going to bed and hope that tomorrow will put an end to this sorry business!’

Next morning, after Thomas had finished his duties in the abbey, they rode up to the Great Tower, pushing their way through the crowded streets to the extreme eastern end of the great walled city that housed the tens of thousands of inhabitants now overflowing through the six gates into suburbs spreading into the surrounding countryside.

The brooding grey² walls, a reminder of the Conqueror’s power, glowered over them as they approached. John produced his new authority from the Justiciar and dangled the imposing red seal in front of the gate guards. Though none could read it, they unhesitatingly let the coroner inside, where the builders were energetically carrying out King Richard’s order to erect new defences.

At the stables, they left their horses and an ostler took them to the steps up to the main entrance, where again a pair of sentries were impressed by John’s royal warrant. They called a page and he took them up four gloomy flights of stairs built into the thickness of the massive walls. On the second floor, the Constable, who preferred to be known as ‘The Keeper’, had a chamber with a deeply embrasured window that looked out over the river towards Southwark and the bridge.

Herbert de Mandeville did not look pleased to see de Wolfe, as he rose from behind his table.

‘I thought you would be bothering me, sooner or later,’ he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with a crumpled kerchief. It was already very hot in the room, even at the ninth hour of the morning. A tonsured clerk came in from an adjacent office dragging a folding leather chair to the front of the table. At Herbert’s grudging invitation John sat down, leaving his officer and clerk to lurk behind him.

‘I know this is not a welcome exercise, but it has be done,’ began de Wolfe. ‘You saw yesterday that I and those who went to Winchester were paraded in front of you like suspects, so it affects us all.’

The Constable unbent a little at John’s tactful overture.

‘It’s a total mystery to me,’ he snapped. ‘If you can solve it, de Wolfe, then you deserve to be Chief Justiciar yourself, for I’m damned if I can fathom how it was done.’

They then went through the details of how the strongroom below the Tower was protected. De Man-deville eventually pulled out a silver chain from inside the pouch on his belt.’

‘This is attached to a ring sewn inside my scrip,’ he declared. ‘And on the other, there is this key, which never leaves my person, except when I am in bed.’

He held up a small iron key, then rose again and went to a large cupboard fixed to one of the stone walls. It was at least five feet square, but shallow, the edges of the doors being rimmed with iron.

‘This is my key store, where keys to most doors in the Tower are kept,’ he announced, as he opened a padlock which secured a thick hasp, fixed to the doors by metal bolts.

When the doors were opened, John saw dozens of keys of all shapes and sizes, hanging from hooks at the back of the cupboard. Many had dabs of coloured paint on their shanks or rings, some had wooden labels attached by cords and others were identified by slips of parchment tied to them. Some of the keys were almost a foot long, but most were half that size, with complicated wards cut into the metal.

‘And no one else had a key to that cupboard?’ asked John. ‘What happens when you are away or indisposed?’

‘My chief clerk has a copy,’ admitted de Mandeville, rather sheepishly. ‘But I would trust him with my life. He has been here for twenty-four years. And, anyway, in respect of the Exchequer boxes, it is immaterial, as they cannot be opened with my key alone.’

John thought this system had a glaring defect as far as the keys of the Tower were concerned, but had to admit that without the other key held by the Exchequer officials, the chests seemed impregnable. After more fruitless questioning of de Mandeville, he asked to speak to the chief clerk, a white-haired old man with severe disease of his joints. His knuckles were crippled with hard swellings and he shuffled along due to painful stiffness of his hips. However, there was nothing wrong with his brain or his tongue, and he vehemently defended his trustworthiness, claiming that the key to his master’s cupboard never left his person, even in bed. He had never opened the store to anyone without firm authorisation and the keys to the Treasury boxes had never been removed by anyone other than the ‘Keeper’ himself.

De Wolfe abandoned his interrogation and asked to be shown the scene of the crime, the chamber deep in the bowels of the Tower. De Mandeville marched ahead of them, back down the stairs and then through tortuous passages to a narrow spiral staircase that had a small portcullis and a heavy door at its bottom end.

‘This is a weak spot in the defence of the Tower, should it ever be besieged,’ he grunted, as he unlocked the door with a large key he brought from his chamber. ‘Normally, an undercroft is quite isolated from the floors above, but maybe this could be defended by two men against an army, as it’s so narrow.’

At the bottom, a man-at-arms stood on duty in the passage that led to the treasure chamber, and another man with pike and sword guarded the door through which the chests had been taken.

‘I reckon it must have been a bloody miracle after all,’ muttered Gwyn, as they waited for the Constable to unlock the door to the chamber. ‘There’s all these sentries and every damned door is locked. A flaming mouse couldn’t have got in there!’

When the heavy door creaked open, the dim light from the guttering flames of small oil lamps set in niches in the passage walls seeped into the chamber. The soldier took two of these lights and held them high so that the Constable and his guests could see the contents of the room. There were now about a dozen boxes ranged against the walls, some on top of each other.

‘That’s the one, cursed by Satan, I reckon!’ snarled de Mandeville, for his reputation, liberty and possibly his very life had been put at risk by the trouble the chest had caused.

The object of his dislike had been set slightly apart from the others since the loss had been discovered and John recognised it by the different spacing of the iron bands that encircled it. The two padlocks were firmly in place and the box looked innocent enough, in spite of the Constable’s claim that it was cursed.

De Mandeville now brandished another key, which he had brought from his chamber. ‘Here’s mine, try it if you like — but you’ll still not open the damned chest without someone from the Exchequer being present with his key.’

More out of curiosity than necessity, John took the key and inserted it into the padlock, which was as large as his hand. The mechanism operated surprisingly smoothly and the hoop of the lock hinged back easily. John withdrew it from the heavy hasp, but as expected the lid would not lift a hair’s-breadth without the other lock being removed. He replaced the first one and stood up, handing the key back to the Constable.

‘It’s all just as you claimed, Sir Herbert,’ he said sombrely. ‘There’s no way in which this chest could have been opened except by the use of the two keys at the same time.’

‘Maybe there’s a hidden trapdoor in the bottom,’ rumbled Gwyn, meaning to be facetious, but raising a scowl of derision from de Mandeville. However, de Wolfe was determined to leave no possibility unexplored.

‘Is there anything in the chest now?’ he demanded. The Constable assured him that the remaining contents had been locked in another chest, as the security of this one was now in doubt.

‘Right, let’s turn it over,’ he snapped, and with the Constable looking on in surprise he and Gwyn strained to turn the large box first on to its back, then right over on to its top. John carefully examined the whole surface, running his hand over it to look for cracks and tapped it for soundness. He did the same to the sides and ends, then turned it back on to its base and checked the lid. Satisfied, he stood up and smacked dirt from his fingers.

‘Nothing! It had to be opened by the keys. And someone must have had both keys, unless it was a conspiracy between at least two thieves,’ he announced.

De Mandeville glared at him. ‘I trust you are not suggesting that I was involved, de Wolfe?’ he snarled.

John shook his head. ‘I am suggesting nothing. I am just stating the inevitable conclusion that this chest was opened by unlocking it.’

There was nothing more to be gained in the chamber and they retreated, the Constable securing the door and stalking ahead of them. John refused his rather stilted offer of refreshment and they were seen out of the Tower, where they collected their mounts and made their way back into the city. They went past heaving crowds around the markets at Poultry, into Cheapside and on via the great church of St Paul to Ludgate. Here, with some relief, they left the city walls behind and rode more easily along the less congested Strand to Charing and then to Westminster. Thomas hurried off to his beloved abbey and Gwyn vanished to an alehouse, leaving John to enjoy his dinner alone. The afternoon was enlivened by the coroner being called to a knife-fight between two cooks in the palace kitchens, but as neither was badly injured, John decided not to make an official case of assault, but consigned both men to the custody of the Master at Arms, instructing him to lock them up for a week.

Next day, Thomas forsook the abbey refectory and ate with de Wolfe and Gwyn in Long Ditch. Over fat bacon with onions and carrots, followed by a blancmange of almond milk and shredded chicken, flavoured with spices, Thomas enquired what the next move was in his master’s investigation.

‘We’ve talked to one key-holder, so the obvious thing is to speak to the other,’ replied the coroner, digging bacon strands from between his teeth. ‘I understand that Simon Basset lives in one of those houses in King Street, but first we’ll see if he’s in the Treasury this afternoon.’

When they had finished their dinner with maslin bread and a hunk of hard yellow cheese, washed down with cider, they walked back to the palace. The day was still hot and sultry with a distant rumble of thunder coming from the Kentish Weald. At the entrance to the Receipt of Exchequer building, the sentry saluted John with a fist across his chest, the other hand holding the shaft of a long pike. Inside it was cooler under the high ceiling, below which a dozen clerks worked at desks and tables, penning lists of accounts on a multitude of parchments.

Thomas recognised an elderly clerk sitting alone at a table facing the doorway and went across to make enquiries. After a short conversation, he came back to de Wolfe.

‘Simon Basset is not here, Crowner. He was expected this morning to deal with certain matters, but has not appeared.’

‘Did you learn where we might find him?’

‘The chief clerk suggests that we try him at home. He might be indisposed, which is why he did not appear,’ said Thomas.

‘Maybe he’s quit the realm, with a bagful of gold trinkets!’ suggested Gwyn, with his usual black humour. John scowled, such jokes might be too near the truth to be funny.

‘Let’s find the bloody man, then. We can walk that far, even in this damned heat.’

They walked across New Palace Yard to the main gate into King Street and went back along the road that they had ridden down a couple of hours earlier.

‘Did that clerk give you exact directions, Thomas?’

‘He said it was the last dwelling on the left side of the road, before the bridge over the Clowson Brook.’ This was a branch of the Tyburn, running northwards through the abbey grounds, one of the many brooks that drained the marshes.

They passed a row of dwellings, some with shopfronts, the shutters on the downstairs windows folding down to act as display counters for merchandise — shoes, harness, candles, leather belts and a host of other things. Most of the buildings here were two-storeyed, some with upper floors projecting into the street. The little bridge was a single small arch and beyond it the houses were larger and grander, all stone-built. On the opposite side, even larger houses lined the street, where the more exalted members of the Westminster community lived.

‘This must be the one, it has a Madonna over the door,’ said Thomas, crossing himself at the sight of a small gaudily painted statue of the Virgin in a niche above the front entrance. The house was well kept but not ostentatiously large. It was a narrow building of whitewashed cob between heavy oak frames, roofed with stone slates. A small yard with a hitching rail for horses lay between the edge of King Street and the house. A narrow path ran around each side to the backyard, the stream being on one side in a deep culvert.

Gwyn banged on the heavy front door and soon the shaven scalp of a young man in lower holy orders appeared, looking rather nervously through the gap.

‘We seek your master, is he at home?’ demanded de Wolfe, after identifying himself as the Coroner of the Verge.

The door opened wider and the thin shape of the servant stood in his black tunic, rubbing his hands anxiously.

‘He is not here, sir. Have you any news of him?’

John stared at the fellow. ‘What do you mean? Why should I have news of him?’

Another figure appeared in the short passage behind the door, this time another cleric, but a man of early middle age and portly appearance. His fleshy face looked troubled as John explained that he was looking for Canon Basset.

‘Please come inside, Sir John, I will explain.’

He led the way through a heavy leather door-drape into a comfortable, almost opulent room, where padded benches, a table and several carved chairs indicated that this was well above the usual standard of furnishing. The bareness of the whitewashed walls was relieved by fine tapestry hangings, depicting classical battle scenes and religious events. An ornate gilded crucifix was the only evidence that this was the residence of a canon of Lichfield and his entourage.

‘I am Gilbert, the canon’s chaplain. Please be seated, coroner.’ Again, Gwyn and Thomas were left standing, but after Gilbert’s instruction to the lay brother to fetch refreshments, they were invited to a brocade-covered bench against a wall and included in the offer of ale, wine and pastries.

De Wolfe suffered these formalities impatiently, then returned to his need to speak to the Exchequer official.

‘I am in some difficulty over that, I fear,’ replied Gilbert, anxiously. ‘We have not seen him since yesterday morning. He did not return home last evening and failed to appear again today.’

A small bell of alarm began to chime in John’s head. ‘Is that unusual for him?’ he asked.

‘It is indeed, he is a man of most regular habits. He never misses a meal, as we have one of the best cooks in Westminster.’

‘Where was he yesterday later on? Do you know anything of his movements?’

The chaplain shook his head. ‘Martin, his steward, might be aware of those, but he is out at present — riding the roads between here and the city, in case the canon has come to some harm there.’

‘The city? Was he going into London yesterday?’

Gilbert lifted his shoulders in a gesture. ‘I did hear some talk of it when we came back from attending Prime at St Margaret’s. But Martin would know.’

Further questions confirmed that no one in the household had any idea of where their master had gone. When the steward returned a short while later, he was unable to shed any light on the disappearance, but it was obvious that the chaplain and servants were worried about Simon Basset’s vanishing act, especially if it was going to affect their comfortable life in this very desirable residence.

‘There was no sign of him along the roads,’ said Martin, a strongly built man with a black beard. ‘He mentioned the previous evening that he might have to ride into the city sometime in the day, but he didn’t say where he was going — and I’m not sure if he went or not.’

John sighed — this investigation seemed to run into the sand at every turn, like his inquest on Basil. He tried again.

‘Let’s get this straight! Your master went off yesterday morning, presumably by horse?’

‘Yes, I saw him trotting off up the Royal Way, so I presumed he was going to the city and probably to the Great Tower, where the Treasury stores some of its valuables.’

‘We were there yesterday and I am sure that the Constable would have mentioned if Canon Simon had been there, as his name was central to our discussions,’ countered John. ‘So it seems unlikely that he went to the Tower.’

Martin scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Of course, he could have gone anywhere in that direction,’ he mused. ‘Anywhere at all in the city — or he could have turned at Charing and gone up to the Oxford Road. Or maybe he called at some religious house on the way — the Templars, even.’

‘Why the Temple?’

‘The king has a great partiality for the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon, as well as for their money, for he borrows greatly from them. The Exchequer has considerable dealings with them, my master visited them frequently to arrange or repay loans. In addition, some of the Treasury bullion is often stored in their vaults for safety.’

John knew that a steward was privy to much that went on in the household, but he seemed unusually well apprised of national finances.

‘So he could have gone to the Temple?’ he queried.

Martin turned up his hands in a Gallic gesture. ‘Of course! But he could equally have gone to a score of places elsewhere.’

This was getting them nowhere, so the coroner drew the questioning to a close and rose from the chair to leave.

‘But in all this,’ he concluded, ‘the strange aspect is that the canon did not say that he might be away for a time — nor did he later send any message that he would be delayed in returning home?’

Martin and the chaplain both nodded. ‘It is most unusual, which is why we are so concerned. What shall we do, Sir John? Should we inform the Lord Treasurer and the other lords of Exchequer?’

‘I’ll do that myself, as soon as I get back to the palace,’ promised de Wolfe. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest that you send to the New Temple and any other likely places, to see if Simon Basset is there or has been there in the last day. If you have any news, be sure to notify me at once, d’you hear!’

His tone made it clear that he wanted his orders carried out promptly and with that he led his pair of assistants out of the house, leaving a worried and apprehensive household behind him.

With an absentee Chancellor, as well as an absentee king, de Wolfe decided to consult the Chief Justiciar about Simon Basset’s disappearance. However, he was told that Hubert Walter was across the river, inspecting the progress of his pet project. This was the building of a palace for himself in Lambeth as a London residence, as it was said that he wanted a magnificent house to spite his rival, the Bishop of London. The two major churches, one at Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral, were in competition for funds and the expression ‘robbing Peter to pay Paul’ had arisen from the names of their respective patron saints. Any prospect of seeing Hubert Walter that day was dashed when his clerks said that he was riding to Canterbury and would be absent for at least four days.

De Wolfe turned instead to the Keeper of the Palace, but found that Nathaniel de Levelondes was preoccupied with the coming royal visit and the move of the whole court to Gloucester.

‘Report it to the Lord Treasurer,’ he muttered absently. ‘He’s in charge of all those money-grubbers.’

Frustrated, de Wolfe went back to the Exchequer building at the other end of the palace, but the chief clerk told him that the Treasurer had gone back to his estates in Northamptonshire.

‘Have you any idea where Canon Basset may have gone?’ he demanded of the old clerk. ‘His household have had no news of him since yesterday morning.’

Once again, enquiries were made among the other clerks sitting at their desks, but no one had any suggestions.

‘Did he not have duties here each day?’ demanded the coroner.

The grey-haired official shook his head. ‘We are busiest when the sheriffs come to pay in their county taxes, but between times the senior officials attend only when there is something specific to be done. Canon Simon should have been here this morning to peruse and sign some documents, but they can wait until he appears.’

Cursing under his breath, John went up to his chamber facing the river, where Gwyn and Thomas were waiting. He told them of his fruitless attempts to arouse some interest in the disappearance of the man who had the only other key to the notorious treasure chest.

‘I wouldn’t give a damn about the fellow himself, if it weren’t for the fact that I have been saddled with this commission from the Justiciar to investigate the theft,’ he fumed.

‘Maybe that clerk down at the front is right,’ soothed Gwyn. ‘Perhaps come Monday morning, he’ll turn up as usual.’

The coroner marched impatiently up and down the room, his back hunched and his head jutting forwards. The swept-back black hair, which he wore unfashion-ably long, bounced on the collar of his grey tunic and once again Thomas was reminded of a large crow strutting about the garden.

‘Where the hell can he have gone?’ he rasped. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, but short of searching every house in London, there’s little we can do.’

In the afternoon, de Wolfe restlessly rode with Gwyn back to the canon’s house, where still no news of him had been received by the anxious servants. Getting a description of Simon’s horse — a grey mare with a white blaze on her forehead — the pair rode as far as the New Temple and made enquiries of the porter there. The man knew Canon Simon from previous visits, but was quite definite that he had not called in the past day or two.

From lack of any other inspiration, de Wolfe walked his horse around a number of byways, going up from the village of Charing to the high road which ran westward from Holbourn and then on to Tyburn, where he and his officer stopped for a few moments to look at the large elm trees that now competed with Smithfield as an execution ground. The first customer a couple of months ago had been the rebel William fitz Osbert, known as Longbeard, whose capture and hanging had brought Hubert Walter into such disfavour. But there was no sign anywhere of Simon Basset nor of his horse, so a dispirited de Wolfe followed a direct track across the marshes to where the great bulk of the abbey and palace stood up against the sultry sky.

Thankfully, that night during supper in the Lesser Hall there was no discussion about the canon, as for once, the palace gossip machine had failed to pick up the news. John was spared interrogation, but he suspected that the disappearance of someone so directly linked to the theft of the treasure would not remain a secret for long.

With a choice of boiled capon, salmon, pork ribs and a range of vegetables from leeks to parsnips, John was busy filling his stomach, but was obliged for courtesy’s sake to attend to Hawise as well. She had managed to sit opposite her husband, and next to John, her hip pressed against his as he gallantly sliced pieces of chicken to put on her trencher. The Lesser Hall sported tablecloths, instead of the usual scrubbed oak boards and the large bread trenchers were placed on oblongs of wood to spare the spoiling of the linen beneath.

They had each already finished a wooden bowl of potage, a soup of vegetables in stock, thickened with oatmeal, and Hawise was gaily protesting at the amount of food John was serving her.

‘You are intent upon making me fat, Sir John!’ she gushed. ‘I’ll need a stronger horse to carry me when we ride to Gloucester!’

The warmth of her thigh moving against his distracted him so much that he dropped a chicken leg and cursed as a large stain of gravy spread on the pristine cloth. The woman giggled and briefly touched his leg under the table.

‘You seem out of temper this evening, John! No doubt you’re missing that blonde Saxon who shared your bed recently!’ She failed to keep the jealous pique out of her voice.

The pert remark made John realize that he had not given much thought to Hilda these past few days, as the theft of the treasure and now Simon Basset’s vanishing trick had fully occupied his mind. He tried to think of a suitably cutting response to Hawise, who was now resting her fingers on his thigh, as she ate with her other hand. But her husband cut in with a return to the old topic.

‘Have you made any progress in finding the miscreant who stole the king’s gold?’ he asked in a semi-bantering tone. Archdeacon Bernard leaned forward from the other side of Ranulf, who was next to Hawise’s silent maidservant. ‘Give the man a chance, he’s only been at the task for two days! No doubt you suspect someone in the Great Tower itself?’

‘I certainly have a new path to pursue, but you will appreciate that I have to keep such matters strictly confidential,’ said de Wolfe. At least I’ve told the truth, he thought wryly — the fact that at present his new path led nowhere, need not be voiced to these inquisitive creatures. He was finding the touch of Hawise’s fingers quite pleasant, but almost reluctantly he slid his own hand under the edge of the tablecloth and gently replaced hers on her lap. As he did so, he briefly felt the warmth of her skin through the silken gown and a frisson of desire rippled through him. For her part, Lady de Seigneur gave a petulant pursing of her lips and once again John thought her husband must either be half-blind or uncaring about her flirting.

They finished the meal with a flagon of white wine from the Loire, accompanied by dried figs and apricots, then drifted out of the Lesser Hall. As Hawise was towed away by her husband towards the stairs to the guest quarters, she gave John a doleful look of longing to which he responded with a faint smile.

‘She’ll have the breeches off you yet, John!’ murmured Ranulf, as they went out into the evening light of the Palace Yard. John had arranged to meet Gwyn in the alehouse a little later, so to pass the time, he suggested to Ranulf that they took a walk along the riverbank. Passing the stables and all the less impressive parts of the back end of the palace, they went through the gate in the wall that formed the southern limit of the enclave and crossed the small bridge across the Tyburn. The marshy flats along the edge of the Thames had dried out in the recent hot weather and sheep and goats, tended by an occasional shepherd, were dotted about the wide, flat area. They walked towards the edge of the river, where a narrow path ran above the slope down to the high-water mark, now exposing a wide shelf of mud leading to the dark water.

‘Do you think she’s like that with all men?’ asked John ruminatively, taking up Ranulf’s earlier remark.

The marshal shook his head and grinned. ‘She’s not set her cap at me, has she?’ he countered. ‘It’s you that the Lady Hawise is inflamed about. I wish it was me, I’m more than a little jealous!’

The smile he gave took any rancour from his jibe.

‘Even if I was inclined to oblige her,’ said John. ‘There’s always that dumpy husband of hers to contend with.’

Ranulf stopped and stared at the sky, where thunderclouds still massed on the far horizon. ‘I get the feeling that Lord Renaud isn’t all that bothered about his wife’s fidelity,’ he murmured. ‘I’d be there like a shot if I had any encouragement.’

De Wolfe was dubious. ‘Why should he have that attitude?’ he asked. ‘She is an uncommonly attractive woman. You’d think a plain older man like him would keep her on a short rein.’

‘Unless they have hidden motives,’ suggested Ranulf darkly. John came to a sudden halt on the path and turned to face his friend. ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

The under-marshal looked left and right as if checking that he could not be overheard, though the nearest thing on legs was a sheep a hundred yards away.

‘We get to hear things at the stables, people coming and going on official business. There is a spy scare on at the moment, according to one of our men, who overheard some barons and earls he was escorting on a barge up to Windsor.’

‘Spying on what? And how can that concern me and a flighty dame who should know better?’

They began to walk slowly back to the abbey and palace that loomed before them, Ranulf continuing with his tale.

‘My gossip also tells me that one of the reasons for Queen Eleanor’s visit is for her to impress on the Royal Council the real threat of an invasion from France — and also to dissuade her errant son John from becoming involved again in support for Philip Augustus. Naturally, the French want to know what the official reaction is and to know if military precautions are being taken along the coast of Kent and Sussex.’

‘And how could that affect me? I am a coroner, I know nothing about politics or troop dispositions!’

‘You have the ear of the Justiciar — and are known to be a favourite of the king himself, after the good service you gave him at the Crusade. When a spy is short of contacts, he or she latches on to the best option — and you are a good target in that respect.’

De Wolfe stared at Ranulf in disbelief. ‘Are you trying to tell me that the de Seigneurs are covert agents of France?’

The marshal shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility. I know that warnings have been circulating for months that there are spies in England.’

‘There are always spies in England — and always have been! Just as we have spies in France and every other country,’ said John scornfully.

‘I’m just repeating what I’ve heard,’ answered Ranulf mildly. ‘Perhaps Renaud de Seigneur plans to catch you pleasuring his wife, so that he can blackmail you into revealing the secrets of the realm!’ he added mischievously

‘He’ll be in for a great disappointment, then,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘I’ve cuckolded better men than him.’

Thinking it time that he turned the talk away from himself, he delved a little into his companion’s life.

‘What about you, friend? You cannot be married if you live in that bachelor den over the stables.’

‘I was wedded years ago, but my wife died in childbed, as did the infant.’

‘Have you not remarried, then? You are still young, not yet thirty, I would guess.’

Ranulf shook his head. ‘I enjoy life as it is, John. I do not lack for female company when I desire it, but enjoy men’s pursuits, like gambling on dice, dog-fighting and the like. I also follow the tournaments in a modest way, though I can’t yet afford to equip myself sufficiently to enter the lists in any of the great tourneys.’

John, who had also dabbled in jousting in his earlier days, knew of the passion that some men had for tourneys. Fortunes could be made — and lost — on the tourney fields, as the horses and armour of the losers were forfeited to the winners, as well as heavy wagering on the results.

‘What about young William Aubrey?’ asked John. ‘Is he another merry bachelor?’

‘He is indeed, never having married. But he is twenty-one and has little prospect of inheritance, as he is the fifth son of a manor-lord in Somerset.’ He grinned as he thought of William’s cheerful nature. ‘He is another keen one for the girls, but he has youth on his side. Also, he shares my fondness for a wager, though ratting is his game.’

‘You’ll both have to be on your best behaviour when the old queen arrives,’ observed de Wolfe. ‘All the organisation of travel is your responsibility, I gather.’

Ranulf became serious at the prospect. ‘Yes, though under the direction of William the Marshal himself, when he arrives. We have half a dozen under-marshals here and a legion of ostlers, grooms, farriers and wheelwrights to keep the cavalcade on the road, once we leave Westminster.’

They crossed the stream and entered the gate into Old Palace Yard. Just before they parted, John told him about Simon Basset, as the under-marshal was almost as involved as himself in the matter of the stolen treasure.

‘It’s not common knowledge yet, but Canon Simon seems to have disappeared,’ he said. ‘I wanted to question him about access to the chests in the Tower, but he appears to have vanished off the face of the earth. No one in his household or in the Exchequer has any news of him.’

Ranulf’s expression showed his concern. ‘But along with the Constable, he’s the most likely suspect, given that he has at least half the keys necessary,’ he said. ‘Do you think he’s fled the country with a sack full of gold?’

De Wolfe shrugged. ‘It seems a little unlikely that a respectable canon would give up his life in England for nine hundred pounds, though that’s a lot of money. And he’s left behind a valuable house and possessions, as well as a position of influence and prestige.’

‘Maybe he’s just having a few days and nights with a secret mistress,’ suggested Ranulf. They both laughed at the thought of the portly canon indulging in some passionate affair, but as John said farewell and walked off to meet Gwyn, he wondered whether that was a possible explanation.