Herald of Hell

PART TWO

‘Mithras: the Roman Sun-God beloved by the Legions until the Emperor Constantine replaced him with Christ’s Cross.’

Oliver Lebarge crouched on the mercy seat in the sanctuary enclave at St Erconwald’s. The scrivener was in mortal fear for his life. The pillars of his humdrum existence had collapsed all about him with the mysterious and unexpected death of his patron, his magister, Amaury Whitfield. Teeth chattering, Lebarge pulled his cloak closer about him. He felt in the pockets of his grease-stained jerkin and fingered the dirty piece of parchment he had found close to the enclave. It was crumpled and stained, but Lebarge still recognized the threat it carried: a crude but clear drawing of a human eye and beneath it in doggerel Latin, the ominous words, ‘Semper nos spectantes – We are always watching.’ Whitfield and he had received similar warnings at the Golden Oliphant, left on the bolsters of their beds or thrust beneath their chamber doors. Like those others, Lebarge would push this one down the jakes’ hole. The scrivener wondered who was responsible, but, there again, that was a measure of his own stupidity. He had fled to St Erconwald’s because its priest, the Dominican Athelstan, was regarded as a man of integrity, the secretarius of Sir John Cranston, who could also be trusted. However, the parishioners of St Erconwald’s were another matter. The Upright Men had their adherents here, high-ranking ones, even captains of their companies. Lebarge had glimpsed different individuals slip through the rood screen and stare up at him. The scrivener picked up the tankard and sipped from it. He was grateful for the Dominican’s kindness. Before the friar had left, Lebarge had begged him that only those whom the priest trusted should feed him, and this had been agreed. Victuals and drink had been brought by either the beautiful widow woman Benedicta, with her black hair and soulful eyes, or that tousle-haired urchin, the altar boy, Crim, who, like Benedicta, insisted on handing the tray of food and drink directly to him.

Lebarge did not trust anyone, not now. After Amaury had died in such a mysterious fashion, what was the use of going back to that narrow garret in Fairlop Lane, or worse, being dragged down to the dark dungeons of the Tower to be questioned by Thibault and his henchmen? He and Amaury had shaken the dust from their feet and drunk the cup to its dregs. No, it would be best, Lebarge reflected, if he sheltered here for the statutory forty days then allowed himself to be escorted to the nearest port and shipped to Dordrecht or some other port in Hainault or Flanders. Once there, he could offer his skill as a scrivener, settle down and begin a new life.

He drew comfort from such thoughts as he recalled what had happened at the Golden Oliphant. He could not truly understand it. Amaury had been so determined. They had discussed what to do after that mysterious figure, the Herald of Hell, had delivered his warning. They had stripped their chambers, made ready to leave, then both he and Amaury had joined the revelry of Cokayne at the brothel. Odo Gray had appeared and all was settled. He and Whitfield had both visited the Tavern of Lost Souls and completed their business. So why had Amaury allegedly killed himself? Or was it, as Lebarge suspected, murder? There had been no warning the previous evening. Lebarge had been in the taproom, the Golden Hall, roistering with the rest, whispering with Hawisa, Whitfield with Joycelina. Then Amaury, much the worse for wear, even though Lebarge suspected he had other secret business to attend to, had staggered upstairs with Joycelina, saying that he needed an early sleep. She had returned almost immediately, claiming Amaury was intent on sleep. Lebarge followed suit at least an hour after the chimes of midnight. He had tried Whitfield’s door but it was secure, the eyelet sealed as was the keyhole when he peered through it. Lebarge had taken a goblet of wine up, drunk it and enjoyed a refreshing night’s sleep until roused by Master Griffin announcing that victuals were being prepared in the kitchen. He needed no second invitation. Mistress Cheyne had promised him his favourites; simnel cakes, fresh and hot from the oven smeared with butter and honey. Lebarge had been feasting on these when he noticed Amaury had not appeared. Joycelina had left to rouse him and the nightmare had descended. He could not believe the dire news which trickled down. Even Hawisa could provide no comfort.

Lebarge shifted on the mercy seat and peered across the sanctuary, alert to the sounds beyond the rood screen. He started as a shadow flittered, only to sigh with relief: Bonaventure, the one-eyed tom cat, bosom friend of the Dominican Athelstan. The cat waged unceasing war on the vermin which apparently plagued this church, or so Radegund had informed him. Lebarge again supped from the tankard of light ale resting on the floor before him. In fact, where was Radegund? The relic seller had taken sanctuary, apparently fleeing from some irate customer. Radegund had proved to be a thoroughgoing nuisance, asking Lebarge a litany of questions, flitting like a bat around the sanctuary until two leading parishioners had appeared, Pike the Ditcher and Watkin the Dung Collector. From snatches of conversation which Lebarge overheard, Watkin, Pike and Radegund had been gleeful at the news that the relic seller’s most recent victim had been one of John of Gaunt’s household. They offered to shelter him and the relic seller, cloaked and cowled, had slipped out of sanctuary. As he left, Radegund had thrown dagger glances at Lebarge, and the scrivener now wondered why. He thought he would be safe here – after all, it was not far from Hawisa and the Golden Oliphant …

To distract himself, Lebarge rose and walked around the sanctuary, studying the different paintings. Some of these looked eerie in the half-light pouring through the lancet windows. Hellish scenes: the Garden of Eden after the fall with a giant mollusc shell ready to snap shut on Adam and Eve. A tainted paradise illuminated by the colour of dangling jewels, yet the gemstones were sharply spiked, whilst deep in the foliage berry-headed half-demons hunted a hawk-billed raven perched on a huge apple. Lebarge stared. He recalled a recent story from Annecy in France about an apple which emitted such strange and confused noises that people believed it was full of demons and belonged to a witch who had failed to give it to someone. Lebarge glanced away. He must keep his wits sharp and not allow his imagination to drag him deeper into fear.

He wandered over to peer through the lattice window of the rood screen. Shapes and shadows moved around. He glimpsed Giles of Sempringham, better known as the Hangman of Rochester, deep in conversation with the tar-hooded Ranulf the Rat-Catcher and Moleskin the Bargeman. Lebarge shivered. A deep chill of ghostly fear gripped him. He had fled here to be safe, free from Thibault’s questioning, protected from the nightmare of Amaury’s corpse swinging by its neck, the pestering of Adam Stretton, the ominous warnings of the Upright Men. He recalled that greasy scrap of parchment with its horrid symbol of the all-seeing eye. Was he being watched by Thibault or the Upright Men? Would someone deal out sudden, brutal death to him, here in this holy place? Lebarge chewed on his nails and stared up at the sanctuary cross. Was it too late, he wondered, to pray for salvation in this world as well as the next …?

Adam Stretton swaggered into the Exchequer Chamber of the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan recognized the type immediately: the mailed clerk, the henchman, the professional killer, a seasoned soldier who could quote the Sentences of Aquinas as well as wield sword and dagger. Keen-eyed and swarthy faced, a little fleshy, his black hair cropped close on all sides to ease the war helmet he would don in battle. Clean-shaven and sharp in movement, Stretton peered at Athelstan from under heavy-lidded eyes as his be-ringed fingers fluttered above a warbelt with sword and dagger as well as a pouch for ink horn and quill. Stretton slouched down on the settle, flicking at the dust on his murrey-coloured jerkin and hose, moving now and again so the spurs on his high-heeled riding boots clinked noisily.

‘Are you preparing to leave?’ Cranston asked. ‘In which case you are most mistaken.’

‘My Lord of Arundel …’

‘My Lord of Arundel.’ Cranston smacked both hands down on the table. ‘My Lord of Arundel,’ he repeated, ‘will have to wait. You, sir, shall not leave this brothel until we are satisfied as to the truth of what happened here.’

Stretton licked thin, almost bloodless lips, his slit of a mouth twisted in protest.

‘Why are you here, Master Stretton?’ Athelstan asked quietly. ‘Just tell us.’

‘For the Cokayne Festival.’

‘For the delights of the flesh?’ Athelstan queried. ‘Master Stretton, I doubt that. I believe,’ Athelstan lifted a hand, ‘that you, a mailed clerk, the esteemed henchman of a great lord, did not come here just for revelry.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I wonder, I truly do.’

‘What?’ Stretton had lost some of his arrogant certainty.

‘Well,’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Cranston. ‘Master Thibault is Gaunt’s henchman. Amaury Whitfield was Thibault’s creature, his principal chancery clerk. My Lord of Arundel, by his own proclamation, is Gaunt’s heart’s blood opponent. True? Well?’ Athelstan smiled at this arrogant clerk. ‘Did you come here to meet Master Whitfield? To negotiate with him, to suborn him, to learn his master’s secrets?’ Athelstan sat back. He and Cranston had discussed this while they had broken their fast on some delicious simnel cake and a pot of ale. Cranston strongly believed that Stretton was a ‘Master of Politic’ and that it was no coincidence that he had lodged at a brothel along with Thibault’s principal chancery clerk.

‘Well?’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Stretton, I could put you on oath and, if you lie, indict you for perjury …’

‘I came here,’ Stretton made himself more comfortable on the settle, ‘to revel, but also because I – we – learned that Whitfield also liked to attend such festivities. My Lord of Arundel felt it might be profitable to fish in troubled waters. I did keep Whitfield and his close-eyed scrivener Lebarge under sharp watch.’ Stretton paused as if to collect his thoughts, determined to be prudent about what he said.

‘Under sharp watch?’ Cranston queried, taking a slurp from the miraculous wineskin. ‘So, what did he do?’

‘Revel, as did Lebarge, with the ladies of the night.’

‘Who in particular?’

Stretton blew his cheeks out. ‘Whitfield with Joycelina, Lebarge with one of the others. I forget now.’

‘You forget so you can question her later?’ Cranston tapped the table. ‘I want her name.’

‘Hawisa. I think it was Hawisa.’

‘How did Whitfield appear?’

‘Frightened and, despite the wine and wenching, he seemed to grow more cowed and withdrawn.’

‘Why?’

‘I do not know.’

‘So why did you say that?’

‘Whitfield drank a great deal,’ Stretton replied. ‘He was often by himself. He kept rubbing his stomach as if his belly was agitated. Sometimes he disappeared. He left the tavern, slipping out like a shadow and returning just as furtively. But, why and where he went?’ Stretton gabbled quickly to fend off Athelstan’s next question, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he have any visitors?’

‘None that I saw.’

‘And he knew who you were?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Stretton conceded, ‘Whitfield and I had met before. He recognized me for what I am …’

‘Fitzalan of Arundel’s man, body and soul,’ Cranston intervened, ‘in peace and war.’

‘You have travelled the same road as I, Sir John. Arundel is my liege lord.’

‘And Arundel is my Lord of Gaunt’s arch-enemy,’ Cranston jibed. ‘We are correct, Stretton. You came here to suborn and subvert Whitfield.’

‘And I failed; the man was too distracted.’

‘And yesterday evening?’ Cranston demanded.

‘I was with the rest, in the taproom, what they ridiculously call the Golden Hall. Whitfield and Lebarge were present.’ Stretton sniffed. ‘Whitfield left for the stairs, Joycelina went with him, Lebarge continued drinking. Joycelina returned fairly swiftly.’ Stretton’s voice was now monotonous. ‘I retired to bed. I was roused for the morning meal, I came down. Lebarge was already there feeding his face on simnel cake, for which he is so greedy. Eventually Lebarge asked where his master was. The Mistress of the Moppets sent up her chief whore.’ Stretton did not hide the contempt in his voice. ‘She came clattering back all breathless about not being able to rouse Whitfield. Cheyne told us to stay with Griffin; she and Joycelina left the kitchen. We later heard the banging, then those labourers came down.’

‘And?’

‘Oh, chaos ensued.’

‘What about Lebarge?’

‘He slipped away.’

‘Did you go up to the death chamber?’

‘Yes, I did, whilst waiting for Thibault and his coven of …’ Stretton licked his lips and grinned, ‘… his henchmen to arrive. I glimpsed Whitfield, cloaked and booted, swinging like a felon at Tyburn.’

‘Suicide, in your opinion?’

‘Sir John,’ Stretton wagged a finger, ‘Whitfield did not commit suicide. Oh,’ he sat back as if enjoying himself, ‘I cannot tell you anything more – just a feeling. I stared at the corpse of a man dressed for leaving rather than a toper garbed in his nightshirt eager to die. But,’ he shrugged, ‘the full truth of it I cannot say. Am I done now?’

Cranston glanced at Athelstan, who nodded. Arundel’s man rose, bowed and, with Cranston’s shouted warning not to leave the Golden Oliphant ringing out behind him, sauntered out of the chamber.

Matthias Camoys came next. He was the opposite to Stretton, almost stumbling in to meet Cranston and Athelstan. He was pinch-faced and slender with a toper’s flushed, swollen nose and constantly blinking eyes. His sandy hair, wispy moustache and beard did little to improve his appearance. The same could be said for his loose-fitting, ill-hung, ermine-lined scholar’s gown. Matthias seemed more like a monk who’d donned a hair shirt, shoulders constantly twitching against some vexatious scratching. To Athelstan he appeared ill at ease in his own flesh: he kept fingering a small cross on a silver chain round his scrawny neck, his fingers all dirty, the nails close bitten. He sat himself down on the cushioned settle. Athelstan peered closer; he was sure the cross Matthias was wearing was a miniature replica of the Cross of Lothar. The questioning began. Matthias’ answers were desultory, like a prisoner forced to admit certain facts. He confessed to enjoying the Cokayne revels, as well as being a frequent visitor to the Golden Oliphant and a patron of a number of what he called, ‘the delicious Moppets’. A scholar from the halls of Oxford, he claimed he was here for the May festivals, though Athelstan suspected the masters of the university had sent him home for lack of study. It soon became obvious that yesterday evening Matthias Camoys had been deep in his cups and could remember very little except being helped up to his chamber by two doxies who had fumbled with him before he fell into a wine-soaked sleep.

‘And this morning?’ Cranston asked.

Matthias’ reply was as banal as the rest. He had awoken all mawmsy and staggered down to the refectory. He confessed to being so inebriated that he’d failed to realize what was happening.

‘Did you know Whitfield?’

‘Oh, yes, Sir John. My father mentioned him and, of course, he often came to our house on his master’s business. I also met him at festivities held in the Royal Chambers both at the Tower and Westminster. I recognized him as a skilled cipher clerk, that’s the real reason I came here.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Athelstan replied.

‘Oh, yes, Brother. I like the wine, the sack, the roast, spice-laced pork and the ladies, but …’ Now all animated, Matthias sprang to his feet and walked over to the mantelpiece and pointed at the carvings, ‘IHSV’ and the Sun in Splendour with its inscription, ‘Soli Invicto’. ‘I have always been fascinated by these.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘When Uncle Reginald was alive, he showed me the Cross of Lothar. Brother, Sir John, believe me, I have never seen anything so beautiful. Beautiful,’ he repeated, returning to the settle. ‘Uncle promised …’ The young man brushed the tears brimming in his eyes.

‘What did he promise?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘He said he would bequeath it to me but I would have to strive and search for it. These riddles are the key, that’s why I come here. I thought Amaury would decipher them. He promised he would, but …’

‘But what?’ Cranston asked.

‘Amaury arrived all frightened and closeted himself against the world. He took part in the revelry but he was distracted. I asked him about the symbols my uncle had left. Amaury claimed he could decipher them but there were more pressing matters …’

‘Did he say what?’

‘He and Lebarge hid behind a cloak of secrecy.’ Matthias thrummed his lips with dirty fingers. ‘He left, I think, to go to the Tavern of Lost Souls.’

Athelstan glanced at Cranston. The Tavern of Lost Souls lay in the dingiest and darkest part of Southwark, close to the treacherous mud flats along the Thames, a place where, according to popular legend, anything could be bought or sold, including human souls.

‘Why should he go there?’

Matthias scratched his head. ‘I don’t know, but what I find most strange is this. I pestered him about “Uncle’s great mystery”, as I called it. I told him about the insignia here where Reginald once lived and in his chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow. I admit I drove Amaury to distraction. He kept fobbing me off and went to sit in a corner whispering with Lebarge whilst trying to avoid Stretton. He seemed very frightened, cautious. He was desperate to forget his fears immersing himself in the revelry, with bowls of wine and trysts with Joycelina.’

‘Do you know why he should commit suicide?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No. I was very surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘He told me last night, before he supped, that he was leaving the Golden Oliphant today but that he would meet me at the Tavern of Lost Souls, just around vespers.’

‘What?’ Athelstan and Cranston chorused.

‘That’s what he said. He believed he could resolve the mystery of Lothar’s Cross for me.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘I confess, this morning I was muddled, still deep in my cups after last night.’ He blinked. ‘Nevertheless, Whitfield’s death shocked me. I can’t see why he should commit suicide …’

The execution ground next to Tyburn stream was crammed with all the denizens of the dark, mildewed tenants of the city. Ribaldry, debauchery, lewdness, drunkenness and flaunting vice were both master and mistress of the day. The executions had begun after the great bell of St Sepulchre had tolled ominously across the city, summoning the mob to converge on the muddy fields around Tyburn to watch the gruesome spectacle. The soaring execution platform, black against the sky, had already witnessed the grisly decapitation of a traitor. The yellow-and-red masked executioner, drunk and staggering, had held up the traitor’s head but his hands, slippery with gore, had fumbled. He’d dropped the severed head and was immediately greeted with catcalls of derision and cries of ‘Butterfingers!’

All the mummers and grotesques of the city flocked busily around; conjurers and cross-biters rubbed shoulders with Friars of the Sack and members of the Guild of the Hanged, who ministered to felons condemned to die. The air was rancid with the sweat of unwashed bodies and the different odours from the mobile stoves where meats of doubtful origin were grilled, stewed or roasted before being sold along with hard bread, beakers of wine and stale ale. Smoke billowed up from makeshift fires to mingle with the fragrance of incense streaming out of the censers belonging to the pious groups who attended execution day to offer spiritual comfort to anyone who needed it. Itinerant story tellers stood on makeshift platforms ready to pontificate on all matters, be it a horde of yellow-skinned warriors massing in the east under lurid dragon banners; the signs and portents seen recently in the sky over Rome; or that troop of devils prowling the lanes north of London. Friars of every order moved amongst the crowds chanting psalms, hymns and songs of mourning. Leeches and hedge-physicians offered the most miraculous cures, while relic sellers, hawkers, pedlars and costermongers pushed their barrows of tawdry items through the crowd. Puppet masters, stone-swallowers and fire-eaters had set up stalls. Prostitutes of every kind, garbed in their tawdry finery and heaped, dyed wigs, shoved and pushed their way through, fingers fluttering out, carmined lips mouthing the most solicitous offers.

This tumultuous assembly had already been entertained with stories about the execution of the traitor who, whilst the gore-stained, butter-fingered executioner was trying to disembowel him, had struggled up to strike his tormentor. Such gruesome detail only whetted the appetites of those who flocked here to witness and indulge in every form of mischief. This execution day, however, turned different.

The death carts came and went, delivering their condemned human cargo, men and women, roped and manacled, to be pushed up the narrow siege ladder to the waiting noose. The Hangman of Rochester from St Erconwald’s parish had despatched at least eight felons. Now he was waiting for his last two final victims: Wyvern and Hydrus, condemned felons who’d murdered a fellow inmate just before they had been seized and dragged from Newgate. The hangman watched the cart, drawn by two great dray horses, black plumes nodding between their ears, trundle ominously through the smoky clouds. Others, however, had also entered the execution ground: the Upright Men had arrived! Their foot soldiers, the Earthworms, were snaking through the mob, long lines of men, faces daubed black and red, greasy hair twisted up into demon horns. They were dressed in tawdry armour; ox hide shields in one hand, lances in the other. They were moving like stains through water towards the execution platform.

The hangman glanced at John Scarisbrick, Captain of the Tower archers, his bearded, sweaty face framed by a coif and almost hidden behind the broad nose guard of his conical helmet. Scarisbrick plucked nervously at his chainmail jacket as he stared out over the crowd, nose wrinkling at the disgusting stench and gruesome sights on the execution platform.

‘They are intent on mischief!’ the hangman shouted.

‘But when?’ Scarisbrick yelled. He walked towards the edge of the platform. The execution cart was drawing closer.

‘They won’t attack the cart,’ he bellowed at his men. ‘It is too high-sided and moving. Here!’ Scarisbrick pointed to the steps and bellowed orders at his archers to fall back and gather there. The columns of Earthworms were moving faster through the throng. Scarisbrick sensed the trap: his archers dared not loose; innocents would be killed and the rifflers and the roaring boys would whip the crowd into a murderous riot. Scarisbrick screamed at his men to unstring their staves, push them under the execution platform and draw sword and dagger. They did so. The death cart arrived at the foot of the steps, its tailgate slammed down. The Newgate turnkeys almost threw Hydrus and Wyvern, ragged, dirty and bruised, out on to the ground. Once they were out, the tailgate was lifted, the gaolers eager to be gone. Archers pinioned the condemned men, now struggling in a rattle of chains. The Earthworms were closing in, the crowd breaking up like shoals of fish before them. Yells, catcalls and curses dinned the ear. Daggers and swords were drawn in a clatter of steel. Women screamed and clutched their children, desperate to escape the coming conflict. The breeze thickened. A billow of thick black smoke gusted from the braziers on the execution platform and swept the killing ground. The Earthworms attacked, throwing themselves at the screed of archers. Scarisbrick glanced at the hangman who had now come up behind him.

‘I have my orders,’ he yelled and hurried down the steps. Scarisbrick crossed himself, recalling Thibault’s instructions that no prisoner should escape. The Earthworms were fighting their way forward beneath floating banners of scarlet and black, some displaying the crude device of the all-seeing eye. Scarisbrick reached the prisoners. He thrust his sword into Wyvern’s neck then turned, slicing open Hydrus’ stomach. Both prisoners, manacles clasped tight, collapsed in a welter of blood. Scarisbrick did not pause. More orders were screamed. The archers grasped the still juddering bodies of the prisoners, raised them as if they were sacks of flour and hurled them directly into the oncoming enemy. The attack faltered as the captains of the Earthworms realized what was happening. One of their number, his face disguised behind a black, feathery raven’s mask, hurried forward. He knelt beside Wyvern and clasped the dying man’s bruised, bloodied face between gauntleted hands. The prisoner, eyes glazing, shook his head, indicating his companion. The Raven turned to Hydrus who lay on his side, body twitching, and crouched, ear close to the mortally wounded man’s mouth.

‘My jerkin,’ Hydrus spluttered bloodily. ‘We found it on Reynard.’ The Raven stripped off the dying man’s tattered leather jerkin and hurried away, passing it swiftly to a Friar of the Sack who knelt on the muddy cobbles, Ave beads wreathed about his fingers.

‘The stitching,’ the Raven muttered. The friar bundled the jerkin beneath his robe, rose and pushed his way through the noisy throng into the darkness of a nearby tavern. Once inside, he sat on a corner stool and picked at the rough, loosened stitching on the inside of the jerkin. It gave way easily, and the friar plucked out the roll of yellowing parchment, opened it and smiled to himself. He glanced up, pushing back his cowl to reveal a face well known to Thibault, who had proclaimed the likeness of Simon Grindcobbe, leader of the Essex Upright Men, across all the shires of the kingdom. The manuscript was safe. Thibault might have the cipher and any notes Whitfield had made. Gaunt’s henchman might even have passed these on to the Dominican Athelstan, but, Grindcobbe assured himself, he would take care of that very soon. All in all, a good morning’s work. Even if Thibault had the cipher, he did not have its key; otherwise there would have been tumult throughout the city. Grindcobbe pulled back his cowl to cover both head and face; he still had business to do in Southwark.

‘Yes, yes,’ he whispered to himself, ‘a chat with Brother Athelstan might be profitable in more ways than one.’

Cranston and Athelstan had instructed Matthias Camoys to withdraw whilst they, the coroner pithily declared, ‘took a little refreshment’. Joycelina brought them chicken with brewis, a shin of beef generously garnished with onions, parsley and saffron, along with French toast and two blackjacks of ale from the local brewery. Athelstan blessed the food and, for a while, they sat and ate in silence.

‘I wonder,’ Cranston wiped his mouth with a napkin, ‘I truly do.’

‘What?’

‘The attack on Thibault here. The Upright Men have taken a great oath. If Thibault or any of Gaunt’s minions appear in public, each Upright Man has a sacred duty to kill them. We have learnt that from spies, and the evidence is clear to see with members of the Regent’s coven being struck down in public. Some are now so cautious, they stay cowering in their castles or fortified manors.’ Cranston grinned. ‘For all his faults, Thibault is not frightened so easily. He is well protected and would consider himself safe in a brothel in Southwark in the early hours of the day, which means …’ Cranston popped a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed slowly.

‘The Lord High Coroner is about to share his wisdom with his poor secretarius?’

‘Impudent monk!’

‘Impudent friar, Sir John.’

Cranston grabbed Athelstan’s arm. ‘First, friar, whatever Whitfield was working on must be of vital importance to Gaunt and Thibault, that’s why our Master of Mischief appeared here. Remember he was livid with rage, fair dancing around the maypole, mad as a March hare. Thibault was quite prepared, or at least he pretended so, to have that wench hanged. Secondly,’ Cranston fingered the crumbs on his platter, ‘the attack on Thibault was sudden. True, the Upright Men may have followed him here, but his soldiers surrounded the house, the attack came from the garden, the guard dogs were locked away …’

‘Only someone in the Golden Oliphant would be certain of that,’ Athelstan added. ‘An attacker from outside would have to get in then flee, a very dangerous task with Thibault’s men swarming all over the brothel. Finally the attacker knew exactly which chamber Thibault and Albinus were in.’

‘Which means, my little ferret of a friar, our mysterious bowman is a member of this august household. He, she or they must have seized an arbalest along with a belt box of quarrels, hastened into the garden and chosen some concealed place. Whoever it was realized they had little chance of striking a mortal blow, but at least it demonstrated to Thibault and his kind that they could never be safe. The Upright Men,’ Cranston continued, ‘have now assumed a new insignia, that of the all-seeing eye. They intend to demonstrate that it’s no idle boast. Anyway, Brother, enough of this. Let’s have Master Camoys back in again.’

Athelstan rose, crossed to the door, opened it and beckoned Camoys into the chamber. The young man entered, slack-eyed and shuffling from foot to foot like a scholar before his magister. ‘Whitfield and Lebarge,’ Athelstan asked, ‘they liked the ladies, did they?’

‘Yes.’

‘And they also liked to dress up as ladies?’

Matthias glanced away.

‘Well?’ Cranston barked.

‘Yes, we all did, that’s Cokayne,’ Matthias mumbled. ‘The world turned upside down. Why, Brother?’

‘They never left the Golden Oliphant disguised as such?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And Whitfield promised to meet you at the Tavern of Lost Souls, when?’

‘Around the time of vespers, I’ve told you that. He claimed to have some idea about the cipher my uncle used, both here and at St Mary Le Bow.’

Athelstan sensed that fear had made this young man more malleable. He beckoned him towards the settle as he winked at Cranston. ‘Why should Whitfield visit the Tavern of Lost Souls?’

‘Why does anyone?’ Matthias stated nervously as Athelstan joined him on the settle, drawing as close as possible, whilst Cranston leaned across the table.

‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan murmured.

‘The Tavern of Lost Souls buys and sells anything.’ Matthias shrugged.

‘And what would Whitfield be wishing to sell or buy?’

‘Brother, I don’t know why he was going there, he just told me he’d meet me as a favour.’

‘A favour?’

‘That’s what he said, but I don’t know what he meant.’

‘You knew Whitfield already?’

‘Father is a goldsmith. Thibault had business with him as he does with others. I have told you this. Whitfield visited our house. Perhaps he wished to please my father.’ Matthias pulled a face. ‘Many people do.’

‘And he claimed he could help you resolve the mysterious carvings left by your dead uncle?’

‘So I thought.’

‘You haunt the Golden Oliphant,’ Cranston interposed, ‘but also St Mary Le Bow?’

‘Yes, my uncle’s tomb and that of his comrade: their chantry chapel is dedicated to St Stephen. I often visit it to study the same carvings found here.’

‘Have you asked Mistress Cheyne about them?’

‘Of course, Sir John, but she just laughs. She claims she never really understood my uncle’s absorption with the Cross of Lothar. She does not care for it.’

‘And St Mary Le Bow?’ Athelstan held a hand up for silence as he recalled Thibault’s remark about Reynard, the envoy of the Upright Men, who had been arrested for the slaying of Edmund Lacy, bell clerk at the same church.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Matthias.’ Athelstan edged a little closer. ‘St Mary Le Bow?’

‘I go there when the church is empty. But,’ Matthias pulled a face, ‘it is haunted.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Cranston interjected. ‘About a hundred years ago, when gang violence in the city was rife during the reign of Edward, ancestor of our present king, a murder took place in St Mary Le Bow.’ Cranston sat back in his chair. ‘I make reference to it in my magnum opus, my great work on the history of this city …’

Athelstan closed his eyes in exasperation. Sir John’s absorption with the history of London was famous, and nothing could stop the coroner from delivering a long, unsolicited lecture on any aspect of city life. Cranston was already preparing himself with a swig from the miraculous wineskin, which he offered to Athelstan. The friar bluntly refused.

‘Sir John, the hour passes. Time is short, pleasure is brief. I think I know …’

‘Laurence Duket,’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Athelstan, ‘as I have said, about a hundred years ago he was a gang leader in London. He met his rival Ralph Crepyn in Cheapside and there was the usual dagger play. Anyway, Duket wounded Crepyn and fled for sanctuary in St Mary Le Bow. Yes, Master Matthias?’ The young man, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded. ‘The church was locked and sealed for the night,’ Cranston continued blithely, ‘yet when the priest opened the church the following morning, Duket was found hanging from a wall bracket. Of course, such a mystery swept the city. The King sent a royal clerk to investigate. The mystery was solved and ended up with a woman, Alice atte Bowe, being burned alive at Smithfield. Other members of the gang were hanged, either by the neck or the purse.’

‘Duket’s ghost is supposed to haunt St Mary Le Bow,’ Matthias took up the story. ‘I can well believe it. I go in when it falls quiet after the morning masses, when the market bell has sounded …’

‘You said haunted?’

‘Oh, I am sure, Brother, that the ghost of Laurence Duket glides the gloomy nave. The light is always dappled there, the shadows ever present, growing longer as the day dies.’ Matthias paused. ‘Strange sounds echo. You know the church is built over a Roman temple to a god called Mithras? I have been down into the crypt and seen some of the ancient ruins, but they don’t concern me; my uncle’s chantry chapel does. Duket’s ghost,’ Matthias shrugged, ‘has probably been joined by that of Edmund Lacy, slain in a tavern brawl.’

‘By the villain Reynard, who,’ Cranston peered at the hour candle standing in the corner, ‘should be meeting God above Tyburn stream. Now, young man, Whitfield and Lebarge – whom did they carouse with?’

Matthias scratched the side of his face. ‘They revelled and drank deep in their cups. They had conversations with, well,’ he shrugged, ‘with everyone. Though, for the life of me, I cannot recall specific occasions.’

‘And the wenches – whom did they favour?’

‘Whitfield, Joycelina; Lebarge, Hawisa – a pert little doxy with a swan-like neck, sweet-faced and full-bosomed.’ Matthias abruptly rose. ‘If you are finished with me,’ he stammered, ‘can I go?’

‘For the time being,’ Athelstan replied, asking Matthias to fetch the two women he’d named.

Joycelina and Hawisa arrived, the former looking cold-eyed and solemn, though Hawisa, pretty as any spring maid, seemed eager to please; yet neither was forthcoming, claiming that they had entertained their clients and knew next to nothing about their business affairs. Exasperated, Athelstan dismissed them.

‘You know more than what you have told us,’ he declared. ‘We will undoubtedly talk to you ladies again. So, until then.’ He swung open the door and gestured them through, then closed it behind them and leaned against it. ‘Sir John, we certainly do not have the truth about all this.’

‘Murder, little friar?’

‘Murder, Grand Coroner! Oh, yes! Murder has taken up residence here, along with a whole coven of mischief. Now, Sir John, let us return to …’

Athelstan stopped at a pounding at the door. It was flung open and Sir Everard Camoys, white beard and moustache bristling, stormed into the chamber.

‘Why, my good friend …’

‘Don’t good friend me, Sir John.’ Everard unclasped his cloak and threw it to the settle. ‘My feckless son is here, in this den of iniquity, this haven of harlots. I …’

Cranston swept round the table and clasped Sir Everard’s hand, drawing him into a full embrace before stepping away, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Fiery as always, Everard, but we are not charging the French. I have business here and, I admit, so have you. Now come.’ Cranston made the goldsmith sit down and served him a blackjack of fresh ale and a platter of bread and cheese. Athelstan introduced himself. Sir Everard, now slightly embarrassed, offered his apologies. Athelstan just smiled and sketched a cross in the air above the goldsmith’s head.

‘I am sorry,’ Sir Everard repeated, ‘but my waking hours were disturbed by the Herald of Hell. I sent you a message, Sir John.’

The coroner nodded.

‘Tell me more about this Herald,’ Athelstan said. ‘I know …’

‘Brother, a true will-o’-the-wisp, a night walker cloaked in the deepest dark. He appears, delivers his proclamation and vanishes.’

‘What did he say?’

Everard closed his eyes. ‘Lord Camoys,’ he began,

‘And all who with you dwell,

Harken to this warning from the Herald of Hell,

Judgement is coming, it will not be late,

Vengeance already knocks on your gate.’

Everard opened his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Doggerel verse! When I went down to investigate, out in the street, I could see no one. The watchman Poulter also reported the same, yet I heard that horn, those threats. I saw and held that beaker of blood with two sticks, small onions spiked on them like traitors’ heads poled above London Bridge.’

‘He is appearing all over the city,’ Cranston declared. ‘No one knows who he is or how he can come and go with such impunity.’

‘And yet,’ Sir Everard broke in, ‘I am sure …’

‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I recognized that voice, I am certain of it. Oh, I know they say the Herald of Hell is the leader of the Upright Men in London, and that he has the power to turn invisible and be in many places at the one time.’ Everard shook his head. ‘I am more a believer in human wickedness and cunning tricks. I recognized that voice but I cannot place it.’ He turned toward Cranston. ‘Remember, John, when we were in France? You and I were regularly despatched forward towards the enemy lines.’

‘I remember.’ Cranston smiled dreamily. ‘Warm nights, the air rich with the fragrance of apples. Do you remember that night outside Crotoy?’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan warned.

‘Ah yes.’ The coroner recollected himself.

‘They used to call us the King’s eyes and ears,’ Everard declared. ‘You with your sharp sight.’

‘And you, my friend, with an ear for the faintest sound.’

‘So you recognized the Herald’s voice?’

‘Yes, Brother, but, the angels be my witness, I cannot place it. I have done some searches. You are correct, Sir John. The Herald appears all over the city from Farringdon to Cripplegate.’ The goldsmith shook his head. ‘He knows where people live; he appears, then, like some will-o’-the-wisp, he vanishes into thin air.’

‘And the Cross of Lothar?’ Athelstan asked. ‘We know its origins …’

‘I am sure you do.’ Sir Everard waved a hand. ‘I could understand my brother’s absorption with it. What I find difficult to accept is that he soaked my son’s mind and soul with stories about that cross; the legends surrounding it, the richness of its jewellery, its dazzling appearance.’

‘Why didn’t Reginald just leave it to his nephew?’

Sir Everard sighed noisily. ‘Oh, Reginald eventually realized what he had done. Matthias was totally obsessed by that cross.’ The goldsmith blew his cheeks out. ‘About the only thing Matthias was interested in, apart from wenching and drinking. Anyway, my brother decided he would not make it easy for his nephew. He would force Matthias to use his wits. After all, he is an intelligent scholar; he could discover its whereabouts for himself. Ah, well,’ Sir Everard struggled to his feet. ‘I came to rescue my son from this house of stews with its filthy fleshpots. Sir John, if that is acceptable?’

‘As long as you stand guarantor for him. Matthias must not leave London and be ready to be questioned by us at any hour of the day. Everard, my old friend …’ Cranston came round the table. ‘One final question about the Cross of Lothar: do you have any idea of its whereabouts? Could it lie buried with your brother?’

‘No, I am sure it is not. Matthias is correct. I would wager a pound of pure gold that the Lothar Cross lies hidden, either here or in St Mary Le Bow. But now I must go.’

‘And so shall we.’ Athelstan gathered up his chancery bag. ‘Sir John, we must visit Whitfield’s chamber.’

Everard turned, his hand on the door latch. ‘Did Thibault’s clerk commit suicide?’

Athelstan smiled faintly. ‘For now, God only knows, but come, Sir John, I want Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina to join us. Sir Everard, I bid you good day.’

They left, and Athelstan went ahead, up the steep, narrow stairs to the top gallery and what he now called ‘The Murder Chamber’. He walked into the musty room and crossed to the window, noticing how the floorboards creaked. He scrutinized everything most carefully: the inner shutters, the window, the tattered oiled pigskin. He could detect nothing out of place except that the latch on the door window was rather stiff and creaked when moved. He opened it, leaned over and peered either side.

‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘According to Foxley, this was all sealed and locked.’ He tapped a sandalled foot against the floor. ‘The window is big enough for someone to enter, but how could they?’ He turned away. ‘There is no ladder long enough to reach it, and even if there was, the guard dogs roaming the gardens below would have been alerted. The soil has not been disturbed, and anyone climbing up to this window on the top gallery could easily be noticed from any window overlooking the garden.’ He paused. ‘I wonder,’ he whispered, ‘why Whitfield, not the fittest of men, should have a chamber on the top gallery? Why not a more comfortable one below? So …’ He moved over to the door propped against the wall and carefully inspected the dark stained oak, the bolts at top and bottom, both savagely ruptured, the torn hinges and the bulging, cracked lock with the key still twisted inside. He examined the lintel – slivers of wood had broken away – then stepped back into the chamber. The door was built into the wall with a recess on either side. He glanced to the left where robes and cloaks still hung on pegs and then to the right where the lavarium and hour candle stood. He walked around scrutinizing the floor, walls and ceilings, but the chamber was enclosed, with no traces of any secret door or passageway. He crossed himself and went to gaze at where Whitfield’s corpse had hung so eerily, swaying slightly on the end of that tarred rope.

‘Impossible,’ Athelstan breathed, staring up at the beam. ‘Did you commit suicide? Does your spirit still hover here? Has Satan appeared with his hellish mirror so that you can gaze forever on your immortal soul stained with sin, or has God sent this great angel of mercy to comfort you? I pray that he has …’ He stopped as he heard a harsh clatter on the stairs and Sir John’s booming voice assuring the ladies that they could soon return to their normal business.

The coroner led Mistress Cheyne, Joycelina and Foxley into the chamber. The Master of Horse looked a little tipsy, the two women rather anxious, the usual arrogance drained from their faces. Athelstan ushered them out to the gallery and asked them to repeat exactly what had happened earlier in the day when the door was forced. Mistress Cheyne immediately described how she had been busy in the refectory with guests and servants who were breaking their fast. Griffin had gone to rouse everybody, but Whitfield’s absence was eventually noted and Joycelina despatched to fetch him. The maid then took up the story, explaining how she had knocked on the door, tried it, then peered through the eyelet, but this had been blocked, whilst the key had definitely been in the lock. She had then hurried down to the refectory to raise the alarm. Mistress Cheyne, now seated on one of the coffers, described how Foxley had gone out into the garden to bring the battering ram, along with the two labourers, whilst Joycelina had been despatched to tell the maids not to be disturbed by what they heard. The labourers had brought the ram; they had mounted the stairs and begun pounding the door, Foxley assisting them. The Master of Horse intervened and explained that he had also examined the door and found both eyelet and lock blocked. He had helped the labourers while Mistress Cheyne had shouted for Joycelina to join her, which she had done.

‘So you are gathered here,’ Athelstan declared, ‘in this dark gallery, then what happened?’

‘The door gave way, it collapsed. Immediately we saw Whitfield’s corpse swaying in the poor light.’ Mistress Cheyne wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘We were very frightened. I told Foxley to go in.’

‘I entered,’ the Master of Horse explained. ‘I passed the corpse. I was terrified. The shadows seemed to dance. I wondered if pig-faced demons …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘then what happened?’

‘You went straight to the window?’ Athelstan gently insisted. ‘And?’

‘I lifted the bar on the inner shutters and pulled at the window latch.’

‘Was that easy?’

‘No, it stuck a little, as if it had been clamped shut for some time. I pushed the door window back and lifted the hooks on the outer shutters.’

‘Tell me,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘did you notice anything amiss about either the shutters or the window?’

‘No.’

Athelstan studied Foxley’s face. ‘You may not have told me everything,’ he murmured, ‘or even the full truth behind other matters, but I believe you are telling me the truth about this.’ He turned. ‘Sir John, inform all those whom we have questioned to make themselves readily available if we wish to question them again.’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Or we shall have them put to the horn as utlegati – outlaws …’

Athelstan and Cranston left the Golden Oliphant, pausing beneath the huge, exquisitely painted sign to decide what to do next. Athelstan stared up. With its hidden sexual connotations, the curved, beautifully decorated drinking horn, its goblet sealed by a cross, struck him as a most accurate depiction of the house he was leaving. All fair in form, but what was its essence, the very substance of the place? A house of murder. Pondering how he could resolve the mysteries confronting him, the friar was tempted to return immediately to St Erconwald’s and question Lebarge, yet he sensed Whitfield’s scrivener would claim sanctuary in all its rights and refuse to talk. Why had Lebarge fled there? What was he so frightened of? Athelstan put these questions to Cranston, who simply rubbed his face and stared up at the gorgeously painted Oliphant.

‘The day is passing quickly enough,’ the coroner grunted. ‘We have other places to visit before we cross the river. Let us leave Lebarge for a while and thread these murderous alleyways to a house of even greater ill-repute, the Tavern of Lost Souls.’

Cranston and Athelstan made their way along the narrow runnels heading towards the stews along the Thames. The coroner was correct. The day was passing and the strengthening sunshine had coaxed all the inhabitants of these grim slums out into the streets to mingle with those making their way up to London and the approaches to the riverside. Cranston was recognized and mocked, but his comitatus or retinue, led by the burly bailiff Flaxwith, his ugly mastiff Samson trotting aggressively beside him, kept the threats to nothing more than hurled curses and obscenities.

They entered what Cranston described as the ‘footpaths of Hell’, mere slits between decaying houses, so rotten and dilapidated they leaned in dizzyingly close to block out both light and air. These derelict shells were only kept from collapsing by struts and crutches shoved under each storey. All windows were blind, shuttered fast, whilst doorways were hidden behind rough sheets of oxhide doused in vinegar as a protection against fire. Rubbish heaps, so slimy they glistened, exuded rotten smells, a haven for the fast, slinking rats almost as big as the long-haired cats which watched from the shadows. Dogs on chains, ribs showing through their mangy hides, howled and threw themselves from their foul kennels. Flies moved in thick black clouds like a horde of demons above the refuse which lay ankle-deep, swilling in the filthy water seeping from cracked rain tubs. Figures moved, flitting shadows through the murk. Voices echoed eerily. Here and there a lanternhorn, lit by candles reeking of tallow fat, glowed through the gloom. Along these footpaths, the dead hour, the witching time for all forms of wickedness, lasted from dawn to dusk. Now and again this sanctuary of sin showed some life: a beggar woman crawled out to plead for her husband, whose wits, she screeched, had been stolen by fairies. Athelstan was appalled at the sheer ugliness of her raw-boned, one-eyed face, her scalp scratched bloodily bare of hair, her fingers thin and crooked like hooks. He hastily threw her a coin and sketched a blessing. Cranston quietly cursed and immediately ordered his bailiffs to ring them as a huge, barred door was speedily flung open. A gang of beggars, swathed in rags, swarmed out to pester this generous friar. Cranston’s bailiffs drove them away as they hurried along the main thoroughfare leading down to the river.

Here the crowd was more busy about their own affairs. Athelstan, face hidden deep in his cowl, caught snatches of the teeming life around him. A wedding party: the groom, festooned with green leaves, a chaplet of roses on his head, led his merry guests in a spritely dance to the music of rebec, viol and harp. A knight, sombre in black and yellow livery, rode a powerful, roan-coloured destrier down to the tilt yards. He sat in the majestic, horned wooden saddle carrying lance and great shield; the caparison of his destrier matched his own colours, whilst before him a squire carried a decorated helmet with a leaping panther crest festooned with yellow and black feathers. Friars of many orders in robes of black, white, cream or muddy brown administered to the needs of funeral corteges, mourning parties or vigil fraternities. Traders and hucksters, their trays strapped round their necks, touted a range of goods, from threads to potions which could cure the plague. Leeches offered to bleed those too full of blood. Wild-eyed relic-sellers, who proclaimed they were fresh from Jerusalem or Rome, offered wares which included Delilah’s hair or bloodsoaked soil from the Garden of Gethsemane.

The noise was constant: curses, yells, shouts of traders offering ‘fresh mince’, ‘clear water’, ‘sweet grilled meals’, or ‘the fattest figs in a sugared sauce’. The night walkers and dark prowlers were also out with a keen eye for the loose purse or dangling wallet. The crowd surged and broke around funeral parties, pilgrim groups and the different fraternities who moved in clouds of incense and a blaze of colour to this church or that. The stink and stench proved too much for Athelstan, and he hastily bought two pomanders from a young girl, who also invited them over to a puppet show on a garishly decorated cart. Athelstan smiled and shook his head. They turned a corner on to a rutted trackway which swept down to a three-storey, lathe and plaster building with a purple-painted door approached by steep steps. Above this hung a sign proclaiming in red and gold-scrolled lettering: ‘The Tavern of Lost Souls’.

‘Undoubtedly the work of Reginald Camoys,’ Cranston declared, taking a swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘A work of art, eh, Athelstan? Red and gold against a snow-white background. Snow-white!’ Cranston snorted. ‘That certainly wouldn’t be the description of what goes on behind that purple-painted door!’

‘Which is?’

‘Everything under the sun,’ Flaxwith, standing behind them, lugubriously intoned. ‘Buying and selling, cheating and cozening, where the Devil’s pact is sworn over this soul or that and lives are marked down for ending. Whatever you want, Brother, Master Mephistopheles and his minions will arrange.’

‘Mephistopheles? The devil himself?’

‘The devil incarnate!’ Cranston snorted. ‘Come.’

They climbed the steps. Cranston brought the bronze clapper, carved in the shape of a grinning demon’s face, down time and again. The door was flung open, and a man dressed in a grey robe bounded by a red cincture beckoned them into the most extraordinary taproom Athelstan had ever seen. A long hall stretched before them, well lit by catherine wheels lowered on chains. Candles crammed around each rim provided light, along with lanterns hooked on beams or pillars. The floor gleamed with polish, the air fragrant with the smell of beeswax and herb pots placed judiciously along the walls. There was no obvious furniture, but a long row of cubicles was set in the centre, each one carved out of shimmering oak with a door on either end. One of these hung open and Athelstan glimpsed a shiny table with cushioned benches on either side. The bright lighting meant that customers could view the extraordinary paintings which proclaimed the most frightening images of Hell: minstrels tortured by the very instruments they used to play; vain beauties forced to admire their own reflection in a mirror on the devil’s arse; adulterers impaled by demon birds; gluttons devoured by a huge stomach on legs.

Halfway down the taproom they were told to wait. Athelstan could hear murmurs of conversation from the cubicles, but these were so cunningly contrived and placed, it was nigh impossible to hear what was actually being said. He walked across to study the frescoes more carefully. The entire row of paintings all displayed scenes from Hell: demons depicted as part animal, part human and part vegetable; devils with gauzy wings and fly faces; sinners who once frolicked in the pond of lust now stood blue-bodied next to a frozen lake where more of the damned floated and froze, their heads just above Hell’s foul waters. The more he studied the paintings, the more Athelstan was convinced they were inspired by the teaching of the mystic Richard Rolle who proclaimed, ‘As a war-like machine strikes the walls of a city, so shall hideously fanged frog-demons strike the bodies and souls of the damned.’

‘You like our paintings, Brother Athelstan?’ The Dominican turned. A man, dressed in the same way as the one who had opened the door, emerged out of the darkness at the far end of the taproom. He walked across the dancing pools of light, hands outstretched in greeting. Athelstan grasped them and the man introduced himself as ‘Mephistopheles, Master of the Minions’.

‘You were not called that over the baptismal font?’ Athelstan enquired, stepping back.

‘You mean when I, or those who sponsored me, rejected the Lord Satan and all his pomp and boasts?’ Mephistopheles grinned in a display of white, shiny teeth. He drew closer and Athelstan caught the very cunning of this man. A shape-shifter, the friar thought, a man who could be all things to all men. Mephistopheles was quiet-voiced, his face cleanly shaven, his red, cropped hair shiny with oil. A pious face with regular features except for the slightly sardonic twist of his full lips and cynical eyes, as if the soul behind them contemplated the world and all who passed through it with the utmost mockery. Mephistopheles gestured at the paintings.

‘We like to remind our customers that life is short, judgement imminent and punishment eternal; this concentrates the mind something wonderful.’ He paused as Cranston strolled across, Flaxwith trailing behind him. ‘My Lord Coroner, a great pleasure!’

‘I wish I could return the compliment, Master Mephistopheles, but we must have words.’

‘And so we shall.’ Mephistopheles nodded towards Flaxwith. ‘But first ask your bully boys to stand by the door; they make me nervous.’

Cranston looked as if he were about to refuse.

‘Please,’ Athelstan murmured.

Cranston assented and Mephistopheles led them across to one of the cubicles. He opened the door and grandly gestured them to sit on one side of the table whilst he took the bench opposite. He asked if they wanted refreshment. Cranston was about to agree when Athelstan pressed his sandalled foot hard on the toe of Cranston’s boot. Mephistopheles grinned and rubbed white, fleshy hands together.

‘Sir John?’

‘Amaury Whitfield, Thibault’s clerk, has been found hanging in his chamber at the Golden Oliphant.’

‘So I have heard.’

‘He visited you?’

‘So it would appear; otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting me!’

‘Why did Whitfield come here and why did he intend to return this evening?’

‘You are right that he intended to return.’

‘What was his business?’

‘His business.’

Swifter than any dagger man, Cranston whipped out his knife and pressed the blade against Mephistopheles’ throat.

‘You will slit me, Sir John?’

‘Of course, defending myself, a royal officer, the King’s own Coroner in the City of London against a notorious miscreant resisting arrest.’

‘On what charge?’ Mephistopheles held his head rigidly still.

‘Oh, I can think of quite a few after Flaxwith and my bully boys, as you call them, have ransacked this house of ill-repute from cellar to garret. Now come, Master of the Minions, the truth.’

Mephistopheles nodded and Cranston resheathed his dagger.

‘He came here yesterday,’ Mephistopheles said carefully. ‘He met me. He held certain goods he wished to trade and enquired if I would inspect them and offer a price.’

‘What goods?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mephistopheles rubbed his throat where Cranston’s dagger had rested. ‘But he seemed satisfied and said he would return here later today, towards the evening, but …’ Mephistopheles spread his hands.

‘Was he frightened?’ Cranston asked.

‘Certainly. He mumbled something about the Herald of Hell, the sinister doom threatening the city, and his desire to escape the coming fury.’

‘Did he seem frightened enough to commit suicide?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Perhaps.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘Oh, he came with him but remained as silent as a nun in vows.’

‘And Master Camoys?’

Mephistopheles pulled a face.

‘A callow youth whose uncle executed the sign outside. He has been here before to ask me what I knew about his dead uncle, which,’ Mephistopheles sniffed, ‘wasn’t much.’

‘Did you know why he should meet Whitfield here?’

‘No, Sir John.’ Mephistopheles leaned forward. ‘But for the love of God, you know what is coming.’ He indicated with his head. ‘The river is not far from here. As soon as the revolt begins, I intend to flee; half of London will follow me.’

‘So?’

‘Whitfield was the same. He was a coney caught in a trap. He was Thibault’s creature, marked down for capture, humiliation and a gruesome death.’ Mephistopheles lowered his voice, a look of pity in those strange eyes. ‘As you are, my portly friend …’

Cranston and Athelstan left the Tavern of Lost Souls. Mephistopheles had remained enigmatic and Cranston, as he informed Athelstan, had no real evidence of any wrongdoing by this most sinister of characters. They made their way along the busy runnels and alleyways towards the river. They were now in the heart of the stews of Southwark, where the bath houses and brothels did a thriving trade. Wandering food sellers pushed their moveable grills and ovens on barrows or pulled them on roughly made sleds. Water sellers, ale men and beer wives hovered close by, ever ready to sell drink to those who bought the rancid meats, their taste and smell carefully hidden beneath bitter spices and rich sauces. Whores, their heads and faces almost hidden by thick horse-hair wigs dyed orange or green, thronged in doorways and at the mouth of alleyways, or leaned from windows offering blandishments to all and sundry. Nearby their hooded, sharp-eyed pimps, needle-thin daggers pushed through rings on their tattered belts, kept an eye on business. Sailors, wharfmen and those who lived off the river thronged in to visit the stews and bath houses, taverns and ale cottages.

Cranston’s party was given a wide berth by all of these as they swept down to the quayside, where the coroner, using his seal of office, managed to commandeer a royal barge which had just berthed. They clambered in, followed by Flaxwith and his bailiffs. Cranston roared his orders and the grinning bargemen, who knew the coroner of old, pushed away, turning their craft into the swell, oars rising and falling to the sing-song voice of their master. The barge, its pennants fluttering, ploughed into the slow moving river. Athelstan was relieved; they would have gentle passage. He sat under the leather canopy in the stern, clutching his chancery satchel. Feeling more relaxed, he closed his eyes and quietly recited a psalm from the office of the day. He felt the salty, fishy breeze catch his face. Athelstan opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky; the sun was strong, the clouds mere white tendrils. He recalled the words of the poet, ‘How nature mirrored the shimmering mind of God.’ He murmured a prayer and turned to what he had seen, heard and felt that busy morning. Deep in his heart the friar realized that he and Cranston faced a truly cunning mystery. He thought again about Lebarge, sheltering in sanctuary. Had the scrivener fled the Golden Oliphant so precipitately because he feared that he also would die a mysterious death which would be depicted as an accident or a suicide? Athelstan turned and glimpsed a royal war cog in full-bellied sail making its way down to the estuary.

‘Sir John?’ He tapped the coroner’s arm.

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘The Leaping Horse, Odo Gray’s ship, is berthed at Queenshithe. Let us seek it out.’ Cranston had a word with the master and the barge swung slightly and made its way past the ships moored close to the north bank of the Thames. The Leaping Horse came into view, its name scrolled on the high stern and gilded bow strip, a powerful, two-masted, big-bellied war cog. Cranston stood and peered up.

‘It’s ready for sea,’ he murmured, ‘on the evening tide. Wouldn’t you say so, barge master?’

The fellow agreed, pointing out how the sails were loosened, and crew men were scurrying about the deck whilst others were busy in the rigging.

‘Sir John, should we approach and board?’

‘No, no.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘Interesting, however, isn’t it, my floating friar? How Captain Odo Gray believed he would be up and away before this day was out? Well, he won’t be, so let’s continue.’

The barge master shouted at the oarsmen and the craft pulled away before turning to run alongside the landing place at Queen’s Steps. Cranston told Flaxwith and his bailiffs that he no longer needed them before leading Athelstan up one of the alleyways into Cheapside. The afternoon was drawing on yet the heat in the narrow streets was stifling. Worthy burgesses pushed by, sweating heavily in their high-necked shirts, ermine-lined robes and fur-edged caps. Their wives were equally splendid in gorgeous coloured gowns and robes, faces almost hidden by the studded pomanders pressed to their noses against the ever pervasive stench. Traders and stall-holders, tinkers and costermongers shouted the cries of their trade. Nips, foists and other petty thieves slunk amongst the crowd looking for prey or plunder only to flee at the sight of Cranston. The dung carts were out, the self-important rakers shoving people aside so as to empty laystalls and cesspits. Tavern doors hung open, ale fumes and cooking smells wafting into the streets to mingle with the myriad of odours swirling about.

At the crossroads, close to the Standard, market bailiffs were lashing the naked buttocks of two ale traders found guilty of adulterating their product. Butchers stood in the stocks, heads and hands clasped, forced to smell the putrid reek of the mouldy meat they had been caught selling. Nearby a bailiff wailed on a set of bagpipes to attract attention as well as drown the groans of the convicted miscreants. Cranston took direction from a stall holder and led Athelstan along an alleyway and into Fairlop Lane. A quiet street, formerly lined by shops, it had now been converted into dwelling places, their doors flung open to catch any breeze or coolness. Athelstan glimpsed scenes as they passed: a fat man at table gnawing a bone; beside him, his even fatter wife with a dish of cold meats being importuned by a plump child, a soiled loincloth around its ankles. In the next house a man garbed in outside clothes dozed on a pillow before an empty stone fireplace. A yard winder and spindler with thread stood idly by as his young wife primped herself in a hand-held mirror, more interested in that than the rosary beads wrapped around her fingers. Cranston beckoned her serving girl to come out and, for a penny, she led them to Whitfield’s chambers, a narrow, two-storey dwelling on the corner of an alleyway. The downstairs window, previously a shop front, was bricked and boarded up. She nodded at the door, loose off the latch.

‘Others been here,’ she said. ‘They forced the lock, went in and came out.’

‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.

‘King’s men.’ She patted her chest. ‘They wore the White Hart.’

‘Bowmen,’ Cranston declared, ‘Cheshire archers.’

‘The same,’ the girl smiled crookedly, ‘led by a man with hair and face as white as snow.’

‘Albinus,’ Cranston whispered, ‘with a company of archers. He ignored our request to leave things well alone. Oh dear!’ He thanked the girl and pushed open the door. Inside the dingy dwelling, a flagstone passage, greasy underfoot, led them to different chambers: a bedroom and chancery office next to a shabby kitchen and scullery.

‘Everything is bare,’ Cranston murmured. They went up the stairs to what must have been Lebarge’s chambers: a bed-loft and writing room with rickety furniture. The house seemed to have been swept clean, with little to show who actually lived there. They searched but found nothing except scraps of parchment, ragged remnants of clothes, discarded chancery items and an ancient, battered lanternhorn. The small walled garden at the rear of the house was no better: overgrown flower patches, herb plots with rubbish piled high. Athelstan glimpsed a broken money casket and two small coffers, their metal studs gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.

‘Truly a wasteland,’ he declared. ‘Sir John, there is nothing here for us and, I suspect, Thibault’s men found the same.’

They left the house and made their way up to St Mary Le Bow, standing at the heart of Cheapside. The crowds were now thinning as the day began to die. The breeze had turned cooler and stronger, blowing the saltpetre strewn in the streets to sting the eye and clog the throat. St Mary’s loomed, a turreted, gabled mass against the fading blue sky, its steeple pointing like a warning finger towards heaven. On its steps stood a storyteller delivering a tale about a fairy king in Essex who had cleared a swampy place near a pool, long overgrown with briar to form a coven for foxes. All this had been pruned to build a pretty, timber banqueting-house now known as ‘Pleasaunce-in-the-Marsh’.

Cranston and Athelstan brushed past him, as they did a wonder-teller proclaiming that he had seen a fleet of demons cross the Middle Sea. On the top step a public penitent, garbed completely in red, a mask covering his face with slits for eyes and mouth, brazenly declared, ‘I have lived in the Devil’s service with late suppers and even later risings. I must repent, otherwise after death my soul shall curse my body. I shall have demons for fellows, burn in fire and shiver on ice.’ The penitent gestured at Athelstan. ‘I’ll give you a blessing for a coin.’

‘And I will give you one for free,’ Athelstan retorted: he turned and went back down the steps and studied the church carefully. He had a feeling, an instinct that something was not quite right, though he could not say why. He had no evidence, nothing at all to justify his unease, except he did wonder about the storyteller and the public penitent. Once, deep in his cups, Pike the Ditcher had confessed to Athelstan that such eccentrics were often the spies and watchmen of the Great Community of the Realm.

‘It’s the wrong time of day,’ Athelstan murmured to himself. ‘The church won’t have many visitors now, so why tarry here?’ He returned to his study of the church. St Mary Le Bow stood in its own ground behind a low stone wall, a little removed from the busy clamour of Cheapside. An eerie sadness hovered around the church: a touch of menace, of baleful watchfulness. Athelstan walked back up the steps and stared at the evil-looking gargoyles guarding the door. He glanced over his shoulder; the public penitent was watching him carefully. The friar shrugged, turned away and led a bemused Cranston into the gloomy nave. On a pillar near the baptismal font, a leaping figure of St Christopher caught Cranston’s eye. The coroner wondered what was bothering the little friar but, as always, he’d let this sharp-minded ferret of a man have his way. They walked up the church. At the far end reared a huge rood screen dominated by a twisted figure of the crucified Christ. The light streaming through the windows, some of them filled with painted glass, was beginning to fade. Visitors scurried about, dark shapes in the gathering murk. Incense and candle smoke fragranced the air. On the left of the high altar, a host of tapers glowed before the Lady altar.

Athelstan led Cranston into the north transept, stretching beyond the drum-like pillars, which housed a number of small chantry chapels. Each of these was partitioned off by a polished, gleaming trellised screen. A small door led into a carpeted interior with a stained-glass window high in the outside wall, an altar on a slightly raised dais and a prie-dieu placed before it. Each chapel was adorned with statues, pictures and triptychs extolling the merits of the saint in whose name the chapel was dedicated. Some of the chantries contained tombs. Reginald Camoys’, at the far end, dedicated to St Stephen, housed two: simple table tombs with a knight in armour as an effigy, a naked sword clasped in his folded hands, the carved face almost hidden by the chainmail coif and nose guard of the conical war helmet. A sculptured frieze ran along the side of each tomb. Athelstan crouched down to examine these.

‘Look, Sir John, they are virtually the same. This,’ he traced the carving with his finger, ‘must be the Cross of Lothar with a kneeling knight, paying devotion as he would before the Sacrament, and this, repeated twice, is the cipher or cryptic symbol “IHSV” beneath the rising the sun, and the inscription to “The Unconquerable Sun”, an allusion, I suspect, to the resurrected Christ. The stone is costly, possibly Purbeck marble, specially imported.’

Athelstan straightened up and stared at the window above Penchen’s tomb. Filled with painted glass, it proclaimed the same message as the one found on the frieze. Reginald Camoys’ tomb, built along the wooden trellis screen which separated the chapel from the one beyond, was almost identical. Athelstan stared around, a comfortable, well-furnished chantry with its elmwood altar, white cloths, silver-chased candlesticks and a cross which undoubtedly replicated that of Lothar. Athelstan picked this up and examined the imitation treasure with its green and gold paint, a cameo of a Roman emperor at its centrepiece.

‘Can I help you?’ a voice grated. A man stood in the doorway to the chantry chapel, tall and thin, with sparse black locks falling in wisps to his shoulders. The stranger’s face was mere bone, the white skin stretched across tight and transparent. He stepped closer to meet Athelstan, his milky-blue eyes sunk deep in their sockets, his nose hooked like a hawk’s, his thin-lipped mouth all pursed. He was dressed in a stained yellow jerkin and hose of the same colour. From his belt hung a naked dagger and a couple of tooth drawers; around his neck two rosaries fashioned out of human teeth.

‘And who are you?’ Cranston stepped out of the shadows. The stranger glimpsed the coroner’s badge and hastily retreated.

‘Well?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Raoul Malfort, bell clerk of St Mary Le Bow.’

‘Ah yes, recently appointed following the murder of the previous office holder, Edmund Lacy, stabbed to death in a tavern by the villain Reynard now dangling at Tyburn.’

‘Not so, not so.’ The bell clerk shook his head. ‘You’ve not heard the news?’ He sniffed and abruptly changed the conversation. ‘I am also a tooth-drawer. I still practise my trade.’ He gestured with his head. ‘I use the bell tower now Lacy has gone.’

‘You disliked him?’

‘Until he died he was the master,’ Malfort declared. ‘Now he has departed this vale of tears and I have taken over his position.’ He beckoned. ‘Do you want to see my chamber?’

‘No, no,’ Athelstan replied hastily, glimpsing a bloodied tooth on the macabre necklace. The friar smiled to himself. No wonder, he thought, Matthias Camoys believed this church was haunted with strange cries and sounds – it was no more than some poor soul losing a tooth! Nevertheless, Athelstan shivered. This eerie-looking bell clerk only deepened the apprehension he’d felt before entering this so-called hallowed place.

‘You talked about news?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, yes, Reynard.’ Malfort grinned in a show of yellowing, broken teeth. ‘He did not dance in the air at Tyburn. Murdered, he was, in the death closet at Newgate, killed by two felons Hydrus and Wyvern. Now, when they reached Tyburn …’ In brusque sentences, Malfort described the riot around the execution ground. Once he’d finished, Cranston whistled under his breath.

‘Brother,’ he gestured, ‘we should leave and reflect on all that has happened.’

‘True, true.’

Athelstan and Cranston left the chantry chapel accompanied by Malfort and crossed the church to the other transept. Athelstan walked through its shadows, stopped and pointed to a door at the far end.

‘Where does that lead?’

‘Down to the crypt. Nothing there except bones and ancient ruins.’

‘I would like to visit it.’

Malfort shrugged and walked back to take a cresset from its wall niche.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why the curiosity?’

‘Because I am curious,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘and I am curious because I am uneasy.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Perhaps I am growing tired, I just sense something’s amiss. Anyway …’ He paused as Malfort brought back the cresset, its flame dancing merrily in the draught.

The bell clerk led them to the crypt door and, taking out a bunch of keys, opened it and ushered them in. They went down mildewed, decaying steps into a spacious cavern, its floor covered in cracked white bones, scraps of skulls and decaying shards of wood and cloth. A truly ghostly place with its litter of battered bones and all the refuse thrown here when the parish cemetery was cleared of the dead to make room for more corpses. A shadow-filled, shape-dancing chamber where the darkness seemed to lurk in the cobwebbed recesses, ready to spring out. Athelstan took the torch and moved over to inspect a crumbling wall, obviously much more ancient than the crypt which enclosed it.

‘Romans.’ Malfort’s voice echoed. ‘They say they built a temple here, but, Brother, Sir John – it is the Lord High Coroner, with his secretarius Athelstan?’

‘It certainly is,’ Cranston’s voice boomed.

‘Sir, I have other tasks. I must ring the bell for evening prayer, trim the candles …’

‘Yes, yes.’ Athelstan walked back. ‘Do you have many dealings with Matthias Camoys?’

‘He often comes here asking questions and studying those tombs, even coming down here to stare and search. That young man likes to haunt solitary places, his sleep broken by garish dreams as he pines to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. But, gentlemen, if you have finished …’

Cranston and Athelstan left the church. They had reached the bottom step when there was a flurry of movement in the church porch behind them. Alarmed by the sudden patter of footsteps, Cranston turned nimble as a greyhound, pushing Athelstan behind him as he drew both sword and dagger. Their attackers paused, giving Cranston more time to ready himself into a half-crouch, sword and dagger out, moving to the left and right. The three hooded and masked assailants swirled in, then one of them screamed and staggered back, clutching his arm, at Cranston’s sudden parry. His two companions immediately retreated, grabbed their wounded comrade and promptly disappeared, running across the steps, jumping down and vanishing into the alleyway running alongside the church.

‘Well I never! Satan’s tits!’ Cranston murmured, gesturing away the curious bystanders who were now drifting over to view the effects of the brief but furious encounter. ‘Well I never!’ The coroner resheathed both sword and dagger.

Athelstan just stood clutching his chancery satchel, staring up at the tympanum of Christ in glory carved above the entrance to the church with its inscription sculptured around its edges: Hic est locus terribilis, Domus Dei et Porta Caeli – ‘This is a terrifying place,’ Athelstan translated, ‘the House of God and the Gate of Heaven.’ He patted Cranston’s arm. ‘Well, it certainly is! Why did they attack like that, Sir John? They came out of the church behind us; they let us pass and then they struck. I truly believe they did not mean to harm us. I suspect,’ Athelstan stared up again at the tympanum, ‘they wished to seize me.’ He grinned. ‘It would have taken more than three to hold you.’

‘And?’

‘I suggest they wanted this.’ Athelstan held up his chancery satchel. ‘I have no real proof for what I say, yet I am sure of it. Why else should they attack and then, as soon as you became Sir Galahad, flee like the wind?’

‘And what does that chancery satchel hold? Of course,’ Cranston answered his own question, ‘the scraps of parchment Thibault gave us at the Golden Oliphant. But why not wait until you are in your lonely priest’s house at the dead of night?’

‘I am protected there,’ Athelstan grinned, ‘and that’s the paradox. The very people who keep an eye on me at St Erconwald’s want this.’

‘The Upright Men?’ Cranston rehitched his warbelt. ‘I would agree. They wanted those pieces of parchment before you had time to copy and memorize them.’

‘Precisely, Sir John, which is what I suggest we do now.’ Athelstan poked the coroner’s generous stomach. ‘My stalwart knight, you have done well. It’s time to feed the inner man.’

Cranston needed no extra urging and led Athelstan at what the friar considered to be a charge through a maze of alleyways and into Sir John’s favourite retreat, the Lamb of God in Cheapside. Mine Hostess, as always, came bustling across holding napkins and a jug of the finest Bordeaux with two deep-bowled goblets. Pleasantries were exchanged, kisses bestowed and compliments passed, before Cranston decided on chicken in white wine, a meat porridge, roast pork slices in caraway sauce and fresh white bread softened with herbal butter. Athelstan murmured he would eat what Sir John left.

No sooner had Mine Hostess hastened back to the kitchen, the odours of which were making the coroner’s mouth water like a fountain, than Leif the one-eyed beggar and Rawbum, his constant companion, made their way into the tavern having ‘espied’, as both screeched like choirboys, the King’s Lord High Coroner. Cranston groaned but patiently sat as he always did to listen to their half-mad gossip. Leif rested on a stool but Rawbum, ever since he’d sat on a pot of bubbling oil, stood nodding wisely as Leif ranted about various different signs and portents. How red rain as bitter as vinegar had fallen over Cripplegate, a sign, Leif assured Cranston, that the sun was about to turn black, the moon disappear and the stars fall from heaven, a sure prophecy that they were now living in the End of Times. Cranston politely thanked them. The coroner parted with two coins and both self-proclaimed prophets of doom merrily jigged out of the taproom.

Mine Hostess returned with the food and Cranston, cloak unhitched and warbelt looped over a wall hook, ate and drank as if there was no tomorrow. Athelstan put a little of the food on his platter and ate carefully and slowly, sipping occasionally from his goblet of wine. Once he’d finished he moved to a nearby table and took out the documents collected from the Golden Oliphant: Whitfield’s despairing letter, the strange document depicting two triangles, their apexes meeting, and beside these, that puzzling litany of saints. The third document rendered in cipher remained unintelligible. Athelstan hid that deep in his chancery satchel and, whilst Cranston cleared the platters, carefully made copies of the other two and handed them to the now sated coroner for safekeeping.

‘I agree with you, Friar.’ Cranston deftly used his toothpick and sat back on the settle. ‘Those attackers did not intend to hurt, maim or kill but to seize something, and logically the only item I – we – can think of is what we received at the Golden Oliphant. Now that cipher was originally taken from Reynard, the Upright Men’s courier, so the Upright Men want it back. But what does it mean? Why is it so important?’

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan?’ Mine Hostess came out of the kitchen with a scroll, a dark purple ribbon tied around it. Athelstan wiped his fingers and took it, then opened and read it.

‘Brother Philippe,’ he declared. ‘He scrutinized Whitfield’s corpse. He cannot account for some slightly reddish marks on the dead man’s waist, though he said that this had nothing to do with Whitfield’s death.’

‘So what does?’

‘Nothing, Sir John.’

Athelstan handed him the letter. ‘According to Philippe, Whitfield hanged himself. He can find no other trace of violence on the corpse or any symptom of poison or any baleful potion.’ Athelstan sat back in his seat. ‘Nevertheless, Sir John, I suggest that Whitfield no more hanged himself than I did.’

‘So, let’s begin from the beginning – perhaps we will stumble on the truth.’

‘In which case, shouldn’t we leave immediately for St Erconwald’s?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Lebarge must have the truth of it.’

‘You can deal with him later,’ Cranston replied brusquely. ‘Let us concentrate on what we know, or think we know, little friar.’

Athelstan intoned his conclusions. ‘Item: Amaury Whitfield, Lebarge, Odo Gray, sea captain, Adam Stretton, Arundel’s mailed clerk and Matthias Camoys gathered four days ago at the Golden Oliphant to celebrate the Festival of Cokayne, which salutes a world turned upside down, where male becomes female and so on … Really,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘an excuse for licentiousness and bawdy humour. Item:’ he continued, ‘this revelry is held at the Golden Oliphant, a high-class, fairly sophisticated brothel owned by Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, ably assisted by her troupe of moppets and maids, all available to anyone who pays for their services. She is also supported by leading members of her household: Joycelina, chief of the strumpets; Foxley, Master of Horse; and Griffin, Master of the Hall – in this case, the Golden Hall, the main taproom of that brothel-cum-tavern. Item: there is a history to this establishment. It was bought by Reginald Camoys for his doxy Elizabeth Cheyne. Reginald, a former knight and warrior, returned from the eastern marches. He and his brother Everard brought back the embalmed corpse of Reginald’s bosom comrade, Simon Penchen. Reginald also secretly brought back a great treasure of the Teutonic Knights, his former patrons, the Cross of Lothar, an exquisitely beautiful and precious object. Reginald settled down into city life, thoroughly enjoying the charms of Mistress Cheyne, and he developed an undoubted skill as a sign writer, winning the favour of leading guilds in the city.’ Athelstan paused as Cranston nodded in agreement, then raised a hand, beckoning a slattern to refill the jug of Bordeaux.

‘Everard Camoys,’ Athelstan continued, ‘also settled down to emerge as a leading city mercer and goldsmith. Item: Reginald, lost in his own world, used his wealth to found that chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, to house his bosom friend’s corpse as well as to prepare for his own mortal remains when God called him to judgement, which he eventually did.’

Athelstan paused. A tinker with a tray hung around his neck slipped through the door and went to sit on a corner stool at the far side of the taproom. The tinker’s tray was crammed with geegaws and other petty items. The man’s face was hidden deep in a dirty cowl, but the friar was sure he was looking in their direction. Athelstan breathed in slowly. Surely no tinker would have a tray so full at this late hour, and why hide his face and head? Was he a spy sent in by the Upright Men to keep himself and Cranston under close scrutiny?

‘Item, dear friar?’

‘Yes, yes, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘but just keep an eye on our tinker friend over there. Anyway, item: Reginald, before he died, left mysterious and enigmatic messages which might reveal the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar. No one is really concerned about this except Matthias Camoys, who haunts both the Golden Oliphant and St Mary Le Bow, the two places where the insignia are shown. Now, whether these ciphers do contain the truth about the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar is just an educated guess. Matthias certainly believes they do. He joined the Cokayne Festival to sample the delights of the sisterhood and to drink deeply, but also to seek the help of a skilled cipher clerk, Whitfield, to resolve the riddles of his uncle’s carvings. Whitfield may have offered his assistance, telling young Camoys to meet him at the Tavern of Lost Souls, a place he had already visited.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘But why there, why not the Golden Oliphant? And what was Whitfield’s real business with Mephistopheles? Item: we know very little about what truly happened during those evenings of festivity at the Golden Oliphant. Whitfield was often deep in his cups. Was this because of the threats from the Herald of Hell? According to reports, both he and Lebarge were frightened and anxious. What else, dear coroner?’

‘Reginald Camoys certainly loved to carve those symbols, wherever he could. What do the letters IHSV mean? And that salutation to “The Unconquerable Sun”? Why carve both on the tombs as well as at the Golden Oliphant?’

‘For the moment, Sir John, let’s leave the inscriptions. I have seen, or heard about them before, but I cannot place where or when. Anyway, item: Whitfield’s mysterious death. Last night he left the revelry and went up to his chamber. Sometime in the following hours, or so it would seem, he locked and bolted his chamber door, closed the eyelet, turned the key and apparently sat down to write that final letter. Once finished, dressed to leave, he took the fire rope, fastened the noose to a rafter, moved that stool and,’ Athelstan blew his cheeks out, ‘the rest, God bless him, we know. Except,’ he lifted a finger, ‘Master Whitfield intended to go to the Tavern of Lost Souls. He invited young Matthias to join him there. So, why Whitfield’s interest in meeting Mephistopheles and his minions? Was it just the sale of objects from his dwelling place? In which case, why have Matthias there with him, eh?’

Cranston just shook his head.

‘Item: that bundle of clothes lying on the floor of Whitfield’s chamber. Is that significant? And why did Whitfield, a fairly prosperous man, hire a room on the top gallery? To protect himself, to keep something safe and the curious at bay? Then there’s Foxley’s offhand remark that Whitfield seemed slimmer in death than he did in life: what did he mean by it? Why were Whitfield’s chambers in Fairlop Lane cleared of possessions? I noticed something amiss there but I cannot recall it for the moment. To continue. Item: where are Whitfield’s chamber possessions and Lebarge’s baggage? The scrivener arrived in St Erconwald’s with little to show. Item: why is Lebarge sheltering in sanctuary? What crime has he committed? If he is not careful he could fall under suspicion, but, to return to my question, where is the property of both Whitfield and Lebarge? The curtains, the strongbox, the covers of damask, the candlesticks, the books – the usual items owned by a prosperous clerk? Have they been sold to Mephistopheles? Yet the Master of the Minions claims that Whitfield only approached him about a possible sale.’

‘What are you saying, little friar?’

‘Amaury Whitfield did not kill himself; he was murdered before he could leave, which explains why he was dressed. He was going down to the Tavern of Lost Souls; he was definitely meeting Matthias there. Nor must we forget Master Gray’s ship, the Leaping Horse, all ready for sea …’

‘In other words, Brother, Whitfield was preparing to flee?’

‘Patience, Sir John. Let us go back to the beginning and the root cause of all that has happened.’ Athelstan felt a glow inside him, a sense of serenity as he moved towards a logical conclusion to a most vexatious problem. ‘Whitfield and Lebarge worked for Thibault, therefore both men would be marked down for destruction when the Great Uprising occurs. Whitfield was worried by the warning from the Herald of Hell and became deeply anxious. He confided in his friend and scrivener Lebarge; both decided to flee across the Narrow Seas and seek sanctuary elsewhere. They stripped their personal chambers in Fairlop Lane of valuable possessions and sold them to Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls. I suspect they had other minor items which they would also wish to pawn or sell to that cunning miscreant. Whitfield was continuing these negotiations when he moved to the Golden Oliphant for the Cokayne Festival. He and Lebarge would use that as a pretext to cover their escapes. Both planned to sail from London on Odo Gray’s ship, the Leaping Horse, and our sea captain attended as their guest, probably part of the bribe to take them across the seas.’

‘And Thibault?’

‘He will be furious that his chief chancery clerk was about to desert him.’

‘And the cipher Whitfield was working on?’

‘Oh, Whitfield wouldn’t really care for that except,’ Athelstan tapped the table, ‘we know that the Golden Oliphant houses at least one member of the Upright Men. If so, they would have approached Whitfield to retrieve that cipher.’ He pointed at Cranston. ‘Apparently Reynard was murdered in Newgate, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suspect that somewhere on his person Reynard still had the key to that cipher. He may have been mulling over the possibility of surrendering it to Thibault in return for a pardon. Instead, those two felons murdered him, they took it and gave it back to the Upright Men during that fatal affray around Tyburn scaffold.’

‘If Whitfield was so engrossed in fleeing, why did he offer to help Matthias Camoys with his late uncle’s cipher?’

‘I can’t say, Sir John, although I will reflect on that. Suffice to suggest that Whitfield and his scrivener plotted to cover their flight on the Leaping Horse with some accident or pretended suicide, hence that letter and the bundle of clothes separate from the rest which, I think, would have been found floating on the Thames.’

‘And the Tavern of Lost Souls?’

‘Mephistopheles – correct me if I am wrong – pawns goods. Whitfield went down to see to the last of his property, sell all those little objects he could not take with him, be it a candlestick, statue, book or painting, which explains why both Whitfield and Lebarge’s chambers were empty. Mephistopheles would be a natural choice. Any other merchant might report Whitfield’s trading back to Thibault; Mephistopheles certainly wouldn’t. I would hazard a guess that for a few days before he moved to the Golden Oliphant, Whitfield was a fairly regular visitor to the Tavern of Lost Souls.’

‘And so all his possessions are in Mephistopheles’ safekeeping?’

‘I suggest so, and the Master of the Minions will not be forthcoming, which is why the likes of Whitfield go to him in the first place.’

‘Very well.’ Cranston moved the goblet and platter aside and leaned across the table. ‘Whitfield, witless with fear,’ the coroner smiled at the play on words, ‘plotted to finish the pawning of all his moveables and to arrange his own death by leaving a bundle of clothes floating on the river as if he had slipped, been pushed or took his own life. In truth, Whitfield was planning to disappear, and Lebarge with him. They were terrified at what is about to engulf this city.’

‘In a word, yes, Sir John, but someone intervened – who, how and why I do not know. Whitfield was killed, Lebarge panics, hides whatever baggage he has and flees for sanctuary.’ Athelstan laughed drily. ‘Lebarge realizes that Whitfield’s plan has been foiled. He thinks he is now in the safest place. Once forty days have passed, our scrivener will be compelled to leave sanctuary and seek shelter in the nearest port, which is down by the Thames. Who knows, he may still board Odo Gray’s Leaping Horse. True?’ Athelstan picked up his goblet. ‘Lebarge cannot be convicted of any crime, he cannot be accused of involvement in Whitfield’s death …’

‘But he can declare that he is living in mortal fear for his own life,’ Cranston added. ‘And that he fled to protect himself. The sheriff’s men would accept that, they have to. They would also arrange safe escort to the nearest port, which is what our scrivener wanted in the first place.’ The coroner paused. ‘Do you think Lebarge could have been involved in Whitfield’s death?’

‘I don’t think so. True, he and Whitfield were master and servant, but they also seemed to be close friends. Lebarge fled because he thought he might be the next victim. He is, as you say, in mortal fear for his life.’

‘Could Thibault have a hand in this?’

‘For what reason, Sir John?’ Athelstan pulled a face. ‘If Thibault had suspected his trusted henchman was about to flee, he would simply have detained him. Thibault was beside himself with fury because Whitfield died without breaking that cipher.’ Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts. ‘We have three pieces of manuscript. The first is Whitfield’s letter of desperation, hinting at suicide, an accident or whatever. What he was actually going to do, I don’t know, and I don’t think we ever will. Remember, what we see now are shadows, the way things might have been. Secondly, there is the cipher; close, cramped and secret with all sorts of symbols and signs. I have only given it a cursory glance, but it was enough to see that it is intricately locked. I doubt if I could break it. Thirdly, there is that drawing of the two triangles and the list of saints, which is probably Whitfield’s work. He had begun to unravel the mystery; perhaps I might make sense of that. So, Sir John, there you have it. We see the truth but dimly as if in a mirror. We will have to work a little harder to make matters clearer.’

‘Could Stretton, Arundel’s man, be caught up in this murder?’

‘Possibly. He may have learnt something and hoped to bribe, coax or threaten Whitfield into betraying Master Thibault’s secrets. I truly don’t know, Sir John, except a great deal of mischief occurred in that brothel before Whitfield’s mysterious death.’

‘And the Herald of Hell, Brother? This invisible creature who crawls out of the darkness to challenge and threaten – he too may be involved?’

‘Your friend Everard Camoys believed he recognized the voice, yet this herald moves across the city like a will-o-the-wisp.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘I do wonder if this so-called herald is no more than a figment of people’s fevered imagination.’

‘Brother, he exists! Sir Everard is a trusted friend and veteran soldier, he does not suffer from such imaginings.’

Athelstan sighed. ‘I agree, but this herald appears here and there, never glimpsed, never caught. The Herald of Hell plays a game of mystery, just as mysterious as the Cross of Lothar. Indeed, Sir John, I am truly intrigued why Mistress Cheyne is not interested in its whereabouts. Or perhaps she is, yet she seems almost to dismiss the relic as some cheap trinket, not worth bothering about. Matthias Camoys searches for it, she doesn’t, and, despite her late paramour leaving enigmatic devices and signs for others to follow, she shows no interest whatsoever. I do wonder about that as I do about a terrified clerk like Whitfield offering to help Matthias Camoys discover the whereabouts of this precious treasure. I mean, at a time when Whitfield was fleeing for his life and couldn’t give a fig about anything.’ Athelstan paused as Mine Hostess, like a war cog in full sail, came charging out of the buttery. She came across and filled Sir John’s goblet, but Athelstan put a hand over his as she offered a cup against what she called, ‘the weariness of the day’. Cranston thanked her and toasted Athelstan with his brimming goblet.

‘And all this,’ the coroner murmured, ‘shrouds what you truly suspect: that Whitfield did not commit suicide but was murdered. True,’ he nodded, ‘I can see the logic of your argument. Whitfield was dressed, ready to go, he had promised to meet young Matthias, and that’s another mystery: Whitfield was to meet Camoys in the early evening, so why was he already dressed to go out before dawn even broke?’ Cranston cradled his goblet. ‘Satan’s tits, Athelstan! We have overlooked something very important.’

‘Which is?’

‘If Whitfield and Lebarge cleared their chambers and later disappeared, leaving the possibility that Whitfield was dead due to an accident or possible suicide, Thibault would eventually discover the truth. He’d realize that Whitfield had fled or died trying to. Indeed he probably has. Albinus visited those chambers in Fairlop Lane; it would be obvious that those who’d lived there had left for good.’

‘Sir John, Sir John,’ Athelstan smiled bleakly, ‘Whitfield didn’t care about what might happen later: all he needed was a little time to throw Thibault off the pursuit, to block his master for a while.’

‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Whitfield knew a storm was imminent which would engulf Thibault, who would have other, more pressing matters to worry about. Whitfield expected that Thibault would not survive. By then he would be long gone into hiding where he could lie quiet for many a day, begin a new life and even return to a London greatly changed from the city of today.’

‘Exactly, Sir John, a London possibly with no Thibault, no secret chancery, no threat. Whitfield was gambling on that. All Whitfield wanted was to put as much distance between himself and London as possible until the season of slaughter came and went.’

‘And yet, Brother, we need more evidence to justify our suspicions.’

‘Sir John, I concede: all I nourish is a deep and jabbing suspicion. I also admit that the obstacles to a logical conclusion about Whitfield’s death appear unsurmountable.’ Athelstan spread his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo: Joycelina reported the door was locked and bolted. We know from the testimony of others and the scrutiny I made of the door, that this is correct. Secundo: entry to and from that chamber was nigh impossible. Tertio: every scrap of evidence collected demonstrates that entry from the garden through the window must be ruled out for many sound reasons which I accept. Quarto: there are no other secret entrances. Quinto: we can account for the movements of all the possible suspects being outside that chamber when its door was broken down. Sexto: we have a man hanging by his neck. I suspect he was murdered, but how did he get himself placed on that stool with a noose around his throat? How did the assassin gain entry and, more importantly, leave as both door and window were clearly sealed, locked and barred? Oh, very, very clever,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Sir John, we are confronting a most subtle assassin but …’ He gathered up his chancery satchel. ‘The day is drawing on, the hour passes. Soon, my large friend, we shall be for the dark.’