Herald of Hell

PART FOUR

‘Secreta Negotia: Secret Business.’

Athelstan loved the library and scriptorium at his mother house – two long chambers with a meeting hall in between – a world adorned with oaken tables, lecterns, chairs and shelves, all shimmered to a shine with beeswax. The delicious odours of leather, freshly scrubbed parchment, polish, pure candle smoke, incense and trails of sweet fragrances from the crushed herbs wafted everywhere. Chambers of delight where even the sunshine was transformed as it poured through the gorgeous stained-glass windows to illuminate the long walk between shelves piled high with manuscripts, calfskin-backed books, ledgers and leather-covered tomes, some of which, because of their rarity, were firmly chained to shelf or desk. Athelstan, walking up and down the library passageway, recalled his glorious days of study here. The Sentences of Abelard, the logic of Aquinas, the fiery spirit of Dominic’s homilies, the poetry of Saint Bonaventure and the caustic sermons of Bernardine of Siena. Now he was here for a different purpose. London might be about to dissolve into murder and mayhem, but he had been summoned to resolve a problem, and he would do so faithfully until he reached a logical conclusion.

Athelstan returned to the table he’d sat at during his novitiate: a smooth topped, intricately carved reading table with a spigot of capped candles to hand when the light began to fade. For a while he sat in his favourite chair watching the dust motes dance in the beams streaming through the painted glass. He half listened to the sounds of Blackfriars as he summoned up the ghosts of yesteryear, scampering around this library eager to search for proof of some argument he was drawing up in philosophy, scripture or theology. He recalled the sheer exuberance of such days, his dedication to his studies, the intense conversations he had with his brethren. Now all was different. Even Blackfriars had been caught up in the coming storm. Prior Anselm was distracted, while the librarian and the master of this scriptorium were deeply concerned about any threat to their beloved repository of books. Athelstan crossed himself, sighed and returned to the problems which confronted him. He was in the best place to try and resolve the enigmas and puzzles left by Reginald Camoys. He needed to do this so he could confront Matthias with his gnawing suspicions as well as ensure that these riddles were not connected in any way with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant.

Athelstan was certain Whitfield had been murdered, and the same for Joycelina. He had no evidence regarding the young woman’s deadly fall, just a suspicion that a very cunning murder had been committed. He stared up at the shelves of books and manuscripts. Where should he begin? He had questioned both librarian and the master of the scriptorium, yet both brothers had been unable to assist. Athelstan tapped his fingers on the table top. If this was a question of scripture, where would he begin? He rose and found the library’s great lexicon, but though he easily discovered an explanation for ‘IHS’, the Greek title given to Jesus Christ, he could not explain the additional ‘V’. He then turned to the many entries on ‘sol, sun’ and came to an extract from the history of Eusebius of Caesarea who wrote about the Emperor Constantine and the establishment of Christianity as the state religion of the Roman Empire. The library owned a copy of this. Athelstan found it and, as he turned the pages, felt a deep glow of satisfaction. The ‘Soli Invicto’ was a paean to the sun which lay at the heart of the pagan religion of Mithras, popular with the Roman army and undoubtedly something that Reginald Camoys had discovered amongst those ruins in the crypt of St Mary Le Bow.

Athelstan reached one chapter of Eusebius’ History and clapped his hands in joy. He had found it! The well-known story of a famous vision that the Emperor Constantine had experienced before his great victory at the Milvian Bridge in the year 312. The letters ‘IHSV’ were an abbreviation for ‘In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this sign you will conquer’. He then consulted a word book, wondering if Reginald had continued to hide behind a play on words. ‘Vinces’ in Latin was ‘you will conquer’, but ‘vinceris’ could be translated ‘you will be released’. What did that refer to? He sat and reflected on the clever word games that contrived to hide a treasure. In many ways they might have little relevance to the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant, though they did prompt some interesting questions.

First, the Cross of Lothar was a great treasure, stolen from a powerful religious military order. Yet there was not a shred of evidence to show that the Teutonic Knights tried to secure its return. Why not? Secondly, Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, God bless her, had a heart of steel, a grasping woman who would never allow profit to escape her, yet she seemed totally impervious to Lothar’s Cross and its whereabouts. Surely she of all people knew the mind of her dead lover, yet she showed no interest in the riddles he had left or the possibility that a priceless treasure, hidden in her own house, might be seized by young Matthias. Or was she just waiting for him to complete the hunt and then claim the cross as rightfully hers? Thirdly, why had Amaury Whitfield, desperately trying to escape all the snares around him, offered to help Matthias resolve the enigmas bequeathed by his uncle? Finally, what did the letters ‘IHSV’ really refer to? Why was it linked to the rising sun? Athelstan recalled all he knew about Reginald Camoys as he watched a shaft of light pour through one of the stained-glass windows and shimmer on the great spread eagle, carved out of bronze, on a lectern further down the library. He stared, then started to laugh at the solution which now emerged. Elated, he rose to his feet and paced up and down the empty library, revelling in the sweet odours and the beautiful light, the companionship of written treasures piled high on the shelves around him.

‘So,’ he whispered, ‘if what I think is true, and I am sure it is, why did Whitfield try and help Matthias Camoys; what is the connection?’ He paused, recalling what Grindcobbe had told him, then thought of Whitfield’s shabby, empty chambers: those small caskets and coffers, broken up and thrown on the rubbish heap in that derelict garden.

‘I wonder …’ he murmured. ‘Matthias Camoys was determined to find the cross and Amuary Whitfield was equally determined to escape. What would unite them? What would motivate this feckless clerk – gold, or threats?’

He decided to calm his mind by joining the brothers in the friary church for divine office. He walked across and borrowed a psalter, then took his place in a stall, leaning back against the wood and gazing at the great cross above the high altar. The cantor began the hymn of praise, ‘He is happy, who is blessed by Jacob’s God.’ The brothers in the stalls replied, ‘My soul give praise to the Lord.’ Athelstan tried to concentrate on the responses, but every time he lifted his head he glimpsed the contorted faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on the rim of a nearby pillar. Each carried a standard and a trumpet and reminded Athelstan of the Herald of Hell. The identity of that miscreant, the friar reflected, had nothing to do with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant or St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, if he could discover who the Herald was, it might make it easier to persuade Sir Everard Camoys to cooperate over Athelstan’s deepening suspicions about the goldsmith’s son.

Once divine office was over Athelstan returned to the library. He took a scrap of parchment and drew a rough sketch of London Bridge.

‘Herald of Hell,’ he whispered, ‘you appeared here at the dead of night even though the bridge is sealed and closely guarded after curfew. So how did you get on to the bridge then leave?’ He stared at his rough drawing. He could not imagine anyone swimming the treacherous Thames in the dead of night, climbing the slippery starlings and supports beneath the bridge and then, marvellous to say, leaving the bridge in the same fashion. ‘So,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘perhaps you live on the bridge? However, if you wish to appear in this ward and that long after the chimes of midnight, the same problems have to be confronted.’ He paused, fingers to his lips as he recalled Sir Everard’s assertion that he had recognized the bawling voice, just as those men in that alehouse had recognized the voice of Meryen the bailiff. Athelstan tapped the parchment. There was only one logical conclusion, surely? He reviewed his evidence. ‘If there is only one possible conclusion,’ he whispered to himself, ‘then that conclusion must be the correct one.’

Chewing the corner of his lip, he reflected on the murders of Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina. He was convinced all three deaths were connected, and possibly the work of the same assassin. However, he could not detect a pattern in anything he had seen, heard or felt. Nevertheless, somewhere hidden in all of this there might be a mistake by the murderer which he could seize on. Athelstan returned, once more, to the laborious task of listing everything he could recall about Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina, though by the time the bells chimed for compline he had made little headway. At last he admitted defeat and left the library to its keeper, who was anxious to douse the lights and lock the doors. Athelstan crossed to the refectory for a bowl of hot stew and some bread. He decided he would need to rise early the next morning, so he visited the church, said a few prayers, then adjourned to the cloister cell assigned to him.

Athelstan reached the Golden Oliphant at least an hour before dawn and was admitted by a tousle-haired Foxley, who complained of the early hour. Athelstan simply smiled his thanks and said he wished to walk the tavern. Foxley, sighing with annoyance, said he would kennel the mastiffs in the garden and open doors for the friar so he could go where he wished. Athelstan accepted this as well as some bread, cheese and dried meat to break his fast. For a while he sat in the refectory facing the window, watching the darkness dissipate. He had celebrated an early mass at Blackfriars and despatched a courier with urgent messages for Sir John, though of course his enquiries also depended on what he discovered here. Time was passing! He went out of the main door and stared up at the sign. The insignia of the huge Golden Oliphant was reproduced on both sides, the curved drinking cup capped with a lid on which a silver-green cross stood. The sign itself was a perfect square, the casing on each side about four to five inches wide, though it was difficult to be accurate as the sign hung high from the projecting arm of a soaring post. Despite the poor light and height, Athelstan noticed that both the white background and the Oliphant were clear of dirt and dust, probably due to the costly sealing paint used. As he had suspected, he realized that for a brief moment the sign would hang directly in the path of the rising sun which, according to the fiery-red glow in the eastern sky, was imminent.

He returned to the brothel along the passageways, through the Golden Hall and the spread of chambers beyond: the refectory, buttery, kitchens, scullery, pantry and bakery. The household were now stirring. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne and the moppets, together with slatterns, scullions and tapboys, all milled about preparing for a new day. Mistress Cheyne, supervising the firing of the ovens, smiled with her lips and half raised a hand. Others just scuttled away from this sharp-eyed friar who seemed to be hunting someone or something in their house. Athelstan reached the back door. Master Griffin was in the garden with a basket of herbs. He assured Athelstan that the dogs were kennelled and pointed to the wooden palisade jutting out from the rear of the building.

‘They will be fed and then sleep there for the rest of the day,’ Griffin muttered. ‘Don’t you worry, Father, I wouldn’t be out here with those savage beasts on the loose.’ Athelstan thanked him and walked across the garden to where the workmen had been setting up the trellis fencing. He was now moving to the front of the Golden Oliphant and he could see the sign clearly. He walked a little further and smiled at sight of the flower-covered arbour with its turfed seat. He sat down.

‘Of course,’ he breathed, ‘Reginald Camoys used this arbour and I shall do the same.’

Athelstan watched the sun strengthen and rise. The Golden Oliphant sign was directly in its path and, for a short while, blocked the fiery circle. Athelstan smiled even as he marvelled at the golden glow which appeared through the cross-piece of the crucifix which decorated the lid of the Oliphant, piercing it clearly as it would translucent glass. Athelstan revelled in the sheer beauty of the sight, then the moment passed. Distracted by what he had seen and learnt, the friar rose to his feet, but then froze at a low, throaty growl. He turned slightly. The two hunting mastiffs stood staring at him, great beasts with their tawny, short-haired bodies, powerful legs, massive heads and ferocious jaws. They stood poised, then one of them edged forward, belly going slightly down, and the other followed suit. Athelstan retreated back into the arbour. Childhood terrors returned. Memories of a similar confrontation years ago on a neighbour’s farm. The hounds were certainly edging forward. Athelstan kept still, trying hard not to stare at them, recalling his father’s advice on how to deal with such animals.

‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ Athelstan glanced up. Foxley appeared along the path to the arbour.

‘Gaudete! Laetare!’ He repeated the dog’s names. ‘Come! Come!’

Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief. Both mastiffs relaxed, turning away, tails wagging, heads down as they trotted to meet Foxley. He shared some biscuit with them, then, whistling softly, led them away. Athelstan waited until Foxley returned, sauntering down the path, crossbow in one hand, a quiver of bolts hanging on the warbelt around his waist. Athelstan scrutinized the Master of Horse closely: the scuffed, black leather jerkin, leggings and boots, the dark brown shirt, open at the neck, the wrist guard on his left arm, the quizzical look on that sardonic face. Athelstan recalled Benedicta’s remark about putting on a mask to meet other masks. Foxley’s mask had slipped. You are a fighter, Athelstan reflected, a man of war, and, if Sir John is correct, an Upright Man.

‘Well, Brother?’

‘Well, Master Foxley. I thought the hounds were kennelled?’

‘They were.’

‘And?’

‘Brother, anyone could have slipped out of the kitchen, drawn the bolts and lifted the latch. You were lucky. The mastiffs are tired after a night’s prowling. They have also eaten.’ He smiled. ‘They probably recognized the smell of the Golden Oliphant on you. But,’ he slipped the arbalest on to the hook on his belt, ‘still very, very dangerous.’

‘And you just happened to take a walk in the garden with a crossbow, a quiver of quarrels and some biscuit for your two friends?’

Foxley laughed and drew closer.

‘You are the Upright Men’s representative here, aren’t you?’ Athelstan demanded. Foxley just hunched his shoulders.

‘I asked a question,’ Athelstan insisted.

Foxley came and sat beside Athelstan. ‘I am what you say I am. Yes, I followed you into the garden because I am under strict orders. My masters in the Great Community of the Realm want you kept safe in this place of sudden, mysterious death. I watched you go out. I was in a chamber on the third gallery; I saw Gaudete and Laetare slipping through the garden like demons on the hunt. And, before you ask, Brother, no, I do not know who released the mastiffs. It could be anybody here.’

‘Did you question Whitfield?’

‘Of course, the Upright Men gave Whitfield silver and gold. We suspected he was about to flee. We were keen to retrieve the cipher he carried and any other secret information.’ Foxley eased off his warbelt and sat watching the first bees of the day cluster above a flower bed. He pointed up to the window of Whitfield’s chamber. ‘I know the clerk was supposed to leave in the early hours to meet a captain of the Upright Men, but I was ordered not to show my hand or interfere in any way, so I didn’t. Once Whitfield left the Golden Hall that evening I lost interest in him and became deep in my cups. I tell you this, Brother: Whitfield was frightened as any coney being hunted in a wheat field. He refused to talk. The only people he really conversed with were the moppets, the ship’s captain and Matthias Camoys. Why he paid attention to that dream-catcher, I do not know. I believe the Upright Men would have let him go provided he returned the secret manuscripts he carried.’ Foxley rose, gripping the heavy warbelt. ‘Now my questions, Brother. What were you doing in the garden – not just watching the sun rise, I assume?’

‘Oh, very much so.’ Athelstan gestured for Foxley to accompany him back into the Golden Oliphant. ‘Indeed, I have a task for you, several in fact. First,’ he pointed back at the sign, ‘I want that taken down and brought to the court chamber of Sir John Cranston at the Guildhall.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘Yes, it’s very necessary. Tell Mistress Cheyne to comply or I will return with bailiffs and a writ. She also must accompany her property to the Guildhall, where she will joined by other people.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Of course she will object, but she either comes of her own accord or faces an official summons and all that entails. Do you understand?’ Foxley grimaced but agreed. ‘However,’ Athelstan continued, ‘do not say anything until I have gone. Now …’ He turned to face the Master of Horse. ‘I am truly grateful for what you did. If it had not been for you I might have been wounded or even killed.’ He pointed towards the Golden Oliphant. ‘Somebody there wants me silenced, which only deepens my suspicions about these horrid deaths.’

‘Murders?’ Foxley queried.

‘Yes, my friend, heinous murder, which is why my last question to you is so important. Did you see, hear or learn anything suspicious on the evening before Whitfield died?’

‘No, Brother, I did not. True, like many of the others I became drunk, but not blind to what was happening around me. I glimpsed and heard nothing untoward.’

‘And the morning after?’

‘It was as I described. Whitfield’s chamber was bolted, barred and locked both door and window. When the chamber was forced it was as black as pitch inside, but I shall never forget that dangling corpse. If it wasn’t suicide, how did the assassin enter and leave so easily? I know the Golden Oliphant. There are no secret entrances, the chamber doors hang heavy and sturdy. No one heard or saw anything amiss.’

‘You did.’

‘Brother?’

‘You said Whitfield did not look so fat in death.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Strange, especially as I’ve seen enough people hang – their bellies always swell out. Why do you ask me that?’

‘Oh, the answer is quite simple, Master Foxley. Whitfield may have been wearing a money belt,’ Athelstan tapped the warbelt Foxley carried, ‘thick and heavy with small pouches or wallets along the side, each crammed with coins.

‘Of course,’ Foxley whispered, ‘if he was fleeing abroad he would need every silver piece he could seize and he would carry it like that.’

‘Which is why,’ Athelstan pointed across at the brothel, ‘he and Lebarge chose chambers on the top gallery, safer, more secure against any attempt to seize his ill-gotten wealth. Now, Master Foxley, I thank you again. I would like to continue my wandering. Once I leave, please carry out my instructions.’

Foxley promised he would and Athelstan watched him go. Much as he was grateful to the Master of Horse, Athelstan remained deeply suspicious. Was Foxley protecting him or just creating the opportunity to curry favour? The Master of Horse could still be involved in Whitfield’s murder. After all, the Upright Men, like Stretton’s master Arundel, had probably lavished Whitfield with bribes. Was the clerk’s death an act of revenge, or an attempt to reclaim money spent? How many people would know that Whitfield would strap a veritable treasure about his waist? Whitfield would surely hide this from any whore or the likes of the pirate Odo Gray, so who else? The belt must have been fastened tight, hence the marks Brother Philippe had found on Whitfield’s corpse.

Athelstan entered the kitchen, now a hive of activity, and heads turned but little acknowledgement was made. He went down a passageway and had to almost push past Odo Gray and Stretton, who, surly faced and mice-eyed, were making their way along to the refectory. Once he was free of them, Athelstan paused at the foot of the staircase to recall everything he had been told about what had happened the morning Whitfield’s chamber was forced. He imagined Mistress Cheyne, Foxley and the two labourers going up to the gallery, Joycelina quietening the maids and the rest supposedly kept in the refectory under the watchful eye of Griffin. All except for Lebarge, who had apparently slipped away and climbed to the third gallery to listen to the door being forced. Athelstan concentrated on recalling everything Lebarge had told him and felt a tingle of excitement at one fact which did not fit in with the rest.

He climbed the staircase until he reached the third gallery, then stood in the recess as Lebarge must have done and half-cocked his head, as if listening to the sounds from the gallery above. In his mind he listed all he had learnt, comparing and contrasting accounts. He glanced at the sharp-edged, steep set of stairs and imagined Joycelina at the top. Did she trip, was she pushed, or rendered unconscious then thrown down to smash her head and break her neck? He murmured a requiem, crossed himself and made to leave, slipping out of the tavern as quietly as he had arrived.

Athelstan walked quickly down to the riverside, moving into the seedy world of Southwark’s stews and brothels, serving every kind of taste: shabby cook shops and even shabbier alehouses lined the narrow, dark, evil-smelling alleyways. The sun had risen, so the denizens of the mumpers’ castles, the hideaways, secret cellars and dank dungeons were hurrying home, all the night walkers and dark dwellers fleeing from the light. Athelstan glimpsed white, bony faces peering out of tattered cowls or battered hoods. Strumpets of every variety, shaven heads hidden beneath colourful wigs, retreated back into shadow-filled doorways. Traders and hucksters who sold rancid meat, green-tinged bread and rotting vegetables to the very poor, now emptied their slops on to the midden heaps. By nightfall they would have refilled them with whatever scraps they scrounged or stole from the stalls and shops in the city. Funeral processions formed to take their dead to the different requiem masses in this chantry chapel or that. Even in death money mattered. The poor had to club together to send a collection of corpses soaked in pine juice and sheathed in simple canvas or linen sheets on death carts pulled by a couple of old nags with black feathers nodding between their ears. Priests, clothed in purple and gold vestments, moved in clouds of incense whilst altar boys scurried either side ringing handbells as the celebrants intoned the dreadful words from the sequence of the requiem Mass:

‘Oh day of wrath, oh day of mourning,

See fulfilled heaven’s warning …’

This simple plea for heaven’s favour was drowned by the cries and shouts of traders and tinkers, watermen and milkmaids. The screams of whores, the curses of bailiffs, the tramp of booted feet, the neighing of horses and the rattling of carts and barrows all filled the air. Southwark was coming to life. Justice was also making itself felt. The cages for drunkards, rifflers and sleep shatterers were filling rapidly under the strident orders of beadles. The stocks were already full of miscreants fastened tight to receive all the humiliation heaped on them by passers-by. Two hangings had already taken place. House breakers, caught red-handed, now dangled from a twisted tavern sign. Nearby the fraternity of corpse-collectors were busy cleaning up the grisly remains of the river thief, taken and summarily condemned to be decapitated on the corner of a cobbled lane leading down to the quayside.

Athelstan sidestepped the mob gathering around this gruesome sight and strode purposefully on to the wharf. At least here the air was fresher. He eagerly breathed in the salty, fishy tang of the riverside, then found a waiting barge, agreed a price and clambered in. The craft pulled away. Sweaty and still slightly shaken after his confrontation with the mastiffs, Athelstan settled in the hooded stern to recite his rosary. The barge pulled alongside others bobbing on the swell. One drew very close. Athelstan paused in his prayers as a voice intoned: ‘St Dunstan,’ to be answered by a chorus of, ‘Pray for us,’ ‘St Bride,’ ‘Pray for us,’ ‘St Andrew,’ the litany continued. Intrigued, Athelstan stared around the canopy at the barge riding alongside with its small, fluttering banners of St Thomas Becket. He realized the passengers were pilgrims making their way across the river to visit the shrine to Becket’s parents.

‘What are they reciting?’ he asked an oarsman.

‘Why, Brother, the litany of London churches, or rather their patrons.’ He indicated with his grizzled head. ‘They pray for protection from all the churches which line the banks of the Thames, from St Dunstan’s in the west to All Hallows in the east. A common enough practice; the Thames is treacherous, even at the best of times.’

Athelstan sat back, closed his eyes and breathed his own prayer of thanks. He believed that he would never break the cipher but at least he now understood why the saints’ names were listed on that second piece of parchment and the significance of those two triangles. By the time he reached the battlemented gateway leading into the great, cobbled bailey which stretched in front of the black and white timbered Guildhall, Athelstan’s speculations were hardening into a certainty. He disembarked at Queenhithe and strolled like a dream-walker through the streets leading up to Cheapside, so engrossed in his most recent discovery he was only dimly aware of what was happening around him. At first glance it was the usual Cheapside morning: market bailiffs with their white wands of office; scholars, horn-book in hand, making their way to schools in the transepts of different churches. The mixture of fresh, sweet odours from the bakeries mingled with the more pungent ones from the heaped mounds of refuse. This morning, however, was different. The Earthworms had carried out an attack on one of the Barbican houses where weapons were stored, so archers and pikemen still thronged the busy streets, grouped around knights in half-armour on their restless horses. The same was true of the City Council: the mayor and aldermen had whistled up their bully boys, who, dressed in city livery, now thronged the courtyards and buildings of the Guildhall.

Athelstan pushed his way through until he found Cranston’s judgement chamber and chancery office, where Osbert Oswald, his clerk, and Simon Scrivener were busy over an indictment roll. They greeted him warmly enough, offered refreshments which he refused and took him into a small, stark ante-chamber. They assured him that Sir John had received and acted on his messages, but, for the while, the coroner was absent on royal business at the Tower. They both confirmed that certain individuals had been summoned to the Guildhall by mid-afternoon when the market bell signalled the beginning of the final hours of trading.

Athelstan thanked them, content to be left to his own devices. He took out his writing materials and narrow sheets of good vellum, four in all, each with its title, ‘The Herald of Hell’, ‘The Cipher’, ‘The Cross of Lothar’ and one simply titled, ‘Homicide’. He ignored the third: what he had seen, heard and felt at the Golden Oliphant would be left to mature. Instead he turned to the other three but he could make little progress. Athelstan decided he would go and pray. He would sit in the Guildhall chapel and intone the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ and ask for divine guidance.

He took direction from a candle trimmer working on the wall spigots outside and climbed the staircase, along a narrow gallery where the dust motes danced in the air. He pushed open the chapel door and entered the warm, sweet-scented chamber. Sunlight lanced the casement windows on the far wall. Incense fragranced the air. Candles spluttered in front of a statue of the Virgin. Athelstan paused at the sound of voices. Two men crouched before the sanctuary rail working to replace floor tiles which had become loose. They paused and rose as Athelstan walked across to sit on a wall bench beneath one of the windows.

‘Do you want us to leave, Father? We can,’ the tiler called. Athelstan peered through the light. The man was oval-faced, beetle-browed with a noticeable harelip. His companion was almost girlish in appearance with long blonde hair, clean-shaven, though Athelstan noticed the sharp, sloe eyes; the young man carried a long stave, probably used for measuring, and on his left wrist a heavy archer’s guard.

‘We are just working on the floor.’ The tiler tapped his boots noisily, then grinned. ‘If you want, Brother, you can help us. Just tap your foot along the tiles and listen for an echo.’

Athelstan smiled and shook his head. He sketched a blessing in their direction, left the chapel and returned to the room close to the coroner’s judgement chamber.

Cranston eventually arrived, smacking his lips after a delicious repast in the Lamb of God, full of news about what he had been doing. The young king was now safely ensconced in the Tower. Most of the servants there had been dismissed and replaced with Cheshire archers. Only royal knights would be allowed into the King’s presence. War barges lay moored, guarding the river approaches to the Tower, whilst Cranston had despatched the best horsemen with fresh mounts to take up station at taverns along the main roads into Essex and Kent.

‘More than that,’ he declared, taking a generous mouthful from the miraculous wineskin, ‘I cannot do. Now, Brother …’

Athelstan informed him of his conclusions on certain matters. Cranston listened carefully, wiping his moustache with his fingers.

‘Satan’s tits!’ he crowed when the friar had finished. ‘My little ferret, you have been busy.’ His smile faded. ‘Those war dogs at the Golden Oliphant …’

‘They will wait,’ Athelstan replied. ‘The person who released them will be caught, indicted and suffer a hideous death. Now, Sir John, let us prepare for our visitors. I will need a carpenter, a good one. I know building work is going on here, though,’ he stared around, ‘your chambers are as bare as any hermit’s.’

‘Everything is packed away,’ Cranston retorted, ‘stored in the arca in the cellars, great iron and steel chests; they now hold cloths, writing materials, records, pictures, crucifixes, virtually anything which can be moved.’ The coroner breathed in noisily. ‘The Guildhall will come under attack; its gates have been fortified. You are correct. We have hired the best craftsmen.’

He left the room then returned with a quiet-faced, sandy-haired man, Guibert Tallifer, a carpenter and leading member of the city guild. Athelstan began to explain why he needed him when there was a knock at the door and Flaxwith entered to announce the first of their visitors had arrived, along with the sign from the Oliphant, which would be laid on the great bench in Cranston’s judgement chamber. They promptly adjourned there, a bleak, stark room with its blank walls and heavy oaken furniture. The Golden Oliphant sign had been placed on the judgement bench and Athelstan explained what he wanted. Tallifer, his leather apron bristling with pockets for tools, scrutinized the sign carefully.

‘It’s a box,’ he declared, ‘a shallow box with about six inches between front and back. And, what is this?’ He placed his finger into a hole piercing the cross-piece of the crucifix which decorated the lid over the Oliphant’s cup. The drinking horn was delicately and accurately depicted and Athelstan had to concede that its artist, Reginald Camoys, had a God-given talent. The carpenter explained that the sides of the sign were held together by a very powerful glue. Skilfully, using hammer, wedge and chisel, Tallifer began to loosen one side. He was almost finished when Athelstan told him to pause and asked Sir John to bring up Sir Everard and Matthias Camoys along with Mistress Cheyne.

All three visitors came into the chamber exclaiming with surprise when they saw the sign and Tallifer’s tools lying on top of it. Cranston demanded silence. Athelstan nodded at the carpenter to finish his work and lift the loosened side. He did so and Matthias Camoys cried with delight at the green and gold cross fixed firmly within. The cameo of the Roman emperor was carefully positioned so it lay accurately against the hole piercing the cross-piece of the crucifix on the lid of the Oliphant’s cup on both sides of the sign. Athelstan firmly knocked Matthias’ hand away.

‘The cross is glued,’ Athelstan explained, ‘positioned carefully within the sign, which, in turn, was hung so as to catch the first rays of the morning sun. I saw it this morning, a shaft of pure light as you find in certain churches where a lancet window is used to guide the sunlight on to the altar.’ He gestured. ‘Master carpenter, if you could loosen the cross.’

Tallifer did so, swiftly and expertly, then handed the relic to Athelstan.

‘I never knew!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

‘I don’t think you ever really cared,’ Athelstan retorted, holding his hand up to still her protests.

‘It’s mine!’ Matthias lunged forward; Athelstan thrust the cross into his hands.

‘You may have it, for what it’s worth; it’s a fake, a replica.’

‘No!’ Matthias looked wide-eyed at his father, who grasped the cross, holding it up to the light. He took out a thick piece of conclave glass from his wallet and used this to peer closely at the cross, concentrating especially on the gold fretting.

‘Very good,’ Sir Everard murmured. ‘Very fine, crafty and subtle, but you are correct, Athelstan, a most cunning forgery.’

Matthias jumped to his feet, knocking over the stool on which he was sitting. For a while Athelstan let him pace backwards and forwards before nodding at Sir John, who ordered the young man to sit down.

‘You are quiet, Mistress Cheyne?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘You always suspected it was a forgery, a replica, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did, but I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone, least of all you.’ She pointed at Matthias. Athelstan noticed that she and Sir Everard had barely acknowledged each other.

‘Sir Everard? Did you suspect?’

‘I did wonder.’ The goldsmith drew a sharp breath. ‘Why the Teutonic Knights, despite their difficulties against the Easterlings, never made any attempt to recover it.’

‘I followed the same logic,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘as you did, Mistress Cheyne. Reginald Camoys was a very skilled artist and sign maker. Formerly he had been a soldier who had lost a beloved comrade in the fighting. He stole the Cross of Lothar as some form of compensation or recompense. He brought his comrade’s corpse home for solemn entombment at St Mary Le Bow. Eventually he discovered, God knows how, that what he had stolen was a replica but he still persisted with the myth. He could not destroy the artefact which, in time, became the symbol of his love for Simon Penchen. He would not willingly let such an object go. As I said, Reginald was a cultivated, educated man. He chose St Mary Le Bow to house the shrine of his fallen comrade. He would wander round that church, especially the crypt, which contains the ruins of an ancient Roman temple dedicated to a god much beloved of Roman soldiers, Mithras, the Unconquerable Sun God. He also discovered one of the most commonly used dedications to that deity, “Soli Invicto – to the Unconquerable Sun”. At the same time he read or recalled the famous story about the Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor who converted after he experienced a vision of the Cross with the message, “In Hoc Signo Vinces – In this Sign you will conquer.” Constantine did; he won the battle of the Milvian Bridge and replaced Mithras with Christ. Reginald Camoys, a former soldier, would relish such a story, yet he had also learned that the cross he had stolen was a mere replica, so, instead of publishing the truth and destroying the symbol,’ Athelstan tapped the brothel sign, ‘he had this made and the replica placed carefully inside so that the cameo at the centre would catch the first rays of the rising sun. Reginald, on a fine morning like this, would love nothing better than to sit in the garden of the Golden Oliphant and watch that flash of light, is that not so, Mistress Cheyne?’

‘True, true,’ she murmured, not lifting her head. ‘The sign was fashioned a few years before Reginald’s death. At the same time, those carvings appeared in the Golden Oliphant and the chantry chapel of St Mary Le Bow.’ She sniffed. ‘Always a dreamer, always mischievous, Reginald loved his dead comrade Simon Penchen more than me.’ Athelstan caught her deep bitterness of loss. ‘Always,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘full of fanciful ideas.’

‘One final twist,’ Athelstan added. ‘The original quotation uses the word, “Vinces – you will conquer”; Reginald changed it slightly using the word, “Vinceris”, or at least that’s my educated guess, so the inscription reads, “In this sign you will be released.” Reginald was actually addressing Lothar’s Cross, bidding it an affectionate farewell as well as challenging those who knew him to find the cross and release it from the sign. A much more pleasing prospect than having to admit its true worth. Reginald wove a complex tale to satisfy himself as well as leave secret puzzles, riddles and enigmas behind him.’ Athelstan pointed at Matthias. ‘He also wanted you to use your brain, your wits, on something better than drinking and wenching.’

‘Reginald should have been a minstrel, a troubadour,’ Sir Everard declared. ‘I did have my suspicions for the very same reasons you did, Brother Athelstan. So we have the truth. But you have summoned me here for more than this, I suspect.’

Athelstan turned to the carpenter who had sat fascinated at what was being discussed. ‘Master Tallifer, I thank you. Submit all reasonable expenses to Sir John at the Guildhall and he will ensure you receive speedy reimbursement.’

The carpenter collected his tools and rose. ‘I have heard similar tales,’ he declared, ‘about signs containing some secret.’ He grinned. ‘But not like this.’

‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan gestured at the sign, ‘Master Tallifer can also claim for rehanging the sign.’

She nodded, licked thin, dry lips and rose to her feet. ‘I can go now?’

‘You certainly can,’ Cranston declared. ‘I will arrange for the sign to be returned to the waiting cart. Master Foxley, I understand, accompanied you here?’

Athelstan rose and crossed to the window, staring down into the cobbled bailey where Foxley stood next to a cart. He half listened as Tallifer, Mistress Cheyne and Guildhall servants removed the sign from the judgement chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, Cranston resumed his seat in the coroner’s chair; Athelstan sat on a bench facing Sir Everard and Matthias.

‘I asked a question, Brother,’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Why have I been summoned here?’

‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I shall be brief. To assist your liege lord the King and his ministers, such as Sir John here, to resolve certain murderous mysteries and so bring the perpetrators to justice.’

‘I have nothing to do with the deaths at the Golden Oliphant.’

‘Yes and no, Sir Everard. But first let me try and win your favour as well as alert you,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Matthias, ‘to a possible danger you might face. Sir John, you have the bailiff from Sir Everard’s ward ready for us?’

‘Poulter?’

‘Yes, Master Poulter, and a speaking horn.’

Cranston, whom Athelstan had carefully instructed, left the chamber. He returned shortly afterwards grasping a very frightened Poulter by the arm as well as carrying a hollow, metal tube similar to a tournament trumpet.

‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan gestured at the stool facing the judgement table, ‘sit down.’ The friar took the speaking horn from Cranston and placed it between his feet. Poulter, all sweat-soaked and quivering, glanced at this and moaned quietly. ‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan began, ‘I do not wish to torture you or put you to the question, but that could be arranged in the dungeons below, is that not so, Sir John?’ The coroner nodded. ‘You have a family, Master Poulter?’

‘A wife and five children.’

‘You are a city official?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have heard of the Herald of Hell?’

‘Of course,’ Poulter stammered.

‘You are the Herald of Hell,’ Athelstan accused.

‘I am not! I had no choice!’ Poulter’s head went down and he began to sob.

‘What is this?’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Poulter is loyal and true. He came to my …’ His voice faded away.

‘To be accurate and honest,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you, Master Poulter, are simply one of the many Heralds of Hell plaguing the good citizens of this city. Let me tell you about my friend Robert Burdon, keeper of London Bridge. He, too, was visited at the dead of night by the Herald of Hell. Now I reasoned that either the Herald had braved the waters of the Thames to arrive or depart, or that he actually lived on the bridge. However, I also discovered, thanks to the good offices of Sir John, that on the same night Burdon was visited, the Herald of Hell was active in Farringdon ward. Despite his title, I know that the Herald cannot fly. He certainly did not walk the waters of the Thames, so the only logical conclusion was that he lived and worked on the bridge, as he did in Farringdon, in Cheapside and elsewhere. In other words, the Herald of Hell was truly legion. So who could he be?

‘The only individual who walks the streets of London in the dead of night is the ward bailiff. I suspect the Upright Men, to further and to deepen what I call “the Great Fear”, suborned these city officials with dire threats against themselves and their families both now and when the Great Revolt occurs. The task assigned to them was simple. A named house would be given along with a doggerel verse, a beaker full of pig’s blood and sharpened stalks bearing the same number of onions as there were individuals in that particular household. In Sir Everard’s case, there were two. The bailiff concerned would also be given a simple speaking horn which, together with the other paraphernalia, would be carefully hidden away. At some godforsaken hour of the night, when doors and shutters betray no chink of light, the bailiff, suborned and terrified, would choose his time. The jar of blood with its grisly warning would be left outside the door of the chosen victim. The bailiff, hidden in the shadows and armed with a simple speaking horn, would bray a blast and deliver the warning learnt by rote. A horn like this,’ Athelstan tapped the one resting between his feet, ‘would disguise his voice. Once finished, taking advantage of the darkness and chaos caused, the speaking horn would be hidden away for collection and the bailiff could now act the conscientious, loyal city official. The damage is done. The fear deepens. Security is threatened. People panic. They will either flee or try to seek accommodation with the hidden power of the Upright Men.

‘Sir Everard was different, a veteran soldier made of sterner stuff. More importantly, because of his acute sense of hearing, Sir Everard recognized the voice despite the speaking horn, but he could not place it. He would never dream it was the faithful, loyal wardsman, but it was you, Master Poulter. And the damage you and your kind have perpetrated cannot be undone.’

‘So the Herald of Hell is like the hydra of antiquity, many-headed?’

‘Yes, Sir Everard, but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘in origin, the Herald of Hell could be one person. Such an individual acts out his title: suborns the watchmen, instructs them on what to do and gives his victims the necessary means to carry it out. Yes, I believe that’s a strong possibility.’ Athelstan paused. He did not wish to reveal more than necessary, but he secretly wondered if Reynard, the Upright Men’s courier, had been bringing that cipher to the real Herald of Hell here in London when he had been caught.

‘Anyway, Master Poulter,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘I have spoken the truth. You agree?’ The bailiff was now quivering like a child. Athelstan winked at Cranston, indicating with his hand that gentleness was the best way forward. ‘I have spoken the truth, Master Poulter?’

‘Yes.’ The bailiff sighed. ‘Yes, you have, but what now?’

‘Nothing,’ Cranston declared, glaring at Sir Everard. ‘You were placed under powerful duress. You could have put more trust in the Crown, though,’ the coroner added bitterly. ‘That trust is becoming a rarer commodity by the day. So go, Master Poulter. Have nothing more to do with the Upright Men. Tomorrow, you and all the ward bailiffs from the city will be summoned here to listen to good counsel and practical advice: those who admit their guilt and purge themselves will be warned and let go. Any who resist must face the consequences. Now you can leave.’

Poulter scuttled from the room. Once the door had closed, Sir Everard clapped his hands slowly. ‘Excellent, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, very clever! The Upright Men forced city officials to spread fear and foreboding.’

‘Oh, we have more,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We questioned Poulter in front of you to show you our good will. To reassure you that, as with Poulter, we shall not issue any indictment against you.’

‘For what? Sir John, what is this?’

The coroner slouched in his judgement chair and took a swig from his miraculous wineskin. ‘Amaury Whitfield. He lodged money with you, did he not?’

‘Many do.’

‘Sir Everard,’ Athelstan warned, ‘do not play games. We have shown you our good will. Now you may answer to us or to the Barons of the Exchequer who, under orders from Master Thibault, may move to issue a summons for you to appear before the King’s Bench.’

Sir Everard glanced quickly at his son, who sat cowed, then he shrugged.

‘Good,’ Athelstan declared, ‘now let me tell you what happened. Whitfield was a high-ranking chancery clerk in the household of Gaunt’s principal henchman. Every quarter he would receive monies, robes and whatever purveyance he needed, not enough to make him wealthy but certainly comfortable enough. Whitfield often visited you on his master’s business. Then, sometime in the past, he began to deposit monies with you. At first there was no problem, until these deposits increased in both content and frequency. Whitfield was crafty. He knew that his monies would be lodged under a symbol rather than his own title, that is how you bankers and goldsmiths do business. Whitfield’s entries could be filed under the name of a flower, a precious stone or place name. He also knew that, according to the laws of your own guild, copied from the great Italian bankers such as the Frescobaldi of Florence, complete confidentiality and trust are the order of the day, the cornerstone of good business. You, however, grew increasingly uncomfortable. Here is a very high-ranking clerk in the service of the sinister Thibault, depositing monies, the origins of which are highly suspect. Should Thibault suspect, should he investigate and discover the truth, you could be depicted as Whitfield’s accomplice.’

Athelstan held the gaze of this powerful goldsmith caught in toils not of his making. ‘You are an honourable man, Sir Everard. I feel truly sorry for you. To cut to the quick, you told Whitfield you could no longer be his banker, and that is your right. You filled money coffers and caskets with what was due to him and told him to protect these as best he could. Whitfield had no choice. I suspect he kept such caskets in a secure, secret place at his lodgings. A few days ago, Whitfield left for the Cokayne Festival which was, and I tell you this in confidence, only a ploy to hide the fact that he and Lebarge intended to flee the kingdom. He also intended to dirty the waters deeper by disguising his desertion under a fake death, possibly suicide somewhere along the Thames. In the meantime, Whitfield must conceal his ill-gotten gains. You, Sir Everard, suspected quite rightly that such monies were lavish bribes paid by different parties to learn Master Thibault’s secrets.

‘Anyway, bereft of a banker and getting ready to flee, Master Whitfield had a thick, heavy money belt strapped around his waist, its pouches crammed with silver and gold. Little wonder he and Lebarge hired a chamber on the fourth gallery. He wanted to make matters more secure. That heavy money belt also explains one witness’s observation that Whitfield looked slimmer in death than in life. Of course the money belt had been removed, stolen. Nevertheless, it left its mark on Whitfield’s belly and flanks. Brother Philippe at Smithfield observed these marks when he scrutinized the corpse. Now Whitfield’s death does not concern you, but your son is a different matter.’

Athelstan turned to the sullen-looking Matthias. ‘Blackmail,’ Athelstan declared. Matthias sat unmoving, his arms folded, glaring at the floor. ‘Blackmail,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘You, sir, were waiting for Whitfield at the Golden Oliphant. You may have suspected that he was about to flee. You’d certainly learnt about the monies deposited with your father. You gave Whitfield a choice. He was a trained clerk, skilled in ciphers. He would either help solve the riddles confronting you about Lothar’s Cross or you would denounce him to Thibault.’

‘Matthias!’ his father exclaimed.

‘Am I correct?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Or must I have you arrested?’

‘On what charge?’

‘Quite a few,’ Cranston interjected.

‘What is it you want?’

‘The truth, Matthias, or what you know of it.’

Matthias squirmed uneasily on the stool. ‘Whitfield was set on disappearing; Lebarge, too. They’d both been terrified by the visit from the Herald of Hell.’ He laughed sharply. ‘If they had only known the truth. Anyway, Whitfield did have a treasure belt about him and he was fearful of being robbed.’

‘By whom?’

‘In God’s name, Brother, anyone. He was apprehensive about Stretton, Foxley, who seemed to be bothering him, nor did he trust Odo Gray, but he believed once he was on board the Leaping Horse along with Mistress Cheyne and her household, all might be well. He was most cordial with the moppets as was Lebarge, who was much taken with the whore Hawisa. Of course Whitfield was terrified that Thibault would find out about his plans. He had not decided, so he confided in me, whether he should arrange an apparent suicide or an accident along the Thames.’

‘Ah,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘that explains the contradiction and confusion I have noticed.’

‘Whitfield had yet to commit himself; he changed like a weather vane.’ Matthias shook his head. ‘Suicide, accident? Suicide, accident? He couldn’t decide, nor how he was to arrange it. Eventually he went to the Tavern of Lost Souls to continue pawning valuable objects he could not take with him. I understand he had begun that in the days before he arrived at the Golden Oliphant. However, Whitfield also wanted Mephistopheles’ help in arranging his disappearance. He talked about taking a bundle of clothing down to the Thames on the evening of the very day he was found hanging. These were to be used in whatever death he staged. I also know that he had drawn up a note hinting at suicide. I don’t think he had fully decided on what to do. He needed Mephistopheles’ advice.’ Matthias drew in a deep breath. ‘I suspect he may have even been considering another plan.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, just to walk out of the Golden Oliphant and disappear of his own accord. Brother Athelstan, there are other cogs which would have taken him to different ports, not just Flanders but Castile, even the Middle Sea.’

‘And Lebarge?’

‘A rift had grown between them. Lebarge was much taken with Hawisa. I believe he wanted her to be with him whatever happened.’

‘And the riddles about the Cross of Lothar?’ Cranston demanded. ‘Did he offer any solution?’

‘He said he had certain ideas. Whether he did or not, I cannot say. He scrutinized the carvings both here and at St Mary Le Bow. Nothing remarkable, except he added something strange.’

‘What?’

‘He told me to be very careful of that church, not to be there by myself or be seen prying about it.’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘he would say that, wouldn’t he? And you know what, Matthias? Because of the help you have given us, I am going to ask the Lord High Coroner here to overlook your indiscretions and those of your father.’ He waved his hand. ‘You may take the replica and leave. However,’ Athelstan held up the cross as if taking an oath, ‘I have no proof of this, no evidence, not a shred, but thank God you did not meet Whitfield together with Mephistopheles at the Tavern of Lost Souls.’

‘Why?’

‘Ask yourself,’ Athelstan said quietly, ‘why you had to meet him there. Why not somewhere in the Golden Oliphant or a place nearby?’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘You blackmailed Whitfield. You were one of the few people who knew all about his wealth and its highly illicit source. I often make a mistake. I believe people behave more logically than they actually do. Whitfield was agitated about how he should disappear, where, when and with whom. I do not know the truth of it. However, on one thing he was decided: he would vanish. Mephistopheles could certainly help him with this, make all the arrangements, including the mysterious disappearance of someone whom Whitfield regarded as dangerous. You, Matthias, with your threats of blackmail.’

‘You are saying Whitfield would have killed me?’

‘Oh no, Matthias. Whitfield was no dagger man, but Mephistopheles certainly is. Oh, he’d deny everything if confronted now. He would ask for evidence and proof and I cannot supply it, but rest assured, Whitfield’s mysterious death definitely saved your life. Now you can go.’

Both father and son rose. Matthias snatched the replica and stumbled from the chamber, followed by his father. Athelstan and Cranston sat listening to their footsteps fade.

‘Helpful, Brother?’

‘Very. But I am still threading the maze, Sir John. What Matthias told us makes sense: it imposes a logic of sorts on some events and proves what I suspect regarding others.’

‘Such as?’

‘The cipher, Sir John.’ Athelstan opened his chancery satchel, took out the two pieces of vellum and stretched them out. ‘This,’ he picked up the grease-stained parchment, ‘is a most cryptic cipher fashioned out of strange, closely packed symbols. I could study this until the Second Coming and wouldn’t make sense of it. Whitfield had made some headway or at least a beginning; this second piece of vellum is his commentary. Look, Sir John.’ Athelstan pushed the second square of parchment across the table. ‘Let’s put the cipher aside and concentrate on what Whitfield’s workings tell us. It shows two triangles, not isosceles, the base of each triangle being longer than the other two sides. In addition one triangle,’ Athelstan tapped the parchment, ‘is longer than the other. However, notice how the apexes of each meet in the one spot. Finally, we have these saints’ names scrawled down one side of the parchment: St Andrew, St Dunstan, St Bride and so on.’

‘And?’

‘They are the names of London churches, all with soaring towers, belfries and spires.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Sir John, in brief, the three sides of each of these triangles map out the churches of London. The base of the larger one marks all those along the north bank of the Thames. The side of that triangle running south to east includes churches to the west of the city such as St Augustine’s and St Paul’s Gate. The side of the same triangle running south to west includes churches such as St Michael in Crooked Lane. The smaller inverted triangle does the same. Its baseline includes churches north of the city such as St Giles Cripplegate. The other two sides include churches such as St Peter Westcheap to the west and St Margaret Lothbury to the east. The apex of each triangle meets at the one spot, the same church …’

‘St Mary Le Bow!’ Cranston exclaimed. ‘The Upright Men intend to seize all these churches, don’t they?’

‘I suspect they do, Sir John, for a number of reasons. When the revolt comes, the rebels will hoist their banners from steeples all over London, which will create the impression that the city is already in the hands of the Upright Men. They will also be able to light beacon fires and, above all,’ Athelstan emphasized the points on his fingers, ‘they will be able to observe troop movements across the city and …’

‘The same church towers could easily be fortified into strongholds where a few men can withstand attacks by the many. Lord save us!’ Cranston sprang to his feet. ‘If they seize twenty such towers, the city will have to divide their forces to deal with each fortification whilst, at the same time, having to confront peasant armies coming in from all directions.’

‘St Mary Le Bow,’ Athelstan explained, ‘will be at the heart of this plan. It stands at the centre of the city; it dominates the great trading area of Cheapside with the mansions and the warehouses of all the great and good. It will be ideal for the deployment of archers, the setting up of barricades, the closing of streets.’ Athelstan paused to sip at a beaker of water. ‘Which brings us to Raoul Malfort, bell clerk with specific responsibility for the tower at St Mary Le Bow. Our tooth drawer uses the tower chamber to carry out his gruesome task. The cries and groans of his patients, indeed everything associated with drawing teeth, would certainly keep people away. Secretly Malfort’s friends amongst the Upright Men are busy fortifying the upper chambers in the tower, bringing in supplies and storing weapons against the day of the Great Slaughter.’

Cranston walked up and down the room in his agitation. ‘The original bell clerk, Edmund Lacy, was murdered by Reynard, who has gone to judgement. Everything is connected,’ he murmured, ‘like beads on a chain. I suspect the original bell clerk was a man of integrity, so he was removed and Malfort usurps his office. He sets up his trade in the tower chamber ostensibly drawing teeth, in truth plotting insurrection and treason.’

‘I agree,’ Athelstan declared. ‘We will find all the proof we need in St Mary Le Bow.’ He smiled drily. ‘I am also deeply suspicious about my own parish council’s interests in closing St Erconwald’s tower for so-called repairs.’

‘But St Erconwald’s is south of the Thames.’ Cranston laughed and shook his head. ‘Of course,’ he declared, ‘and from the top of St Erconwald’s you can view all the southern approaches to the Thames as well as London Bridge.’ He picked up his warbelt. ‘Brother, I need to act quickly. Within the hour Malfort will be under arrest and his chamber searched, then we will move against the rest.’

‘There’s more,’ Athelstan declared. ‘I referred to it earlier, the true identity of our Herald of Hell. I suspect he is our wicked bell clerk at St Mary’s. Malfort certainly fits the bill. He holds the most powerful church tower in the city. I suspect he’s also responsible for suborning the ward bailiffs, Poulter and the rest. Reynard may have been on his way to meet our cunning bell clerk, but then Reynard fumbled the murder of Lacy and was arrested. We should put all this to him, Sir John.’

‘We certainly shall.’ Cranston tightened his warbelt. ‘I look forward to questioning Malfort. He is surrounded by so much mischief and mystery he could well be the Herald of Hell. Do you think Whitfield knew?’

‘Indeed I do. The triangles prove our murdered clerk was making progress, whilst his veiled warning to Matthias to stay away from St Mary’s is proof enough. But still, there’s something very wrong here.’ Athelstan rose and walked to the window. He stared down at the soldiers and archers gathering there. ‘Leave St Erconwald’s alone, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘I am going to send my parishioners a message, repairs or not. I want my church tower back – that will bring any mischief they are planning to nothing …’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I must reflect.’

‘In other words, plot, little friar?’

‘Yes, Sir John, plot. We will be busy soon enough, mark my words. In view of what we have discovered, the Day of the Great Slaughter must be very, very close.’

‘Athelstan, you claimed that, despite all this progress, something was very wrong?’

‘Yes, my learned coroner, so bear with me. First, we know Reynard brought a very important message – that cipher – to Malfort, either to hand to him personally or to leave it somewhere safe in St Mary Le Bow Church. You would agree?’ Cranston nodded. ‘Secondly, Reynard was also tasked with the removal of Edmund Lacy, the bell clerk at St Mary Le Bow, in order to give Malfort a free hand. He does this clumsily and openly flees to Whitefriars, where he is captured along with that cipher which he failed to deliver. Thirdly, the message of that cipher is crucially important, and now we know why, so the Upright Men must have sent a second messenger. On this occasion he or she would carry nothing in writing as time is now of the essence, so secret verbal instructions would be delivered on what Malfort has to do.’

Cranston grunted his assent.

‘Fourthly,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Malfort realizes the cipher has been seized by Thibault and that Whitfield would have been instructed to unlock it and the same for us. For all he knows, we may even have translated it in every detail instead of just discovering the sketchy outline of what is being plotted. In the end, we know what the Upright Men intend to do but not when and how.’

‘And just in case we do,’ Cranston added, ‘I suggest the Great Community of the Realm and the Upright Men would have changed certain details. Brother, we must seize Malfort before the day is out.’

‘I agree, Sir John, but finally there is one other matter. Whitfield was a clerk of the Secret Chancery. Why didn’t he leave the cipher in a strong box at the Tower? Why have it with him when he moved to the Golden Oliphant for the Festival of Cokayne?’

‘Because Thibault wanted him to unlock its secrets as swiftly as possible, even though he had been granted boon days …’

Athelstan smiled and held up a hand. ‘Or Whitfield took it with him so he could translate it and sell it back to the Upright Men, or …’

‘Or what, Friar?’

‘Whitfield was playing the two-backed beast, the duplicitous clerk. He would translate the cipher, win Thibault’s approval and then secretly inform the Upright Men how their plot was now clearly known to Gaunt’s Master of Secrets.’

‘Of course,’ Cranston breathed, ‘and he might acquire more silver for his flight.’

‘And Whitfield’s so-called death, however it was depicted, could be laid at the door of the Upright Men, who punished Whitfield for discovering their secret. Whitfield would have emerged as the faithful clerk who pleased his master and was apparently murdered for doing so. Even if his flight was later discovered, Whitfield could pretend that, because of what he had done and the threats from the Herald of Hell, he had taken fright and fled. Thibault might not be so pleased but at least it’s understandable. There are so many variations to what Whitfield plotted, we will never know the full truth. Suffice to say, Whitfield was going to use the cipher for his own nefarious reasons.’

‘Do you think, despite his sketchy notes, Whitfield had broken the cipher in its entirety?’

Athelstan picked up his cloak. ‘Perhaps, but now we must get going. Our bell clerk awaits us.’

Within the hour, Cranston and Athelstan, accompanied by Flaxwith’s bailiffs and a cohort of Guildhall men-at-arms and archers, swept through Cheapside and up the steps of St Mary Le Bow. Their arrival was not unexpected. Reports of the coroner’s dramatic departure from the Guildhall with a phalanx of heavily armed men had been noted, the news being carried by scampering urchins who leapt like fleas round the busy stalls and booths. At Athelstan’s hushed and breathless instruction, the church was immediately ringed with guards, placed at the Corpse and Devil doors as well as all the narrow postern gates built into that ancient church.

Cranston and Athelstan led their main company up the steps. The beggars, counterfeit men, preachers, relic sellers and tale-tellers swiftly disappeared like snow under the sun. Some attempt was made to swing the huge main door shut, but Flaxwith’s bailiffs thrust this aside. They poured up the nave, hastening towards the entrance to the bell tower. Its heavy oaken door, reinforced with iron bands and studs, had been thrown open. The Earthworms secretly working there had fled and, to judge by the clatter of weapons from outside, Athelstan realized they had encountered the men-at-arms being deployed across God’s Acre, the broad cemetery around the church.

Flaxwith kicked open the door to the bell tower and, sword and dagger drawn, entered the cavernous stairwell which served as Master Malfort’s tooth-drawing chamber. Athelstan glimpsed the heavy, blackened oaken chair which Malfort used for his patients. On a table beside it stood a bowl with broken, rotting teeth, pincers, small implements and pieces of blood-caked string. Athelstan noted the black heavy straps used to pinion patients as well as the pots of crushed herbs and other potions and powders. The dirty, cobwebbed chamber was empty. A noisy scuffling echoed further up the stone spiral staircase. Flaxwith and his men were about to go up, but Athelstan called them back.

‘Master Malfort?’ The friar stood on the bottom step. ‘Master Malfort and those with you, come down or face summary execution. I speak for Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of this city with the power and life and death over all found in arms against the King.’

‘Immediate and without appeal!’ Cranston bawled, joining Athelstan on the step.

‘Athelstan,’ the coroner whispered, ‘what do you think …?’

‘When news of our imminent arrival reached here,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I am sure the Earthworms were busy further up the tower while Malfort was practising his grisly trade here in this chamber. The tooth-drawer and his patients fled in panic the only way they could, up those steps – listen.’

The sound of angry voices drifted down. Men’s gruff tones and the shrill, strident scream of a woman.

‘You have only the briefest of times,’ Cranston bawled, ‘or I send armed men up. They will take no prisoners.’

At Cranston’s signal, Flaxwith and his men began to rattle their drawn weapons against the walls, an ominous clatter of steel which echoed up the steps.

‘Come down!’ Cranston roared. ‘Come now! The only person we want is Raoul Malfort, bell clerk of this church and alleged traitor. Anyone found aiding, abetting or assisting him …’

This was enough. More shouts and yells, followed by the patter of footsteps, and a veritable gaggle of individuals came clattering down the steps. Two men, a woman and Raoul Malfort, held at the scruff of the neck by one of the men, a burly individual with a thick, heavy apron wrapped about him. He identified himself as Henry Vattier, vintner, his wife Margot and apprentice Simeon who, by his blood-encrusted mouth, must have been the object of Malfort’s recent ministrations before the unexpected arrival of Cranston and his escort.

‘In constant pain,’ the vintner boomed, shaking Malfort like a terrier would a rat, ‘we brought Simeon here, Margot and I, because we could not take his moaning from matins to compline.’ He shoved the terrified Malfort, his long, ugly face now strained with fear, into Flaxwith’s custody. ‘We heard noises from the stairs above, though he,’ the vintner pointed at Malfort, ‘told us it was workmen repairing the steps. Then you arrived. It was as if the very doors of Hell had been forced, Earthworms leaping about like Satan’s imps as they fled. Malfort,’ he jabbed with his thumb, ‘well, we didn’t know about his involvement. We thought we would all be safe further up.’

Athelstan asked a few questions, satisfying himself that the vintner was innocent. The friar thanked all three, gave them a special blessing that Simeon’s mouth would heal well, then he dismissed them. In the meantime, Flaxwith had bound the now shaking Malfort, who crouched in a corner, shivering and jabbering a stream of nonsense. A serjeant came in to report that three Earthworms had been slain in God’s Acre; the rest of their company had scaled the cemetery wall and fled into the maze of Cheapside. Cranston ordered the corpses of the dead be stripped and displayed on the church steps while Flaxwith and his bailiffs climbed the steep, spiral staircase to inspect the different stairwells. They returned with water-skins and leather sacks bulging with dried food, as well as a variety of arbalests, quivers crammed full of quarrels, longbows and bundles of yard-long shafts, feathered flights bristling, their barbed points sharp as razors. They also reported that the amount of kindling and charcoal for the beacon light in the steeple seemed more than plentiful, ‘As if to create a bonfire.’ They’d also discovered kite shields which could be used to defend the tower staircase, along with barrels of oil which, once spilt and torched, would create a powerful barrier against troops trying to retake the tower.

‘Like a castle preparing for a siege,’ Cranston murmured. He ordered the tower to be stripped of all such armaments before kicking Malfort to his feet.

They left the church, the hapless bell clerk pinioned in the centre of a phalanx of men-at-arms, halberds and spears bristling. Only when the reinforced, towering gates of the Guildhall swung closed behind them did the phalanx break up. Along that short journey back, Athelstan sensed the deepening tension over Cheapside and, bearing in mind what he’d seen in St Mary’s tower, believed the revolt must be imminent. Once back in the Guildhall, he urged Sir John that Malfort be immediately questioned. The coroner agreed.

Flaxwith hustled the cowed bell clerk down the dank, dark steps leading to the dungeons beneath the main hall. The passageway below was mildewed and crusted with dirt; pools of light flared from the sconce torches pushed into brackets on the walls. Rats scurried across shimmering puddles of slime. They made their way past the different cells into a circular space where braziers glowed, making the shadows dance against the wall festooned with clasps and chains. Cranston, winking at Athelstan, ordered Malfort to be stripped to his loincloth and stretched out on the flagstone floor, wrists and ankles secured in heavy gyves.

Athelstan stood chilled by this macabre, sombre sight. The torture room of the Guildhall bore witness to its gruesome history, a gloomy, menacing place lit by dancing flames which shimmered in the chains and fitfully illuminated the dark bloodstains on the plastered walls. The floor was covered with slime, the air a thick fug of stale smoke and foul odours. The oppressive silence was broken only by the drip, drip of water splashing into puddles and the constant moaning and cries trailing along the gloomy galleries which branched off from this chamber of terror. Athelstan gazed pitifully at Malfort, now spread out, his thin, ugly face framed by matted, sweaty hair, his bony body all a-tremble. Cranston placed two stools either side of the chained prisoner, gesturing that Athelstan should take one whilst he squatted on the other. He took a generous gulp from the miraculous wineskin and poured a little between Malfort’s dried lips before leaning down.

‘Come, sir. Tell me everything.’

‘They will kill me, execute me horribly,’ Malfort pleaded.

‘I will do the same.’ Cranston indicated that Athelstan should remain seated as he rose and beckoned his chief bailiff. ‘Remember France, Flaxwith? That mercenary company, the Flayers? We will do the same.’

The chief bailiff walked away and talked to the turnkeys. A short while later Flaxwith returned, stepping into the pool of light around Malfort to hand over a leather funnel with straps. Cranston took this and held it above the prisoner.

‘Master Malfort, I could fasten this over your mouth and keep pouring water until you choke or,’ the coroner crouched down beside Malfort, ‘I could lash the funnel to your side.’ The coroner did so deftly, fixing the funnel firmly to the prisoner’s flank. ‘Then,’ Cranston continued conversationally, snapping his fingers, ‘I could do this.’ He stretched out and took from Flaxwith the long, wire-mesh cage containing a huge rat, ears back against its knobbly head, eyes gleaming, its hairy snout pushing against the mesh, jaws gaping to expose sharpened teeth. ‘The rat is starving.’ Cranston stared down at Malfort who was now blinking furiously, his sweat-soaked face all aghast, mouth gaping, opening and shutting as if desperate for air. ‘We place the rat in the funnel,’ Cranston continued, ‘and light a fire at the open end. Rats hate fire. It will try and escape. The leather is as thick and sturdy as armour but your flesh, Master Malfort, is soft; it’s also food, as well as the only way out.’

Athelstan steeled himself against the sheer terror in Malfort’s eyes. The bell clerk, he reminded himself, was dangerous. He had plotted treason, rebellion and murder.

‘Now,’ Cranston patted the side of Malfort’s face, ‘you can tell me all you know and I might consider letting you get dressed, be given a coin and a parcel of food and be put on the next cog heading for foreign parts on the strict understanding that you never return to this kingdom under pain of being arrested for treason and torn apart at Tyburn. Do you understand?’

Malfort, eyes crazed with fear, nodded, banging his head against the floor. Cranston began his questions, and Malfort replied as both the coroner and Athelstan expected. He had been suborned by the Upright Men and given the task of preparing the bell tower of St Mary’s as a fortress. Edmund Lacy had proved to be an obstacle, so the Upright Men had despatched Reynard to remove him. Malfort confessed to this but added that he did not know the names or the identities of the Upright Men concerned, as they remained shadowy, midnight visitors who hid under the names of birds, animals or exotic beasts. Cranston nodded in agreement; he had discovered the same in other investigations he’d carried out. Malfort, however, terrified by the sound of the rat scrabbling and squeaking in the cage, hastened on.

‘Reynard was supposed to leave the cipher and its key in a crevice in St Stephen’s chantry chapel, the one housing Camoys’ corpse. He carried them separate on his person. One without the other was useless; only a trained cipher clerk like Whitfield might be skilled enough to break it.’

‘The cipher,’ Athelstan urged, ‘contained instructions about the seizing of church towers, belfries and steeples, did it not?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how do you know that?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘If both cipher and key were taken? Master Malfort,’ the friar leaned closer, ‘you are in gravi periculo mortis – in grave danger of death. Tell the truth. Let me help you. The Upright Men were furious at Reynard, weren’t they? I suspect they only recently retrieved the key to the cipher, but they sent you another message through an envoy who gave you strict verbal instructions on what to do, isn’t that right? Answer me!’

Malfort nodded. ‘I was informed of the plot to seize the Tower,’ he gasped, ‘and ordered to wait for a sign.’

‘What sign?’

‘A tile, yes, a tile emblazoned with an all-seeing eye. Once I had received that, I was to fire the beacon light in St Mary’s steeple, a veritable bonfire just as dawn broke: it would be seen all over the city. The Earthworms would move in immediately to seize the designated towers.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. I was still waiting for a further message, though I sense that the time is very close,’ Malfort chatted on. ‘In the meantime, I was ordered to pass on what I had been told to the leaders of the Earthworms.’

‘So you know who these are,’ Cranston demanded. ‘Give me their names.’

‘I can’t. Every so often one would appear and I’d deliver the message, which he would pass on. Who and how, I don’t know. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I beg you to believe me. I was only told what was necessary; that is how the Upright Men work – constantly in the shadows, ever vigilant against spies and traitors.’ Malfort drew a deep breath. ‘I was given further instruction, something only I could do.’

‘What? Who was this messenger?’

‘He sheltered in the gloom of the church porch. I was told to stand well away. I …’ Malfort coughed and spluttered. Cranston ordered the gyves to be unlocked and the bell clerk sat up, rubbing his wrists and arms.

‘Continue,’ Cranston ordered.

‘You know,’ Malfort gabbled, ‘how one of the duties of the bell clerk at St Mary’s is to collect rents from certain tenements the parish owns along Cheapside up to Newgate and Smithfield.’

‘Bequests,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Property left to the church by wealthy parishioners in return for chantry masses being sung for their souls.’

‘I collect them,’ Malfort declared. ‘Some chambers are occupied, others, particularly with the coming troubles, lie empty. I was given money and ordered to place, in certain of these rooms, the finest warbows fashioned out of yew along with well-stocked quivers of arrows. When the revolt began and the Earthworms fortified the tower of St Mary le Bow, I was ordered to leave and go to the taproom of the Lamb of God …’

Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘Is nothing sacred?’ he murmured.

Athelstan held a hand up. Sir John’s favourite hostelry commanded the sweep of Cheapside.

‘St Mary’s,’ Malfort continued, ‘owns tenements there, in the gallery above the taproom. But I was ordered to wait for a stranger. He would show me a tile, glazed white with the word “Actaeon” emblazoned on it. I was to provide him with a list of the tenements. The doors to such rooms would be left open; inside each I was to hide a warbow and quiver of arrows.’ Malfort rubbed dried, cracked lips. Cranston made him take a generous gulp from the wineskin. ‘I was also to warn the ward bailiffs of Cheapside not to interfere with any man at night carrying a small, white tile emblazoned with the word, “Actaeon”.’

‘Of course you would,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘You are the Herald of Hell, aren’t you?’

Malfort nodded. ‘I, with an escort of Earthworms, would meet the bailiffs on their nightly tours and give them instructions on what to do. The same applied to this.’

Troubled, Athelstan rose to his feet. He gestured at Cranston to join him in the murky entrance to the torture chamber.

‘Actaeon,’ he whispered. ‘The hunter from Greek mythology, an archer, a master bowman. Something jogs my memory, Sir John, but I can’t place it.’

Cranston stood deep in thought, staring down at the brackish pools of water coagulating on the paving stones.

‘Sir John?’

‘Tyler,’ the coroner whispered. ‘We have reports, Brother, of a leading captain of the Upright Men, Kentish in origin, called Wat Tyler, a former soldier, a true agitator …’

‘And?’

‘The records are being searched. Tax lists, muster rolls, court proceedings, Commissions of Array, all the sheriff returns every quarter to the Exchequer. However, no trace can be found of a Wat Tyler. He mysteriously appeared about six months ago, very active amongst the Upright Men in Kent …’

‘But no one knows who he is?’

‘Very much so, Brother. But I have my suspicions.’ Cranston spun on his heels and shouted at Flaxwith, ‘Get him!’ The coroner pointed to Malfort crouched crying on the ground. ‘Get him dressed. He is going to take us to all the properties owned by St Mary Le Bow which stand along Cheapside.’

A short while later Cranston and Athelstan left the dungeons. Two of Flaxwith’s bailiffs pushing the bent, bedraggled Malfort out across the great bailey. The bell clerk flinched at the bright sunlight, raising his bound wrists to protect his eyes. Athelstan was aware of shouts and cries, the neigh of horses from nearby stables, the pungent smell of dung, urine and sweat. Men-at-arms milled around. Cranston was shouting at a retainer to fetch his court clerk. Athelstan stared around; his feeling of unease had sharpened. Malfort’s confession had stirred a memory of something he had glimpsed here at the Guildhall. The friar glanced up at the whirring sound like the fast beating wings of a hawk. The sound was repeated. Athelstan spun around. Malfort was choking, screaming. One shaft had struck him high in the shoulder; the second was embedded deep in the bell clerk’s chest. Malfort’s face was twisted in shock, blood already seeping between his gaping lips. A third shaft caught the clerk in the throat, flinging him back on to the cobbles. The brief, abrupt silence of the courtyard erupted into shouts and yells. Men fled for the protection of doorways and walls, as far as possible from that blood-soaked prisoner thrashing in his death throes on the cobbles. Cranston pulled at Athelstan’s sleeve.

‘Brother, come away!’

Athelstan tried to shake off the coroner’s grip as he stared up at the Guildhall. He glimpsed a half-open casement window and remembered what he had seen.

‘The chapel, Sir John. Quickly!’

The friar, followed by a bemused coroner, hastened across the bailey, pushing aside retainers, men-at-arms and servants, now milling frenetically about. Cranston bellowed at them all to stand aside as he followed the friar up the staircase along the narrow gallery leading to the chapel. Athelstan tentatively pushed open the door. Cranston drew his sword and ordered the two archers he had summoned to string their bows. The friar cautiously entered. The chapel was empty; the door-window in the far wall hung open. No sign of the tiler and his sharp-eyed, stave-holding apprentice. The floor tiles had been fitted. Athelstan crossed to the window and picked up the small white square emblazoned with a crudely scrawled ‘Actaeon’. Athelstan sat down on a wall bench. Cranston dismissed the archers and joined him.

‘I saw him,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘and his so-called apprentice. In truth, our bowman and his protector, Wat Tyler. They were here. They must have been alerted by your arrest of Malfort and hastened here, just two more master craftsmen hired by the Guildhall.’

Cranston rose and made to go out.

‘Forget it, Sir John, they will be long gone.’

‘And that,’ Cranston crossed, closed the door and returned, ‘truly disturbs me.’

‘Sir John?’

Cranston made himself comfortable and took a generous slurp from the miraculous wineskin, then offered it to Athelstan, who drank a mouthful of the rich Bordeaux. ‘Little friar, to copy you. Item. We have Malfort the Herald of Hell in more ways than one. He not only suborned ward bailiffs, he was also the herald of chaos. He was to give the signal for certain church towers in the city to be seized and fortified once the revolt had begun. We now know the reasons why.’ Cranston hastened on. ‘Item. Malfort had other secret instructions. As bell clerk he had access to certain properties; I will get a list of these and search them. In these tenements Malfort was ordered to hide a warbow and quivers of yard shafts; we have just witnessed how skilfully they can be used! Item, my dear friar: we know from Grindcobbe that one of the principal captains of the Upright Men plots the sudden murder of our young king and we suspect, with good reason, that this particular captain is an accomplice of Gaunt. The revolt will occur, the church towers be seized and so on. Our king will shelter in the Tower but eventually he will leave, either to meet the rebels, be it with their envoys at Westminster, or to process through the city with banners unfurled.’

‘Victory or defeat?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘The young king, if he is still alive, must leave the Tower, and the broadest, swiftest route through the city is along Cheapside.’

‘Where,’ Cranston declared, ‘one soul amongst many lurks. Imagine our bowman, Brother, standing at a casement window, bow notched, waiting for the King, one shaft, two, perhaps, then the warbow is dropped and the assassin flees, just another panic-struck man amongst many others.’

Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘I cannot believe this is true. Gaunt is leaving for Scotland, his son Henry of Lancaster with him. The revolt will engulf the city and Gaunt’s creature, who calls himself Wat Tyler, will do all within his power to kill our king, Gaunt’s own blood?’

‘Brother, Edward II was deposed and killed by his wife Isabella, betrayed by his own half-brother Edmund Earl of Kent, father of our present king’s mother. The power of the Crown is price enough for someone’s soul, and Gaunt is prepared to pay it. Tyler, along with Actaeon, is proof enough – they were here. Accordingly, Tyler must have some special pass which allows him entry not only to the Guildhall but, God save us, to Westminster or even to the Tower, and that is something to truly fear.’ Cranston patted his jerkin. ‘I must be busy.’

‘Sir John, I want to stay here.’

‘Of course, little friar of deep cunning! There is a bedchamber above my judgement room: it is stark enough for an anchorite but it does have a cotbed, table, writing stool and a crucifix …’

‘Luxury indeed whilst I can celebrate mass here in the Guildhall chapel.’

‘So you intend to stay for more than a day?’

‘Oh yes, my Lord Coroner, for more than a day.’