Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 13

Brother Norbert roused them late in the afternoon asking if everything was all right. Athelstan, sleepy-eyed, mumbled his thanks and told Norbert the books could be returned to the library.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

Athelstan rubbed his eyes and yawned. ‘Yes and no, Brother.’ He smiled at Norbert’s puzzled expression. ‘All I can say is we have to wait for a while, Sir John and I.’ He looked at the coroner who sat on the edge of his bed, yawning like a cat. ‘My Lord Coroner and I now have other business to attend to.’

Cranston and he then washed themselves and helped Brother Norbert and other lay brothers take the rest of the volumes back to the library. Afterwards they both went for a walk in the orchard. They closed their minds to what they had seen during their last visit and enjoyed the sweet, fragrant smells of the ripening fruit.

‘We can proceed no further in the business here,’ Cranston observed, ‘until our messenger returns from Oxford. I have left instructions with Lady Maude that she is to send him to wherever we are.’ He stopped and looked squarely at Athelstan, his face drained of its usual bombast and cheeky arrogance. ‘Brother, tomorrow, at seven in the evening, I am to return to my Lord of Gaunt’s hall with the solution to the puzzle set by the Italian.’ He grasped Athelstan by the shoulder. ‘I trust you, Brother. I think you have a solution. I know you have a solution. Please trust me with it.’ Cranston held up one huge, podgy hand. ‘I swear on the lives of my poppets that I shall keep a closed mouth and not divulge what you tell me to anyone.’

‘You are certain, Sir John?’

‘As certain as I am that my belly is both big and empty.’

‘Then, My Lord Coroner, perhaps I should test my hypothesis.’

After supper that evening Athelstan took Cranston back to their bedchamber.

‘Now, Sir John, let us begin again. We have a chamber containing no secret passageways or trap doors, yet four murders are committed there: of a young man, a chaplain, and two soldiers. None of the victims ate or drank anything and it is part of the mystery that no one entered that room so no foul play by a third party is suspected.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘Now, in logic we are taught to search for the common denominator. One factor common to all things. So, this is my solution.’ He undid his saddle bags and laid out certain items on his bed. Cranston watched intently as Athelstan, using their bedchamber as the murder room, played out the manner in which each man died whilst giving the astonished coroner a lucid description of why the deaths had occurred.

‘It can’t be!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It’s impossible!’

‘Sir John, it’s the only explanation. And this time, using you as a possible victim, I shall prove it to you.’

An hour later Cranston had grudgingly to agree that Athelstan’s conclusion was the only acceptable one.

‘I hope it is,’ he remarked cheerily. ‘For before God, Sir John, it’s the only answer I can think of.’

‘What happens if you are wrong?’ Cranston muttered. ‘What happens if there is something we have forgotten? What then, eh? Where do I get the money to pay My Lord of Cremona?’

Athelstan put his face in his hands. He loved Cranston as a brother but sometimes the coroner reminded him of a petulant child. Nevertheless, Sir John was right. This was no simple mind game, one of those riddles loved by the philosophers of Oxford or Cambridge. Cranston’s reputation, his standing as a principal law officer, was at stake. The friar got up.

‘I can’t answer that, Sir John. I need to see Father Prior. I must tell him that we intend to leave tomorrow and will not return till Sunday.’ He patted Sir John on the shoulder. ‘Get some sleep. You will need your wits about you tomorrow.’

Of course, when Athelstan returned two hours later, Cranston was still up, cradling the miraculous wineskin in his arms as if it was one of the poppets.

‘You were a long time,’ he slurred.

‘I had to speak to Father Prior about some other business.’ ‘What’s that in your hand?’ Cranston pointed to the small roll of parchment Athelstan was pushing into his saddle bag.

‘Nothing, Sir John.’

Cranston let out a sigh. ‘You’re a secretive bugger, Athelstan, but I am too tired.’

Cranston shook off his clothes and fell with such a crash on to the bed, Athelstan considered it a miracle that both he and it did not go straight through the floor. The good coroner was snoring within minutes. Athelstan said his prayers, not so much the Divine Office of the church as a plea that the solution he proposed to Cranston’s puzzle was the correct one.

They spent the next day rehearsing the conclusion they had reached. Cranston sent Brother Norbert to his house in Cheapside to see if the messenger had returned from Oxford as well as to convey his felicitations to the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Norbert returned full of praise for the gracious Lady Maude and admiration for Cranston’s bouncing, baby boys. But, no, he declared, no messenger had arrived.

Cranston and Athelstan left the monastery of Blackfriars early in the evening. The coroner wished to refresh himself in one of the riverside taverns, then they hired a wherry to take them upriver to John of Gaunt’s palace. Even as the barge pulled in from mid-stream, they could see Gaunt’s household was waiting for them. The news of Cranston’s wager had apparently spread throughout the court. Silk-garbed barges were already pulling into the private quayside where retainers, wearing the livery of Gaunt, stood waiting with lighted torches. Above them the banners bearing the royal arms of England, France, Castile and Leon snapped in the breeze from the river.

As Cranston and Athelstan arrived, a chamberlain bearing a white, gold-tipped wand of office and dressed resplendently in cloth-of-gold, greeted them and led them through the throng along lighted passageways into the Great Hall, splendidly prepared for the occasion. On the black and white marble floor benches had been arranged, covered in soft testers for spectators to sit on; the walls were hung with vivid, resplendent tapestries. Just in front of these, men-at-arms dressed in silver half-armour stood discreetly, their swords drawn. On the dais the huge oaken table glowed in the light of hundreds of beeswax candles so that the far end of the room was almost as bright as it would be on a glorious summer’s day.

The chamberlain took them on to the dais and ushered them to chairs grouped behind the table in a broad semicircle.

‘You are to wait here,’ he announced. ‘His Grace the Duke of Lancaster and other members of the court are dining alone.’

Cranston caught the snub implicit in the man’s words.

‘What’s your name, fellow?’

‘Simon, Sir John. Simon de Bellamonte.’

‘Then, Simon,’ Cranston answered sweetly, ‘while we wait we are not here to be stared at. You will keep the hall door closed and serve my clerk and myself two large goblets of my Lord of Gaunt’s famous Rhenish wine which he keeps chilled in the cellars below!’

The chamberlain pulled his lips into a vinegarish smile.

‘The door must remain open,’ he squeaked in protest.

‘Oh, piss off!’ Cranston hissed. ‘Bring us some wine at least or I’ll tell my Lord of Gaunt that his guests were ill-treated.’

‘Master Bellamonte,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘Sir John has a terrible thirst so your kindness in this matter would be deeply appreciated.’

The chamberlain drew himself up to his full height and stalked away with all the grace of an ambling duck. The courtiers remained in the hall but at least Sir John got his wine, a large pewter cup, winking and bubbling at the rim. Sir John downed the wine in one gulp, smacked his lips and held out the cup.

‘More!’ he ordered, and smiled at Athelstan. ‘Oh, my favourite friar, I could well become accustomed to this luxury and wealth.’

He watched the servitor hurry off. Cranston glared once more down the hall at the courtiers who were surreptitiously staring up at him.

‘The old days are gone,’ he murmured. ‘Look at them, Athelstan. Dressed like women, walking like women, smelling like women and talking like women!’

‘I thought you loved women, Sir John?’

Cranston licked his lips. ‘Oh, I do, but Lady Maude is worth a thousand of these.’ He stamped his foot. ‘Lady Maude is England!’

Athelstan stared at the coroner warily. Nothing was more dangerous than Sir John in one of his maudlin, nostalgic moods.

‘I remember,’ the coroner continued in a half-whisper, ‘when I stood with the fathers of these men, shoulder to shoulder at Poitiers, and the French crashed against us like a steel wave.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I was slimmer then, sharper, like a greyhound. Speedy in the charge, ferocious in the fight. We were like falcons, Athelstan, falling on our enemies like a thunderbolt.’ He breathed noisily through his nostrils and his white whiskers bristled. ‘Oh, the days,’ he whispered. ‘The lechery, the drunkenness.’ He shook his head, then glared quickly at Athelstan who sat with head bowed so Cranston wouldn’t see the smile on his face.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’ he asked abruptly.

‘God knows! I suppose being brought here, being baited by the likes of Gaunt. I knew his father, golden-haired Edward, and his elder brother, the Black Prince, God rest him!’ Cranston wiped away a tear from his eye. ‘A fierce fighter, the Black Prince. In battle no one would dare come near him! He would kill anything that moved, anything he saw through the slits of his terrible helmet. He killed at least three horses under him. He thought their heads and ears were enemies coming at him.’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘forget the past. You remember what we agreed? You must tell the story yourself.’

Cranston flicked his fingers. ‘Fairy’s tits! I’ll tell them a tale.’ He glared fiercely at Athelstan. ‘I only hope it’s the right one.’

The servitor brought back another cup of wine. Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a prayer that the fat coroner would not become too deep in his cups to resolve the riddle. Sir John, however, eyes half-closed, sipped from the goblet now and again, glaring contemptuously down the hall. Athelstan realised he was still quietly bemoaning the decadence of the younger generation. Suddenly a shrill bray of trumpets broke out. A party of young squires entered the hall carrying multi-coloured banners. They stood on either side of a herald dressed in the red, blue and gold of the Royal House of England. He blew three sharp fanfares on a long silver trumpet and cried for silence for ‘His Grace the King, his most noble uncle, John Duke of Lancaster, and his sweet cousin, the Lord of Cremona.’

King Richard entered, dressed in a blue gown bedecked with golden lions and the silver fleur de lys of France. To one side of him walked Lancaster in a russet-gold gown, a silver chaplet round his tawny hair, whilst on the other side walked Cremona dressed in black and silver, a smile of smug satisfaction on his dark face. Behind them members of the court, resplendent in their peacock gowns, jostled for position. The young king clapped his hands when he saw Cranston and, like any child, would have run forward if Gaunt had not restrained him with one beringed hand.

‘My Lord Coroner,’ the boy king called, ‘you are most welcome.’

Cranston and Athelstan, who had risen as soon as the herald entered, sank to one knee.

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston murmured, ‘you do me great honour.’

He waited for Richard’s more decorous advance, took his small, alabaster-white hand and kissed it noisily, causing a ripple of sniggers from the onlooking courtiers. The coroner half-raised his head.

‘Your Grace, do you know my clerk?’

The young king, still holding Cranston’s podgy hand in his, turned, smiled and nodded at the Dominican.

‘Of course, Brother Athelstan. You are well?’

‘Yes, God be thanked, Your Grace.’

‘Good!’ The king smacked his hands together. ‘Sweetest Uncle,’ Richard called over his shoulder, and Athelstan caught the steely glint in the boy’s eyes and voice. The friar stared quickly at the floor. Richard hated his powerful uncle and one day the matter would be settled by blood.

‘Sweet Uncle,’ the young king repeated, ‘let everyone take their seats. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you shall sit on my right, next to my uncle.’

Cranston and Athelstan rose. Gaunt silkily greeted them both, as did the Italian lord. Athelstan caught the mockery in their smiles. They had studied Cranston well; the coroner was in his cups and they believed the wager was already lost Again there was the usual commotion as courtiers fought for seats on the dais. The herald blew further blasts on his silver trumpet and the hall became full of din and shouting as people took their seats. The King, his eyes bright, his face alive with excitement, kept smiling down the table at Athelstan and Cranston who suddenly sobered up. There was more at stake than just a thousand crowns. Gaunt was waiting for him to fail whilst the king was determined that his uncle be brooked and this arrogant Italian lord be shown the true mettle of English wit.

At last the herald commanded silence and the king, not waiting for his uncle, stood up.

‘My sweet Uncle, my Lord of Cremona, Gentlemen — the wager is now common knowledge. Two weeks ago a mystey was posed,’ the king’s hand fell to the wrist of the Italian lord sitting on his left, ‘by our visitor. A mystery which has taxed the minds and subtle intellects of the learned at this court and elsewhere. Sir John accepted the wager of a thousand crowns.’ The young king clicked his fingers and a page hurried from the shadows bearing a scarlet cushion on which rested a sealed scroll. Richard picked this up. ‘The answer lies here Now, sirs, is there anyone in this hall who can solve the mystery?’

A murmur of dissent greeted his words. The Italian lord leaned forward, his smug smile evident for all to see. The king turned to Cranston. ‘My Lord Coroner, can you?’

Cranston stood, coming round the table to the front of the dais. He bowed low from the waist.

‘Your Grace, I believe I can.’

A deep sigh greeted his words. The king sat down, sending a mischievous glance at Athelstan. Gaunt leaned back in his chair, elbows on its arms, steepling his fingers, whilst the Italian lord began to chew nervously on his lip as Sir John, a consummate actor, slipped from one role to another — no longer the bombastic knight, the tippling toper or the angry law officer. Athelstan hugged himself. Cranston was going to demonstrate that beneath that fat red face and white grizzled head was a brain and wit as sharp as in any university hall or inn of court.

Sir John, warming to his part, walked up and down the dais with his hands held together before him, waiting for the murmuring to die away. He did not begin until he had the attention of everyone. He turned, and his blue eyes caught those of the young king.

‘Your Grace, I believe the mystery is this.’ Cranston licked his lips and raised his voice so all could hear. ‘A young man slept in the scarlet chamber and was found dead, staring through the window. A priest from a local village who had come up through the snow died the same day. However, the most mysterious deaths were those of the two soldiers placed on guard in the chamber.’ Cranston half-turned. ‘You may remember how one killed the other with his crossbow before collapsing and dying himself.’ He paused for effect. ‘No other person entered that room. No secret passageways or tunnels existed. No poisoned food or drink were served. Four men died, one killed by an arrow. Yet,’ Cranston held up a hand, ‘three of them were poisoned.’

‘How?’ Cremona asked.

‘My Lord, the killer was the bed.’

Athelstan caught the look of surprise on the Italian’s face. Cranston was hunting along the right track.

‘Explain! Explain!’ Richard cried.

Gaunt had his hand up to his mouth, his head slightly turned sideways. The rest of the people in the hall were deathly silent, the supercilious smiles fast disappearing. Athelstan gazed round. Even the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms in their royal livery, were now staring at Cranston. The Dominican realised that he had become so involved in the business of Blackfriars and at St Erconwald’s, he had failed to comprehend the deep interest in the wager Cranston had accepted. Now, at last, he fully understood Lady Maude’s concern, not just about Cranston’s losing a thousand crowns but, far more precious, his reputation; risking the fate of dismissal as a kind of court jester rather than being recognised and respected as the King’s Coroner in the City of London.

Cranston stood, legs apart, thumbs stuck in his belt, revelling in the expectant silence.

‘Sir John,’ snapped Gaunt, ‘how can a bed be a killer?’

‘Many a man has died in bed, My Lord.’

‘We await your explanation,’ came the caustic reply.

Cranston walked to the table, picked up his goblet of wine and slurped from it noisily.

‘That bed,’ he began, turning to address the hall, ‘was different from any other. Now a bolster or mattress is stuffed with straw — at least for the poor. For the rich, swans’ feathers.’ Cranston suddenly walked back to the dais and picked up his cloak which he had slung on the floor. He rolled it into a bundle ‘If I hit my cloak, dust arises. See — a common occurrence In springtime the good burgesses of London take their carpets and hangings out to dust them vigorously. You, sir,’ Cranston pointed to a soldier, ‘take your sword.’ Cranston grinned at Gaunt. ‘With my Lord’s permission, hit the arras behind you as vigorously as you can with the flat of your sword.’

The soldier, his hand on the sword hilt, looked askance a Gaunt.

‘Tell him, Uncle,’ the king ordered.

Gaunt made a supercilious sign with his fingers. Athelstan watched, for Cranston had chosen a soldier and an arras which could be seen by all, brightly illumined by the sconce torches on the wall and the dozens of tall candles down the tables. The soldier hit the arras.

‘Harder, man!’ Cranston bellowed.

The soldier happily obliged and, even from where he sat, Athelstan could see puffs of dust moving across the hall.

‘Now,’ Cranston continued, ‘the bed in the scarlet chamber was similar. It was packed with some poisonous dust. Anyone who stood in the room was safe.’ Cranston grinned and spread his hands. ‘But we all know what happens in bed, even when you are alone.’

Faint laughter greeted his words.

‘The first victim lay on the bed tossing and turning, unaware at first of the dust clogging his nostrils and mouth. Finally he realised something was wrong, that he was dying and went to open the window. But of course the chamber hadn’t been used for years. The latch and handles were stiff and the young man died where he stood.’ Cranston turned and looked at the Italian. The nobleman just gazed back, open-mouthed, a look of resignation in his dark eyes.

‘And the priest?’ Gaunt asked.

‘Well, My Lord, just think of it. He comes up to the chamber. He does what he has to but he is tired and cold. He has just walked through drifts of deep snow. So what does he do?’

‘Lies on the bed! Lies on the bed!’ the young king shouted.

Cranston sketched a bow. ‘Your Grace, you are most perceptive. He, too, lies there, forcing the toxin out. He wakes, he even makes the situation worse by thrashing about. He climbs off the bed, collapses, and dies on the floor.’

‘And the two soldiers?’ Cremona spoke up despairingly. ‘Remember, Sir John, only one of them lay on the bed.’

Cranston spread his hands. ‘My Lord, you did say that the archer lay on the bed, the bolt in his crossbow, yes?’

The Italian nodded.

‘He was a skilled bowman?’

Again Cremona nodded. Cranston turned to the rest of the guests.

‘Imagine, therefore, the scene. In the middle of the night this expert bowman, this veteran soldier, awakes, choking to death. He makes a sound, rouses his companion, but the archer is dying. He cannot understand why he cannot breathe. He sees a dark shape move and in his last dying seconds, like the bom archer he is,’ Cranston turned, revelling in the ripple of applause which greeted his conclusion, ‘the archer shoots. His companion is killed, and the archer staggers off the bed to die beside him.’

Cranston turned, bowed to the king, and a wave of loud applause broke out, the courtiers now clapping vigorously and stamping the floor with their feet. Cremona leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. Gaunt, chin in hand, stared down the hall, but the young king was so excited he could hardly keep still. His hand fluttered above the white scroll on the scarlet cushion. Cremona stood up.

‘Sir John, how could a bed contain such a poison?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘My Lord, that was not the question However, there are poisons, potions, powders strong enough to kill a man if he breathes them in.’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘What I say is true. Any of the toxic poisons — digitalis, belladonna or arsenic — if ground into fine dust, will be just as lethal. The only problem lies in collecting sufficient. I suspect the mattress of that bed was stuffed with a fortune in poisons.’

Cranston’s words were greeted by a chorus of approval. The Italian nobleman picked up the scroll and handed it to the king.

‘Your Grace, you may open that, though there is little need. Sir John has won his wager.’ Cremona suddenly leaned forward. ‘My Lord, your hand.’

Athelstan watched as Cremona, followed by Gaunt, the king and their courtiers, shook Sir John’s hand. After the hubbub died down the sealed scroll was opened and Gaunt read out a solution almost chillingly identical in words to that given by Cranston.

‘Sir John!’ Cremona shouted above the din. ‘The thousand crowns! They will be delivered on Monday. I wish you well.’

The Italian lord, putting a brave face on his disappointment, swept out of the hall. Gaunt, after a few more congratulatory words, followed suit and the other courtiers drifted away. The young king, however, remained and gestured at Cranston to bend down so he could whisper in his ear. The joy on Cranston’s face disappeared. He just nodded and looked sad as young Richard left the hall. Athelstan, who had deliberately kept at a distance, now rose and looped his arm through that of Cranston’s.

‘Congratulations, Sir John!’

Cranston looked slyly at him. ‘Don’t be sardonic, Brother. We both know who resolved the mystery.’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan squeezed the coroner’s arm. ‘Sir John, you were magnificent.’

‘The thousand crowns are yours.’

Athelstan stepped away. ‘Sir John, why do I need a thousand crowns?’

The coroner pulled a face. ‘There’s the poor.’

‘The poor will always be with us, Sir John. After all, you are not a wealthy man.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Your fees are small. You never take a bribe. Your wealth is Lady Maude’s dowry, isn’t it?’

Cranston just shook his head and looked away.

‘Listen, My Lord Coroner.’ Athelstan guided him out of the hall. ‘Give a hundred crowns to the poor, buy Lady Maude whatever she wants and a new robe for yourself, and invest the rest with the bankers in Lombard Street. Don’t forget, there are the two poppets. As they grow older they’ll need education. The halls of Oxford and Cambridge await them.’

‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston roared. ‘My two sons are going to become Dominicans!’

Athelstan burst out laughing and they made their way out through the gardens down to the riverside.

The good-natured banter continued as the boatmen ferried them along the choppy waters of the Thames to the Eastgate Wharf just where the Fleet disgorged its filth into the Thames.

As they clambered out of the boat and paid the oarsman they had to cover their mouths and nostrils against the stench. Even in the gathering darkness Athelstan glimpsed the bloated bodies of dogs and cats as well as the human excrement and filth which covered the surface of the river with a thick greasy sludge.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston whispered. ‘In my treatise on the governance of the city, I will put an end to that.’

‘How, Sir John?’

Cranston pointed along Thames Street. ‘I have studied the ancient maps, Brother. Do you know the Romans built sewers in the city, cleansed by underwater streams? I can’t see why we don’t do the same.’

Arguing over the finer points of Sir John’s treatise, they made their way up Knightrider Street, turning left into Friday Street and into a now quiet Cheapside. The sun had set, the beacon light in St Mary Le Bow flared against the darkening sky, the stalls were removed and dogs and cats nosed amongst the rubbish. Lantern horns had been put out on their hooks beside every door and the city settled down, giving way to the dark work of London’s nights. Already the beggars were congregating at the mouth of alleyways, keeping a wary eye on the beadles. A group of young fops, already half-drunk, swayed arm-in-arm towards the brothels and tenements of the doxies in Cock Lane.

‘You’ll tell the Lady Maude?’ Athelstan asked as they stopped near the steps of St Mary Le Bow.

Cranston shook his head. ‘First things first, Brother. I have a raging thirst. To the victor the spoils and I am going to have the biggest cup of claret the Holy Lamb can boast of.’

Athelstan stifled his protests. He had to concede that Sir John needed both reward and refreshment, and idly wondered if in the excitement the coroner had forgotten to fill the miraculous wineskin. Sir John swept into the Holy Lamb like the north wind, throwing pennies to the beggars outside. He also bought a drink for every one of the customers, pressing a coin into each servant’s hand. The landlord and his plump wife, who always seemed to cling together, were each embraced and kissed roundly on the cheeks. A space was cleared round the best table and a dish of lamb, cooked gently over charcoal and heavily spiced, was served with leeks and onions covered in a sauce drawn from the meat. Athelstan realised how hungry he was and ordered the same, but kept to watered wine while Sir John purchased the best claret in the deepest cup the Holy Lamb possessed.

Sir John ate ravenously, wiping the pewter plate clean with chunks of the whitest, sweetest bread; he finished Athelstan’s half-emptied goblet, burped, and leaned back, eyes half-closed.

‘I was magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘For an Italian, Cremona wasn’t a bad man — but did you see Gaunt’s face? He’s a cool one, that. Only once did I see the mask slip.’ Cranston tapped his stomach. ‘If looks could kill, my head would have bounced from my shoulders.’

‘What did King Richard say?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know, at the end, when he whispered in your ear?’

Cranston sat forward, his face grave. He looked round carefully for Gaunt’s spies were everywhere. ‘Have you ever studied the young king’s eyes?’ he whispered. ‘They are like flints of ice. Such a light blue they are almost colourless. I knew a physician once. He described such a stare as that of a man whose mind is disturbed.’

Athelstan drew closer. ‘You think the young king is mad, Sir John?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘No, no, but there’s madness in him. As he grows older, Richard could become one of the greatest kings this realm has ever seen. But in the wrong hands, given the wrong wife or evil counsel, he could be a tyrant who will brook no opposition.’ Cranston wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘But that’s for the future, Brother. What he said tonight was that he, too, thought it was the bed because he had considered killing his uncle that way!’ Cranston picked up his wine cup. ‘Before God, Brother,’ he whispered, ‘I couldn’t believe it. The king just said it so coldly, as anyone else would remark on the weather or purchasing a pair of gloves. I tell you this, Athelstan, Gaunt will not give up his power easily and the young king hates him for it. I must make sure I am not drawn into the bloodbath which is to follow.’

Athelstan refilled Cranston’s cup. ‘Come on, Sir John, forget the politics of the court. You are richer by a thousand crowns. You have brought great honour to your name. Lady Maude awaits you, and your cup’s winking at the brim.’

‘Before I sink into revelry and sin,’ Cranston replied, ‘tell me, Brother, about the business at Blackfriars.’

Athelstan ran his finger round the brim of his own cup. ‘Sir John, this case is unique. Do you realise we have no proof? Not one shred of evidence to accuse, never mind arrest, anyone. Never before have we dealt with a matter such as this I believe that everything will stand or fall by the name Hildegarde. Now, come, Sir John.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and, when they lurched out of the Holy Lamb two hours later, was roaring out a pretty ditty about a young lady’s garters which Athelstan chose to ignore. He too felt most unsteady on his feet. They both staggered across Cheapside, Cranston ignoring Athelstan’s warnings to be quiet and continuing his description of the young lady’s legs. Two beadles ran up, but as soon as they recognised Sir John, turned on their heels and fled.

Lady Maude was waiting for them.

‘Oh, Sir John!’ she wailed. ‘What is this?’

She helped her husband through the door, Sir John leering and blowing kisses at the wet nurse who stood at the foot of the stairs, each arm around one of the sleeping poppets. Cranston, now being carried by Lady Maude on one side and Athelstan on the other, staggered into the kitchen and climbed on to the table.

‘You see here,’ he slurred, ‘Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner of the City, terror of thieves, the fury of felons, the vindicator of causes, the resolver of mysteries!’

Lady Maude stood with hands clasped, looking up at her husband swaying on top of the table. She glanced sharply across at Athelstan.

‘Brother, Sir John resolved the mystery?’

‘Yes, My Lady, he did. He was magnificent. He is truly the King’s Coroner. A wealthier if not a wiser man.’

Athelstan suddenly felt the room swaying and bitterly regretted helping Cranston finish that last cup of wine. He sat down wearily as the coroner, arms still extended, beamed like a jovial Bacchus down at his wife.

‘You had no faith, woman!’ he roared.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ Lady Maude whispered, touching him gently on the knee. ‘I had every faith.’ Her face became demure. ‘As I shall bear witness later,’ she said softly.

Sir John staggered down and pointed at Athelstan. ‘Of course, my clerk helped.’ Sir John swayed dangerously and glanced at the wet nurse. ‘Oh, my poppets!’ he murmured. ‘You would have been so proud of your pater. Lovely lads!’ he continued. ‘Lovely, lovely boys! They are going to become Dominicans, do you know that?’

He then lay on the table and promptly fell fast asleep. Lady Maude made him as comfortable as possible, Athelstan gave the poppets a blessing, and the wet nurse, together with the other sleepy servants, was shooed out of the kitchen. Lady Maude served Athelstan a large tankard of coolest water and some onion soup whilst plying him with questions, not being satisfied until he had given her every detail of Sir John’s magnificent triumph at the Palace of Savoy. She listened, round-eyed, and then went across to the table where Sir John still lay, head back, arms and legs out, snoring like a thunderstorm. She bent down and kissed him gently on the brow.

‘Brother Athelstan, he drinks too much,’ she murmured. ‘But it’s the burden of high office, his responsibility for the poppets and the terrible things he sees.’

Athelstan, who now felt a great deal more sober, smiled, rose and walked over. ‘He’s a good man, Lady Maude. He’s unique. There’s only one Cranston, thank God!’

‘Shouldn’t we move him?’ she asked.

Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Lady Maude, he looks comfortable. Perhaps a bolster for his head and a thick rug, for the night may grow cold.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘I shall sleep there, for my sins.’ He patted Lady Maude on the shoulder. ‘Go to bed,’ he murmured. ‘Sir John will be safe.’

‘You are sure, Brother?’

‘He sleeps the sleep of the just, Lady Maude.’

‘Oh, Brother!’ She stepped back, her fingers going to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. The messenger returned from Oxford. He brought a package for Sir John.’

She scuttled out of the room to return with a small leather sack, bound and sealed at the top.

‘Sir John mentioned it,’ she added, handing it to Athelstan. ‘He said you would be waiting for the messenger’s return.’

Athelstan broke the seal on the neck of the sack and Lady Maude, chattering as if Cranston was fully alert, made her husband comfortable for the night.

‘There, there, my sweet!’ she crooned. ‘Yes, yes, the fur-lined cloak. And your boots off.’

Athelstan looked up. Lady Maude was muttering terms of endearment she would never use to Sir John’s face. Suddenly, although he wanted to leaf through the book he now held in his hand, he felt sad and rather lonely as he watched her flutter like some butterfly around her somnolent husband. He recalled the words of Brother Paul: ‘Love is strange, Athelstan, and takes many forms. Sometimes it freezes us, other times it burns. But never be without it for there is a pain worse than love’s and that is the dreadful loneliness when it is gone.’ Athelstan thought of Benedicta and knew in his heart that the deep friendship between Lady Maude and Cranston was what he hungered for; to be touched, fussed and cared for.

‘Are you all right, Brother?’

‘Of course.’

Athelstan turned away, walking back to the fire, carefully studying the faded leather binding of the book. He looked at the small piece of parchment tucked inside its leaves bearing greetings from a fellow Dominican in the faculty of theology at Oxford. Then he sat down and carefully leafed through the book, identical to the one he and Cranston had seen at Black-friars. He turned yellow, crackling pages carefully until he reached one that had been missing from the first copy. His colleague in Oxford had found Hildegarde. Athelstan felt a cold chill run through him.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Lady Maude?’

‘You look as if you have seen a ghost?’

‘No, Lady Maude, I have just seen the face of a murderer!’