Murder Most Holy

CHAPTER 14

Athelstan was rudely awakened the following morning by Cranston who squatted before his chair, grinning like some demon from one of Huddle’s paintings. The coroner looked as fresh as a daisy.

‘Arouse yourself, Brother.’

Cranston stood and stretched until the muscles in his great fat body cracked.

‘You slept well, Sir John?’

‘Of course, Brother. A hard bed is the best bed as I used to tell my master, the Black Prince, when we campaigned in France.’

Athelstan pushed aside the blanket Lady Maude had draped over him the previous evening. He felt slightly cold, cramped, and his mouth was filled with the bitter-sweet tang of the wine he had so merrily drunk.

‘The book!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘Where’s the book?’

Cranston pointed to the table. ‘Don’t worry, Brother, it’s safe.’

Athelstan looked suspiciously at the coroner. ‘Sir John, you are washed and shaved!’

Indeed, Cranston looked resplendent in a white cambric shirt, open at the neck, and doublet and hose of dark mulberry interwoven with silver thread. The coroner even had his boots on and Athelstan glimpsed a cloak and sword belt laid ready across the table.

‘Aye, Brother, I am ready for the day. A warm bath, a sharp razor, a fresh set of clothes and a kiss from Lady Maude, and I’d go down to hell itself!’

‘You read the book?’

‘Of course, Brother, and I’m looking forward to arresting that evil bastard!’

‘Sir John, your language!’ Lady Maude swept into the kitchen, behind her the wet nurse with the two poppets who, like their father, were now fully awake and screaming for refreshment.

Cranston bowed. ‘My Lady, my most humble apologies.’ He grinned wickedly. ‘I can’t stand buggers who swear!’

Lady Maude’s shrill exclamations were abruptly stilled as Cranston strode across the kitchen, picked her up as though she was a little doll and kissed her on the lips.

‘Oh, Sir John!’ she whispered breathlessly.

Athelstan stood and glanced at her. He wondered if Sir John had given her more than a kiss since he awoke refreshed like some Adonis. Cranston seized the two poppets, juggling each of them in an arm as he bellowed with delight at them. The fury of the two boys at being so abruptly snatched from their wet nurse and tossed up and down knew no bounds. They both roared until the tears streamed down their little red faces.

‘Enough is enough!’ Lady Maude snatched one baby, the wet nurse the other, and the two women fled from the kitchen, vowing not to return until Sir John had learned how to behave himself.

Cranston seemed to have the very devil in him. He insisted on shaving Athelstan himself, roaring at the maid to bring a bowl of warm water and napkins. Then a servant was despatched to the nearest cookshop for fresh pies whilst Cranston poured what Athelstan suspected was not his first cup of claret for the day. Leif the beggar followed the servant back in, drooling at the savoury smell of the meat under its freshly baked crust.

‘Bugger off, you idle sod!’ Cranston roared.

‘Thank you, Sir John.’

Leif, who knew Cranston’s ways, sat down and patiently waited for the coroner to serve him. Sir John promptly did so, whilst giving him a pithy sermon on plucking the food from the mouths of poor priests. Athelstan, still half-asleep, sipped some watered ale and managed to eat a small portion before Cranston and Leif devoured the rest of the pies between them.

‘We should go, Sir John.’

‘True, true.’ The coroner rose, grabbing his cloak and sword belt. ‘You will bring the book, Brother?’ Cranston stood, head slightly cocked. He could still hear the faint roars of his two poppets. ‘I should bid farewell to my Lady Maude but, on second thoughts,’ he murmured, ‘let sleeping dogs lie. Or, in this case, sweet poppets roar! Leif, you idle bugger, tell Lady Maude that we’ve gone to Blackfriars. We will not be long. Oh, and by the way. .’

‘Yes, Sir John?’ Leif replied, his mouth still full of pastry and meat.

‘. . leave my bloody claret alone!’

‘Of course, Sir John.’

Athelstan followed Cranston out of the kitchen even as Leif winked at him and prepared to fill another cup. The coroner collected the miraculous wineskin from a timid servant girl standing near the door. Cranston looked at her sternly.

‘Don’t tell Lady Maude.’

‘No, Sir John.’

‘You see, Athelstan,’ Cranston whispered, ‘I have two wineskins, both identical. One I leave in the buttery so Lady Maude thinks I am dry and the other I always take with me.’ He shook his head. ‘Lady Maude is an angel but she doesn’t understand the need for refreshment.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. ‘Lord save us,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to be one of those days!’

‘What’s that, monk?’

‘Nothing, Sir John, I’m just praying for patience.’

Outside, it being a Sunday, Cheapside was deserted. A few people were hurrying along for early morning mass, summoned by the bells which would ring all morning from one end of the city to the other.

‘Should we go to mass first, Sir John? It is Sunday.’

‘You’re a priest, Brother. You’ll say mass at Blackfriars, surely?’

Athelstan agreed and they walked up Westchepe, turning left at Paternoster Row.

‘Tell me, Brother,’ Cranston asked sharply, ‘how did you reach the conclusion that it was the bed? Your explanation was logical but what made you think of it?’

‘To be perfectly honest, Sir John, the Lady Benedicta. I watched her dabbing powder on her face and noticed how the dust rose in the air. I had thought of the bed previously, but watching her powdering her face gave me the key to the solution.’ He stared around at the houses which rose above them. ‘What concerns me now, Sir John, is our meeting at Blackfriars. Our murderer may become violent.’

Cranston slapped him firmly on the shoulder. ‘Put your trust in the coroner, dear priest! Put your trust in good Sir John. And,’ Cranston added impishly, ‘Brother Norbert. I want him there, armed with the good quarter-staff we left in the guest house.’

Athelstan caught Sir John by the arm. ‘Stop a while, My Lord Coroner. You must hear the full case against the murderer at Blackfriars and not be carried away by the sheer glee of trapping a man you hate.’

They stood in the middle of the street: Athelstan speaking earnestly, Sir John nodding in agreement. By the time he had finished, Athelstan felt fully alert.

‘You understand, My Lord Coroner?’

‘Of course, Friar.’

‘Then, in the name of God, let us proceed.’

At Blackfriars the doorkeeper let them in and sent for Brother Norbert. Athelstan declined the lay brother’s invitation to take them to the prior and insisted on celebrating mass in the guest house itself.

‘But that is most irregular,’ the lay brother stuttered.

‘Brother Norbert,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘God willing, by the time I leave today, Blackfriars will have other things to gossip about than where I said mass. Now go and get me a chalice, paten, three hosts and some wine, as well as the vestments for the day. Then we’ll see Father Prior.’

The lay brother hurried off. Cranston and Athelstan crossed the deserted monastery grounds. Norbert had already opened the guest house and they went in. When the lay brother returned, Athelstan quickly vested and, turning the kitchen table into a makeshift altar, celebrated mass during which he prayed that God would guide them in the coming dreadful confrontation with the murderer. He lingered over the consecration, staring down at the hosts and wine, then continued the mass, giving communion to Sir John and a still anxious-faced Norbert. Once the final blessing had been delivered, he instructed the lay brother to tell Father Anselm that he wished to see him and the other members of the Inner Chapter in the prior’s chamber as soon as possible. Whilst they waited for Brother Norbert to return, Cranston searched for further refreshment in the buttery and Athelstan took the book sent from Oxford and once more read the pages he had first seen the previous evening.

At last there was a knock on the door and Norbert re-entered.

‘Father Prior is ready,’ he announced. ‘Though a little angry that you did not tell him when you first arrived. The rest are also gathered.’

‘Good!’ Athelstan breathed. He put the book back in the sack and handed the surprised lay brother the quarter-staff he had left in the guest house. ‘Whatever happens, Brother Norbert, you will stay at the meeting with Father Prior and the rest. Stand near the door. If anyone attempts to leave before I finish,’ he gazed sharply at the young lay brother, ‘you are to use this quarter-staff. Even,’ he added, ‘against Father Prior himself!’

The lay brother just gaped back in amazement. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you lost your wits?’

‘Do as he says,’ Cranston grated, swinging his cloak about him. ‘And don’t worry if any violence breaks out — Sir John Cranston will soon settle it.’

‘One final thing,’ Athelstan concluded. ‘When all is finished, Brother Norbert, and it will be, sooner than you think, you will be sworn to secrecy. You are not to repeat what you will see or hear in that room.’

They left the guest house and crossed into the cloisters, now filled with friars sitting on benches or the low redbrick wall to enjoy the fine summer’s morning. On Sunday, the community was released from the usual routine. The hum of conversation died as Cranston and his party swept by on their way to Father Prior’s room.

Athelstan gazed across at the small fountain built in the middle of the cloister garth. He suddenly remembered his days in the novitiate. How he used to sit here chattering with the rest, never for one moment imagining what the future might hold. Now here he was, a fully sworn member of the Dominican Order, only a few minutes away from unmasking and confronting a colleague responsible for the deaths of four other brethren, not to mention a vicious assault upon himself. Athelstan stopped and gazed up at the sky, now brightening as the sun rose. The clouds which had massed during the night had begun to disappear like puffs of smoke. Cranston stopped and turned back.

‘Come on, Brother, what are you waiting for?’

‘Nothing, Sir John, just remembering. Isn’t it strange how the past always seems sweeter than the present?’

‘Come on, Brother,’ Cranston murmured gently. ‘We have no choice in the matter.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘For the love of God, Athelstan, remember those who are dead, brutally murdered. Their blood cries for vengeance and we do God’s work as well as the King’s.’

Athelstan nodded and followed Sir John into the building, along the stone paved passageway to Father Prior’s chamber. Anselm and the rest were already assembled there.

‘You should have told us you had arrived, Brother,’ the prior declared meaningfully.

‘Why?’ Athelstan snapped back sharply. ‘So the murderer here could strike at my life?’

The prior’s eyes rounded in angry amazement.

‘Brother Athelstan, such an allegation demands proof.’

‘We have it!’ Cranston declared. He stared round at what he called his secretive friars: Niall and Peter, torn between truculence and curiosity, and the sombre faces of the Inquisitors. He noticed how William de Conches had already sat down and was drumming his fingers restlessly. Eugenius just glared at Athelstan whilst Brother Henry stood, arms folded, staring down at the table.

‘You say you have proof?’ Brother Eugenius jibed. ‘What proof, Sir John? This Inner Chapter has been destroyed by our waiting around for you and the good Athelstan to resolve these matters. Father Prior, we will wait no longer. Let Cranston say what he has to and let’s be gone.’

The coroner drew himself up to his full height. ‘Sit down!’ he roared. ‘Believe me, Brother, we shall not keep you long.’

All the Dominicans present looked towards Father Prior for guidance. He just nodded.

‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘Do as Sir John says and let’s sit down.’

They took their seats round the long polished table. Father Prior at one end, Cranston and Athelstan at the other. There was further objection to the presence of Norbert and the quarter-staff he carried but, once again, Cranston roared that he would have his way. Father Prior shrugged, rapped the top of the table for silence and glared down the table at Athelstan.

‘Brother,’ he began, ‘in half an hour we assemble to celebrate Solemn High Mass. The Master Inquisitor and Brother Eugenius have ruled that Brother Henry of Winchester’s writings contain no heresy, whilst Brothers Niall and Peter claim they cannot refute, according to either Scripture or Tradition, the truth of what he writes.’ The Prior rubbed his tired, lined face. ‘Accordingly, unless you can explain clearly and fully the resolution to the terrible deaths which have occurred here, I shall declare the Inner Chapter finished, mass will be sung, and we shall all go our separate ways. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Father Prior.’ Athelstan picked up the sack, brought out the book and pushed it down the table towards the prior. ‘Read that! Open it where the purple strip of silk ribbon marks the place.’

‘Why should I read it?’

The group now fell silent, all eyes staring at Athelstan.

‘You should read it, Father Prior,’ Cranston stated, getting to his feet, ‘because it proves that our young theologian here, Henry of Winchester, is a liar, a thief and an assassin.’

The accused Dominican leaned against the table. He glared at Cranston then at the book, one hand going out; he would have snatched it if Brother Norbert hadn’t leaned over and smacked him sharply on the wrist.

Cranston grinned at the young lay brother. ‘Well done, Norbert, my son. If you ever leave Blackfriars, I can secure you a good post as a member of my guard.’

Athelstan sat still and let the coroner proceed for he felt sick at heart that here, in the great monastery of Blackfriars, he had to accuse a fellow friar of the murder of four of his brethren. Henry of Winchester sat back in his seat, his face white now, dark eyes staring like some trapped animal’s.

‘You are a liar!’ Cranston accused. ‘Because you made claims which are false. You are a thief because you stole the work of Hildegarde of Bremen, a Prussian abbess who lived one hundred and twenty years ago and wrote a brilliant treatise on why God became incarnate. An original, quite lucid treatise which was rejected at the time.’ Cranston grinned round at the other Dominicans. ‘Because it was not fashionable for women to speculate on the divine science of theology, her writings were buried, even destroyed. But you, Brother Henry, came across a copy. You took it, word for word, and proclaimed it as your own work. You thought you would escape detection. Very few copies of Hildegarde’s work remain. You came to Blackfriars to debate the issue with Brothers Niall and Peter whilst our friends in the Inquisition looked on.’

Cranston stood up. ‘You made one mistake. Brother Callixtus was not a theologian but, as my good friend Athelstan informed me, he did have a prodigious memory. You see, the library here at Blackfriars had a copy of Hildegarde’s work. Your treatise sparked a memory in Callixtus and he mentioned it to his good friend Alcuin.’ Cranston paused as Henry of Winchester leaned forward, jabbing a finger towards the coroner.

‘No theological treatise is original.’ He glanced quickly round at the others for confirmation. ‘I never said it was. How did I know that Callixtus knew anyone called Hildegarde?’

‘I can’t prove that,’ Cranston replied, ‘but Callixtus, like every human being, felt a twinge of jealousy. He must have mentioned the name Hildegarde to his good friend Alcuin, and I suggest one of them baited you with it.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t take much. Just drop the name in your presence. A warning that they knew the full truth. Hence Callixtus’s enigmatic statement that the Inner Chapter was wasting its time. Of course it was, — debating a work written many years ago.’ He paused. ‘I suspect Alcuin was the first to bait you and so was summoned to the crypt below. But in the dark, you mistook Brother Bruno and sent him crashing to his death.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Alcuin had to go so you waited for him in the church, no difficult feat. Callixtus went next, and then poor Roger. In the meantime, probably by watching Callixtus, you had found this original work and destroyed it. You made one mistake. The Dominicans at Oxford have copies of all the manuscripts here and so Athelstan sent for a replacement.’

‘Is this true?’ Father Prior interrupted, addressing the Inner Chapter to gain time in which to recover his wits. The rest were still gaping open-mouthed at the coroner. The prior opened the book and smoothed the pages out. ‘Master William de Conches,’ he called, ‘Eugenius, come here! You have studied Henry of Winchester’s work closely enough. Let me hear your judgement.’

The Inquisitors rose. Father Prior passed them the book and they stood in a corner of the room poring over the manuscript. The rest just sat, the accused glaring into middle distance though now and again his dark eyes darted baleful glances at Athelstan. At last William de Conches closed the book and laid it before Father Prior.

‘Brother Henry of Winchester,’ he announced, ‘may not be guilty of murder but he is certainly a thief and a liar who stole someone else’s work and proclaimed it his own.’

The young theologian smirked to himself.

‘What do you find so funny, Brother?’ Cranston purred.

‘I may have taken someone else’s work and developed it further.’

‘Nonsense!’ Eugenius interrupted, turning his back on Athelstan and glaring down the table. ‘You stole what was not yours. In the first page Hildegarde constructs the hypothesis argued by you. The same quotations from scripture. The same sayings of the fathers. You are a thief!’

Henry of Winchester lifted his hand. ‘I am not a murderer,’ he replied slowly. ‘You have no proof that I pushed Father Bruno down those steps. You have no proof that I pushed Callixtus from that ladder. You have no proof that I hanged that idiot Roger, and you certainly have no proof that I garrotted Brother Alcuin.’

‘You had the motive!’ Father Prior snapped, staring down at the book.

‘You are a murderer!’ Athelstan proclaimed loudly, rising to his feet. ‘And you have just confessed it.’

‘What do you mean?’

Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘Everyone knew Father Bruno fell from the steps, that Callixtus fell from a ladder, that Roger was found hanging from a tree — but who told you Alcuin was garrotted?’

An angry hiss greeted Athelstan’s words.

‘Father Prior,’ he continued, ‘you are my witness. Did I announce that Alcuin had been garrotted? Did you, Sir John? Brother Norbert, you helped My Lord Coroner sheet Alcuin’s corpse — did you know?’

The lay brother shook his head.

‘That is correct!’ William de Conches exclaimed. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, you actually claimed Alcuin was stabbed!’

Brothers Niall and Peter murmured in unison. Sir John Cranston clapped his hands.

‘Dear Brothers,’ he announced with a self-satisfied smirk, ‘my clerk has it right. You were all shocked by the discovery of Alcuin’s corpse. It was apparent he was dead, obvious he had been murdered. Indeed, on my orders, Brother Athelstan claimed Alcuin had been struck by a dagger.’

Henry of Winchester leaned forward, his eyes darting round the assembled company. He licked his lips.

‘Surely you told us, Sir John? Anyway, I saw the corpse.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Father Prior said quietly. ‘The lid of poor Brother Bruno’s coffin was taken off. The terrible stench drove us all away to the other side of the altar. Alcuin’s corpse was immediately sheeted, coffined and taken to the death house. Is that not true, Brother Norbert?’

The young lay brother who had been watching, a look of stupefied amazement on his face, just grunted his reply.

‘Enough is enough!’ Cranston grated. ‘Brother Henry of Winchester, I accuse you of the murder of four of your brothers!’

‘Wait!’ William de Conches raised his hand. ‘Brother Henry is a member of the Dominican Order. Father Prior, I understand that Sir John may very well put him on trial, but in England if an accused man pleads benefit of clergy he can escape the secular courts. Brother Henry should return with us. The Court of the Inquisition answers to God alone!’

Cranston looked at Athelstan who nodded and looked pityingly towards Henry of Winchester. The disgraced friar now sat with his hands covering his face.

‘Let him be bound,’ Eugenius added quietly.

Father Prior looked as if he was going to protest but then waved his hand. ‘Yes, take him,’ he said. ‘Take him now. Be out of Blackfriars first thing tomorrow morning.’

The two Inquisitors rose and hustled Henry of Winchester through the door, Father Prior telling Brother Norbert to go with them. Peter and Niall followed quickly afterwards, still shocked at the revelations. They nodded at Athelstan and murmured a speedy farewell. Father Prior just sat, hands on either side of the book, head bowed, tears running down his cheeks. Cranston, now the drama was over, coughed self-consciously and went to look out of the window as if intent on the distant activities of the monastery. There was a rap on the door and Brother William de Conches re-entered. He stood staring at Athelstan.

‘I am sorry,’ he murmured.

‘For what?’

The Master Inquisitor shrugged. ‘We were wrong. You are a good priest, Athelstan, a fine Dominican.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You would have made an excellent Master Inquisitor.’ He bowed, and before Athelstan could answer, closed the door gently behind him.

Father Prior regained control of himself. ‘He’s right, you know, Athelstan. You were sent to St Erconwald’s as a punishment. I instructed you to help Sir John as a penance.’ He gazed at Athelstan. ‘I thank you for what you have done here. I apologise for my harsh words earlier. You were right. The truth is the truth, and a lie is like a canker — eventually it grows to spoil everything. Why did you think Hildegarde was the key?’

‘Father Prior, this was the strangest matter I have ever investigated. I had no proof. The only clue was that name.’ He smiled. ‘She must have been a great lady, a deep thinker. Her work should be more widely studied and read. Perhaps it was she who guided us.’

‘What will happen to him?’ Cranston asked abruptly.

Father Prior rose, cradling the book in his hands. ‘He will be returned to the Papal Inquisition in Rome or Avignon. Believe me, Sir John, after they have finished with him, the horrors of being hanged at the Elms will seem as nothing.’ Father Prior walked down the room and clasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘You can come back any time you wish. Your penance is truly finished.’ He turned quickly. ‘But I forget myself. Sir John — the riddle you had to solve?’

‘Done,’ Cranston replied expansively. ‘As St Paul says: “in a twinkling of an eye”.’

‘Then,’ Father Prior answered, turning to Athelstan, ‘you will not need that letter?’

‘I have already destroyed it, Father.’

Father Prior smiled at them both and left the room.

Cranston and Athelstan returned by barge to Southwark. The coroner, proud as a peacock, insisted on accompanying the friar back to his church. Sir John chattered like a magpie, loudly proclaiming for half the river to hear what he would do with his thousand crowns, his eloquence aided and abetted by the miraculous wineskin. Nevertheless, the coroner kept a sharp eye on Athelstan. He sensed the friar’s depression at what had happened at Blackfriars. Athelstan gazed moodily across the river, now silent on a Sunday afternoon with only the occasional wherry or barge making its way down to Westminster.

They landed at St Mary’s Wharf and walked through the alleys and streets of Southwark, strangely calm and still on this warm summer’s afternoon.

‘Lazy buggers!’ Cranston observed. ‘Probably sleeping off a morning’s drinking.’

‘Yes, Sir John. It’s terrible what people can pour down their throats.’

Cranston gazed at him narrowly and pushed his miraculous wineskin deeper under his cloak. St Erconwald’s was also quiet and placid, the church steps deserted, the cemetery and small garden round the priest’s house undisturbed except for the hum of bees hovering round the wild flowers which grew there.

Athelstan made sure everything was in its place: the priest’s house was still locked, Philomel was busy eating in his stable, so Watkin had been conscientious in his duties. Ursula the pig woman’s enormous sow had finished off the last of the cabbages. Athelstan cursed loudly.

‘You’ve still got your onions,’ Cranston observed.

Athelstan thought of Crim’s confession, smiled and shook his head.

‘Come on, Sir John, let us see how the church is.’ He unlocked the door and stood for a few seconds in the porch. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘isn’t it, Sir John?’

Cranston, standing behind him, snatched the miraculous wineskin away from his lips.

‘What do you mean, Brother? You’re in an odd mood.’

Athelstan walked up the darkened church, noticing how the sound of his footsteps shattered the hallowed silence. He stopped halfway up and looked to where the parish coffin stood empty in the transept.

‘So much has happened here,’ he said in a half-whisper. ‘Joy, grief, anger, murder. A strange place, Sir John!’

Cranston took one more swig from the wineskin and narrowed his eyes. The coroner recalled Father Prior’s invitation.

Oh, sweet Lord, he prayed, don’t let Athelstan go. He can’t leave me.

Cranston stared at the friar’s broad shoulders and suddenly realised he had come to love this strange priest. Athelstan walked under the rood screen and into the sanctuary.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Everything is in order.’ He tapped the flagstones with a sandalled foot. ‘Beautiful! At last it’s beginning to look like a church.’

He sat down on the altar steps and almost jumped as Cranston yelped, ‘Oh, that bloody cat’s back!’

Bonaventure, his back arched and tail curling, had appeared out of the shadows and was now rubbing himself against the coroner’s boot.

Athelstan rose. ‘Come here, my knight of the alleyways,’ he murmured. He sat stroking the cat, lost in thoughts which whirled like a wheel in his head. The faces of the Inquisitors; Father Prior’s tears; Raymond D’Arques striving for forgiveness; Fitzwolfe and his satanic ways; Benedicta breathing her love.

Cranston threw his cloak on the steps and sat down next to him. He watched the friar closely as he sat, eyes half-closed, absent-mindedly stroking that bloody cat.

‘You would never have thought it,’ Cranston quietly remarked, trying to gain Athelstan’s attention.

‘What’s that, Sir John?’

‘Well, Henry of Winchester, a theologian. You wouldn’t have thought butter would have melted in his mouth.’

‘Remember the temptation of Christ, Sir John? Even Satan can quote scripture, and Satan has a nasty habit,’ he smiled at the pun, ‘of appearing in the guise of an Angel of Light.’

‘Are you going to leave here?’ Cranston abruptly asked. ‘Father Prior said your penance was over.’

Athelstan just smiled.

‘Well, are you, you bloody monk?’

‘Sir John, I have decided. There are many paths to sanctity.’

Athelstan’s grin widened. ‘And you’re certainly mine.’

Cranston belched and the sound rang through the church like a clap of thunder. Bonaventure stirred and looked at the coroner curiously. Cranston got to his feet.

‘I’m off to see that thieving bugger in the Piebald tavern. Athelstan, you should join me. We must celebrate our discovery of the truth.’ Cranston stared down at Athelstan. ‘Oh, by the way, Brother, Father Prior mentioned giving you a letter. You replied that because I had solved the riddle, you no longer had need of it.’

Athelstan stared up at him. ‘Sir John, don’t be angry. I did wonder what would happen if we were wrong. My parents had a farm, Francis is dead, so the farm was sold and all profits given to the Order.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I begged Father Prior for a loan on that property. He gave me a letter to the Order’s bankers in Lombard Street allowing me to draw a thousand crowns if we were wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘I had to be sure.’

Cranston stamped his feet and looked away, blinking furiously so Athelstan couldn’t see the tears which pricked his eyes. At last he turned, crouched, picked up his cloak and looked Athelstan straight in the face.

‘You’re a funny bugger, monk!’

‘I know, Sir John, it’s the company I keep!’

Cranston threw his cloak over his shoulder and swaggered down the aisle.

‘I’ll be in the Piebald,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep me waiting. I know you stingy priests. You always like others to buy your ale!’ He walked out of the church, the door crashing to behind him.

Athelstan smiled, kissed Bonaventure between the ears and stared round the sanctuary. He suddenly caught sight of Huddle’s painting on the sanctuary wall, etched out in broad vigorous strokes of charcoal. Athelstan peered closer. ‘What the. .?’ He put Bonaventure down, took a tinder, lit a candle and walked over to the wall to study the painting more closely.

Huddle had roughed out the scene where Mary and the baby Jesus meet her cousin Elizabeth and the infant John the Baptist. Athelstan looked at the figures and began to chuckle. Benedicta was the Virgin Mary; he was Saint Joseph; Watkin the dung-collector’s wife was Elizabeth; Pike the ditcher an onlooker; Tab the tinker a soldier. Herod the Great was none other than a fat-faced, bewhiskered Sir John Cranston. He even had a miraculous wineskin peeping out from beneath his cloak. Philomel was there, Cecily the courtesan, Crim, Ursula the pig woman, and even her sow. However, what really caught Athelstan’s attention were the infant Jesus and John the Baptist: Huddle’s genius had depicted them with bald heads, staring eyes, fat cheeks, podgy arms and legs — in fact, as Cranston’s two beloved poppets.

Athelstan, shaking with laughter, blew out the candle and walked from the church to join Sir John in the Piebald tavern.