The Book of Fires

PART FOUR

Cranston and Athelstan arrived at the manor only to be informed that no one was available. Sir Henry, Lady Rohesia and Buckholt had gone into the city to deal with certain matters; Rosamund the maid had accompan-ied them. Mortice the buttery clerk, all puffed up with self-importance, his eyes gleaming like those of an angry ferret, brusquely informed them they would either have to wait or go. He soon changed his attitude when Cranston grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him into a more humble and cooperative mood. They were shown into the well-furnished buttery adjoining the kitchen. Here Cranston set up, as he put it, his ‘seat of judgement’. A cook hurriedly served bowls of a steaming hot, well-spiced pottage, dishes of cheese and dried fruit, freshly baked bread and two large blackjacks of ale. One of the turnspits was ‘inducted into the service of the Crown’: Cranston gave him a coin and ordered him to go as swift as a pigeon to the city Guildhall to fetch the coroner’s official scurrier, the red-headed, green-garbed Tiptoft. Athelstan washed himself at a nearby lavarium, cleaning off the dirt of the city and the effects of the furious fight near Aldgate. He quickly ate the food, drank the ale, made himself comfortable in a corner and fell asleep. He awoke at least two hours later, according to the day candle on its spigot. Sir John, looking remarkably refreshed, informed him that Tiptoft had been and gone.

‘Nothing,’ the coroner declared, ‘he had nothing to report. Fulchard of Richmond appears to be genuine enough. It would seem a miracle has occurred and he was cured. No lookalike had been seen by any of my searchers and the same is reported by the Harrower of the Dead and the Fisher of Men.’

Athelstan whistled in surprise. He had confided in Cranston that the only way the Great Miracle could be disproved was to demonstrate that someone, however they did it, had taken the place of Fulchard of Richmond, whilst the real cripple had, even though it was nigh impossible to prove, been spirited away. Such a theory, however, lacked any form of evidence. The Fisher of Men had searched the river, the Harrower of the Dead all the lanes, laystalls and alleyways of Southwark – nothing had been found.

‘And the same goes for Reginald Vanner,’ Cranston added. ‘Brother, you are correct. Vanner is dead, but by whose hand, why and how or where his corpse is hidden: all are a mystery.’

‘Then come, Sir John.’ Athelstan undid his chancery satchel. ‘The household have returned?’

‘Aye, and have resigned themselves to further questioning.’

‘Then let’s begin. If it’s to be done,’ he smiled at the coroner, ‘it’s best done swiftly and ruthlessly. We shall take Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia first.’

Cranston asked Mortice, who’d been appointed usher, to fetch both of these. They arrived looking very ill at ease and sat down at the buttery table opposite the coroner and his secretarius.

‘We have answered your questions,’ Sir Henry bleated.

‘Then answer them again,’ Athelstan snapped. He had slept well but the memory of the violence earlier in the day still affected him.

‘You are a merchant, Sir Henry. You deal in cannon, culverins, fire, missiles and gunpowder. You and your brother hold a commission for this from the Crown. You own foundries, warehouses and all the impedimenta of a great merchant. Yes?’

Sir Henry agreed.

‘You also own “The Book of Fires” by Mark the Greek?’

‘I don’t, Brother. I never held it. Sir Walter kept it very close. Of course, he talked about it being in a coffer or casket in his own bedchamber. I don’t think it was ever there. In all the years I worked with Sir Walter I swear I never opened it, let alone read it.’

‘Yet Sir Walter dealt in fiery liquids, he distilled oils and ground powders which could inflict great damage?’

‘Yes, but on certain special creations my brother insisted on working by himself. All our craftsmen and their apprentices would fetch things, go here and there or do this and that but, in these matters, Sir Walter acted by himself. Of course,’ Sir Henry hurried on, ‘this was when he was hale and hearty. As he sickened, he withdrew from the trade. Sometimes, perhaps he was preparing for death, he openly regretted what he had done, the wealth he had accumulated and the way he had done it. He declared that the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” was a matter of revelation, safe on the island of Patmos. Of course, I didn’t know what he was referring to. Patmos is a Greek island, perhaps he visited it as a young man or something happened to him there. I assure you, “The Book of Fires” was Sir Walter’s great secret. He once informed me that the mysteries it held should be left hidden. Sir Walter believed we human beings have a hunger to discover new ways of destroying each other.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied tartly, ‘and that would include himself? As the scripture says, “What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul?”’

‘Perhaps.’ Sir Henry refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

‘But “The Book of Fires” definitely exists?’

‘Certainly, Brother, though I have no knowledge of its whereabouts.’

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Rohesia leaned forward, ‘we are not lying. We want that book, as others do. It holds secrets which could provide even greater wealth.’

‘Where did it come from?’ Cranston asked.

‘Another mystery.’ Sir Henry took a deep breath. ‘In our youth Walter and I were apprentices, traders, craftsmen. I was content with that but my brother had a wanderlust, a deep curiosity which pricked and spurred him on. He left London and travelled abroad to Outremer, then on to Constantinople. There are rumours he even journeyed along the Great Silk Road to the fabulous kingdoms of the East, but in truth I know little about that.’

‘How long was he absent?’

‘Oh, about fifteen summers. He left a young man and returned a veteran soldier, a warrior and a most cunning and skilful trader and merchant. He was hardly home a year when I realized how much he had learnt. We began to produce fine powder, better culverins, bombards and cannon. We could manufacture a substance to be used in mining a wall, attacking a gate or defending a castle against besiegers: a fire with horrendous effect, easy to ignite, devastating once lit and most difficult to douse. Only then did we discover that Sir Walter nursed great secrets and had a copy of “The Book of Fires”.’

‘And its origins?’ Athelstan repeated Cranston’s original question.

‘Brother, I do not really know. Search Sir Walter’s manuscripts – everything about his years abroad still remains a mystery. I learnt only a few facts; he was here, there, everywhere. He learnt different languages and used these to disguise and hide even more cleverly all he knew about fire and its use in war. Sometimes in his cups he’d betray a few facts. He apparently led a troop of mercenaries, like the famous White Company in France or Hawkmoor’s in Italy. He called them the “Luciferi” – the “Light Bearers”, his own private army. Walter became a peritus, highly skilled in cannon, powder and fire, all the impedimenta of war. He led a comitatus similarly trained.’

‘Did any of his present household serve with him?’

‘No. Buckholt, Mortice and the rest were hired on his return, I believe Buckholt’s father was a member of his company but he died abroad.’

‘Did your brother’s past,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever surface to confront and threaten him?’

‘The warnings just over a year ago. I did wonder …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘how did they go, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”? Yet these abruptly ended. Anything else?’

‘Occasionally,’ Sir Henry declared, ‘we would have visitors – Greeks: men muffled, cowled and cloaked. They came here to meet my brother but what their business was he wouldn’t tell me. Occasionally my brother would go into the city and elsewhere; he would insist on being by himself. Again, I cannot help.’

Athelstan stared at this plump merchant prince, the sweat glistening on his thinning pate and rubicund cheeks, the constant shifting eyes, the stubby fingers never still, whilst beside him Lady Rohesia sat as if carved out of stone. You are not telling the full truth, Athelstan thought, but, there again, you are a weak man. Your brother ignored you. Athelstan glanced at Lady Rohesia, who probably was the source of any strength her husband showed. Athelstan drummed his fingers on the tabletop, aware of Sir John moving restlessly beside him.

‘Did you approve of your brother’s marriage to Isolda?’ the coroner asked.

‘I neither approved nor disapproved. It was none of my business.’

‘Oh, yes it was,’ Athelstan accused. ‘Sir Walter was hale and hearty when he espoused Isolda. He was deeply in love with her, at least then. She could have conceived a son, and if that had happened you would no longer be Sir Walter’s heir – but of course that didn’t happen …’ Athelstan pulled a face, ‘Well, it’s obvious. Walter and Isolda are dead – there is no other possible heir except you.’

‘I could object to that.’ Sir Henry quivered with indignation.

‘Object as much as you like, it is still the truth.’ Athelstan caught the smugness in these two worthies. They were cocksure, confident. He sensed their underlying attitude – they would cheerfully confess that they had done nothing wrong, though whether they had done anything right was another matter. ‘Did you hear either Sir Walter or Lady Isolda mention the possible annulment of their marriage?’

‘Never,’ they chorused together, a little too quickly, Athelstan thought.

‘And the fees paid to Master Falke to defend Isolda?’

‘Again,’ Lady Rohesia spoke up, ‘we don’t know. When she was committed to Newgate we sent her comforts, necessities. We thought she had money or that Falke defended her pro bono.’

‘Before all this happened did Falke ever come to this house? Was he on speaking terms with Sir Walter or Lady Isolda?’

‘Never, never,’ Sir Henry repeated emphatically.

‘Did Edmund Garman, Newgate chaplain, visit here?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose because my brother is a rich man and Garman wanted alms for the prisoners. I do know Sir Walter furnished a small chapel in Newgate. I have little to do with Garman. Rumour has it that he too served in the Luciferi before he left to become a Hospitaller.’

‘Were you ever present at their meetings?’

‘No, why should I be? My brother dealt with petitions and requests. I am a merchant.’

‘And when did Sir Walter become ill?’

‘Oh, about a year ago.’

‘In the light of what actually happened,’ Athelstan asked, ‘do you now think that Sir Walter was being poisoned in the months before his death?’

‘Perhaps, but hindsight makes us all very wise. My brother used to love his food. He had a terrible weakness for figs in almond sauce. I believe Parson Garman, who had learnt of this delicacy whilst abroad, would bring him some.’

‘I repeat my question: did you suspect poison?’

‘No. Nor did our physician, Brother Philippe. I believe you know him, Brother Athelstan?’

‘I certainly do. I have a very high regard for him. I will be asking his opinion. By the way, did Brother Philippe attend young Rosamund?’

‘Yes, he did, but he could detect nothing except the fever. Brother Philippe became very busy with this household. Rosamund fell ill on the very day that Lady Isolda took the goblet from Buckholt.’

‘Tell me now,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Sir John, who now sat with his eyes half closed, ‘your brother travelled abroad about …?’

‘Forty years ago.’

‘And he was away for about fifteen years?’

‘Yes.’

‘He returned and married?’

‘Yes, but his first wife, Matilde, died of a bloody flux only a few months after their wedding. By then my brother was winning a reputation as a great merchant. In fact, we both were. The House of Beaumont was respected, and still is, by Crown, court and Church.’

‘Your brother was a widower. Did he seek consolation with other ladies? Please,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I don’t want to give offence but simply comment on what many men do.’ He shrugged. ‘And, I confess, some priests as well.’

‘He certainly did.’ Rohesia lost some of her stone-like demeanour.

‘Could that be the reason,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Sir Walter was so generous to the Minoresses in Aldgate, well known for their care of female foundlings?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Sir Henry coloured slightly and shifted in his chair. Athelstan wryly noticed how he edged away from his wife and the friar wondered if Sir Walter had made reparation through alms to the Minoresses for his brother’s sins as well as his own.

‘Before you ask,’ Sir Henry measured his words, ‘it is possible my brother may have sired a bastard child, a girl but,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I really can’t say.’

‘No, no, you can’t,’ Athelstan agreed sardonically. ‘In fact, you can’t say much about anything.’

‘And your brother’s murder?’ Cranston, smacking his lips, pulled himself up from his chair. ‘Did you notice anything amiss, out of place, in the weeks, days preceding his death?’

‘Vanner!’ Lady Rohesia exclaimed. ‘We noticed he and Isolda grew much closer. Of course, at the same time, my brother-in-law was confined more and more to his bedchamber. Isolda, when she wasn’t consulting with Vanner, and neither of us can tell you about what, also kept to herself. Oh,’ Lady Rohesia waved a gloved hand, ‘we sensed something was wrong but we had no proof and we were very busy. Sir Walter’s death was a great shock, then the allegations were made and Sutler swept like a tempest into the house. Sir Walter was found dead on Tuesday morning. On the following Friday, just before compline, Sutler returned with a guard and a warrant for Isolda’s arrest.’

‘And Vanner?’ Cranston asked. ‘He was your brother’s clerk. You must miss him?’

‘Yes, I do,’ Sir Henry tapped the table, ‘but now he is gone. He was last seen on the Thursday before Isolda’s arrest going out into the garden just after the angelus bell.’

‘He must have fled?’

‘Apparently so, Sir John, but he took none of his possessions with him, no money or valuables.’

‘And his manuscripts?’

‘I think he took most of them. Brother Athelstan, you may see what is left – nothing remarkable or noteworthy.’

‘And your brother’s chancery?’

‘Of course, we have been through all his papers, Rohesia and I, assisted by Mortice and Buckholt. Do you know, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that I searched, as did the others, but we discovered nothing from those years my brother spent abroad? No mention of “The Book of Fires”. Oh, there are billae, memoranda, indentures and lists of this and that, but nothing really significant.’

‘And “The Book of Fires” itself?’

‘I’ve told you, Brother, Sir Walter hardly ever referred to it, and when he did he gave that sly smile, tapping the side of his nose and claiming its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone but that it was safe on the island of Patmos, and no, I don’t know what he meant.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You went into the city accompanied by Buckholt and Rosamund?’

‘Yes.’ Lady Rohesia raised her eyebrows. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

‘Did you stay together?’

‘No, when we reached Cheapside we went our separate ways.’ Lady Rohesia gestured. ‘We all had different tasks, errands, items of business.’

‘For how long?’

‘Brother, at least two hours. Sir Henry said we should all meet at the Standard as the bells chimed for noon,’ she glanced at her husband, ‘and so we did.’

Athelstan sensed he would make little progress on this issue: it would be difficult, if not impossible, to prove one or more of them slipped away to launch that murderous attack so he just nodded, tapping his sandalled feet against the floor.

‘Now, Sir John, are we finished here?’ Sir Henry asked.

Cranston looked at Athelstan, who nodded. Once they’d left, Athelstan sat back in his chair.

‘We never did anything wrong,’ he whispered. ‘But, there again, we never did anything right.’

‘Friar?’

‘An epitaph inscribed above Hell’s door, Sir John. Believe me, that precious pair could tell us more but chose not to. Ah, well, you have summoned Falke and Garman?’

‘Yes, and let’s see if they have arrived.’

Nicholas Falke, blond hair all dishevelled, face flushed, blue popping eyes blinking with anger, was ushered into the buttery. Mortice served more ale.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ Falke began, ‘I am very busy.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Cranston replied. ‘So let’s be brusque and brisk. Tell the truth and you will have nothing to fear.’

‘Sir John, are you threatening me?’

‘Yes. I am Lord High Coroner of London and this session is as valid as any court. So first, before you defended Lady Isolda did you have any dealings with her?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you defend her? Come on,’ Cranston snarled and banged on the table, ‘I will have you put on oath and, if you lie, haul you off to Newgate on a charge of perjury.’

‘For the love of God,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘Falke, you did your duty. You tried your best but Isolda has gone to God. We need to know why you, a complete stranger, a well-respected lawyer, defended her. Isolda, so we understand, had very little money of her own?’

Falke, raising his hand in a sign of peace, scraped back his chair and walked over to the window. He pulled back the shutters and stared through the thick mullion glass.

‘I truly believed that Isolda was innocent. I accepted and still do that the story about the goblets was a mere fabrication. Isolda maintained Sir Walter must have been poisoned by others.’

‘Like whom?’

‘Oh,’ Falke didn’t turn round, ‘Buckholt, even Vanner. But I saw these accusations as the outpourings of a tormented mind. All she could cite was household gossip.’

‘And Vanner?’

‘She admitted he was her ally here at Firecrest and, like the others, had grievances against his master. She pointed out that Sir Walter could have been poisoned before she gave him the drink or at some time during the night. People could have gone in or out of his chamber – after all, he wasn’t found dead until after daybreak.’

‘And “The Book of Fires”?’ Cranston warned. ‘You must answer our questions truthfully.’

‘Ah, well.’ Falke turned and walked back to his chair. ‘I did not know Isolda Beaumont before her arrest or imprisonment. I was visited in my chamber by a Greek merchant, Nicephorus – he and his three companions, professional swordsmen. I later found out they were from the elite Imperial corps of the Varangian Guard at Constantinople. Nicephorus was most pleasant, calm and courteous. He wanted me to defend Isolda. I asked him why. He said that was his business. I told him to make it mine.’ Falke sipped at the tankard. ‘He was direct. He didn’t care if Isolda was innocent or guilty, he simply wanted the whereabouts of the manuscript, or at least Sir Walter’s copy, of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”.’ Again Falke paused to drink. Athelstan watched him and recalled those mysterious rescuers earlier in the day.

‘I pressed for more. Nicephorus said it was a long story and did not concern me. However, once I accepted his commission, he gave me details. As a young man Walter Beaumont travelled to Constantinople. He served in their mercenary corps of gunners, where he deepened his knowledge of gunpowder, cannon, projectiles, Greek fire and all the secrets of the Imperial army. It was a time of unrest. The Turks were redoubling their attacks. Matters were made worse by earthquakes, plagues and civil war. Eventually peace was restored when John Cantacuzene emerged as the victor, assuming the title of John VI. However, during the unrest, Walter Beaumont and his mercenary troop took part in the pillaging of the Imperial palace. According to Nicephorus, they were not after treasure; instead Beaumont, with a few of his companions, no more than six henchmen, invaded the secret chancery of the Emperor’s library. There, in a locked arca which they forced, they found a copy of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. Beaumont stole this and fled. Now Beaumont led a company.’ Falke paused.

‘Luciferi?’ Athelstan gently prompted. ‘The Light Bearers?’

‘The Luciferi,’ Falke agreed. ‘Some of them were caught and executed. Beaumont and others escaped and returned to England. However, the Imperial court had to be careful. If they issued demands to the English Crown, our late King Edward III and his warriors would have become deeply intrigued. “The Book of Fires” is greatly valued, the knowledge it holds highly prized. The Imperial court did not wish to emphasize this too much. Moreover, Beaumont soon became a very powerful merchant directly patronized by the Crown. Finding Beaumont was easy enough but the Greeks dared not do anything against him lest the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” died with him.’

‘So Nicephorus asked you to defend Isolda and, by doing so, discover the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”?’

‘In a word, yes, Brother Athelstan. I was given a fee, a good gold coin, and promised much more if I located the precious manuscript. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I am talking about a veritable fortune.’

Cranston whistled under his breath. ‘In God’s name,’ the coroner whispered, ‘why do they want it back so much? Surely the Greeks have copies? Of course,’ he clapped his hands as he answered his own question, ‘“The Book of Fires” is a veritable treasure trove with all its formulas and secret mixtures. Others want it!’

‘Precisely, Sir John. The Greeks use such fire, the Imperial navy carries it. It’s the last line of defence against their enemies. The Turks are swallowing up one territory after another. One day the Greeks will have to confront their darkest nightmare, a Turkish army laying siege to Constantinople. Greek fire would be crucial to its defence, whilst the Turks would use it with devastating effect. Nicephorus was desperate to retrieve “The Book of Fires”.’ Falke shook his head. ‘Sometimes Nicephorus changed his story.’

‘In what way?’

‘He talked of Sir Walter, or “Black Beaumont”, pillaging the Imperial chancery and escaping with a close group of Luciferi. Nicephorus hinted that Imperial agents killed some of these but others of the company may have been murdered by Black Beaumont himself. And something else.’ Falke paused to collect his thoughts and Athelstan sensed the man was telling the truth. ‘There may have been two copies of “The Book of Fires”. Beaumont gave one back but withheld the other.’ He shook his head. ‘I am not too sure. You must remember my sole task was to defend Lady Isolda. They paid my fee and provided me with extra money so Lady Isolda could have her own cell in Newgate, squalid though it was. If she’d been thrown in with the common herd, God knows what would have happened.’

‘And Lady Isolda knew all this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Naturally. She conceded that the Greeks had approached her very soon after her marriage to Sir Walter, offering a veritable fortune for the return of what she called “that damnable book”. I begged her to tell me what she knew. All she could reply was that Sir Walter kept it secret.’

‘Do you know,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if the Greeks approached other members of the Luciferi? You did say some survived and returned to England?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Falke nodded. ‘I asked the same question. They said it had been easy to find Walter Beaumont but the rest were not so simple. Sir John, you must know this, men who travel abroad to be mercenaries often change their names and identities.’

‘I agree,’ the coroner grunted. ‘On one occasion I did it myself.’

‘Anyway, to return to Lady Isolda, I pressed her to tell me what she knew. She replied that Sir Walter was too cunning even to share such secrets with his brother.’ Falke rubbed his face in his hands. ‘Nicephorus was honourable; he paid for the cell and necessities as well as a generous fee. I continued to defend Isolda. I truly believed in her innocence. In the end she could not explain away the testimony of Mortice or Buckholt, whilst the disappearance of Vanner did not help her case. All she could maintain was that she was the victim of a cruel plot.’

‘On the question of money,’ Cranston asked, ‘was Sir Walter a generous husband?’

‘No. He kept a tight rein on what he called his “high-spirited filly” of a wife. He was not overly generous to her.’

‘Did she blame Vanner?’ Athelstan asked.

‘She said it was possible that he was the killer, that he fed Sir Walter some potion before or after he drank that posset.’

‘Interesting,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how she accepted that her husband had been poisoned.’

‘Oh, yes, but not by her.’

‘Did she,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever refer to a possible annulment of her marriage to Sir Walter?’

Falke gaped in astonishment. ‘Never,’ he spluttered. ‘That was part of her defence, how her relationship with Sir Walter was cordial.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘she would, wouldn’t she? Now, Vanner disappeared the day before her arrest. Did she ever enquire about his whereabouts?’

‘No, not really. She said Vanner might have had a hand in Sir Walter’s murder, but she was more concerned about herself than anyone else. You can understand why: she faced disgrace, humiliation and a savage death. She maintained her innocence. She claimed she was a victim of a clever plot by others in the household, Buckholt, Mortice, Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia. Sir John, you are a law officer, you can appreciate my situation in defending her. She hadn’t a shred of evidence to support any counter-allegations and the case against her was so pressing it might well have been the outcome of a very clever plot. The question of the goblets, Sir Walter falling ill …’ Falke let his words hang in the air.

‘And the Greeks?’ Cranston asked. ‘Have they troubled you since?’

‘No. I was paid my fee, Nicephorus was honest and honourable.’ Falke wiped the sweat from his face. ‘They have left me alone. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I have told you what I can. I really must leave.’

‘Were you busy this morning?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, around the Inns of Court: I attended a session of the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. Why?’ Falke leaned forward. ‘Has something happened? It did, didn’t it? I have witnesses. I can swear to where I was. I …’ He paused as Athelstan lifted a hand.

‘Master Falke, we are finished – you may leave.’

‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked as the door closed behind the lawyer.

‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t. We have a number of strands here: the innocence or guilt of Isolda; the truth about a host of secrets at Firecrest Manor such as the where-abouts of Vanner; the role played by Sir Henry and his wife. There’s the identity of the Ignifer, the annulment of Isolda’s marriage, the business of “The Book of Fires” and the fact that some of its dreadful secrets are being used to murderous effect. We deal with the present, Sir John, but many of these mysteries trail back decades. Ah, well, has Parson Garman arrived?’

Cranston rose and went to the door. He talked to Mortice and returned, followed by the tall, lanky figure of Brother Philippe, Canon of the Order of St Augustine and principal physician in the House of Mercy at the Hospital of St Bartholomew, Smithfield.

‘Garman is unable to come,’ Cranston explained, ‘he is attending executions over Tyburn stream.’ He smiled. ‘However, I believe you are acquainted with our next guest.’

‘Indeed I am.’ Athelstan stepped round the portly coroner to exchange the kiss of peace with Philippe Layburn, who, in Athelstan’s opinion, was the most skilled physician in London. The Augustinian, his long, weather-beaten face smiling in pleasure, hugged Athelstan close.

‘You’re still too skinny, Dominican,’ he whispered. ‘You should eat better.’

‘Sir John does that for me,’ Athelstan replied, stepping back and studying the Augustinian from head to toe. ‘Brother physician, you look well.’ What always fascinated Athelstan was Philippe’s sharpness; it seemed to express itself in almost claw-like fingers and eyes as keen as those of a hunting hawk.

‘Brother Athelstan, I am well.’ Philippe sat down, gratefully accepting the tankard of ale Cranston poured for him on the side-dresser and brought across.

‘Thank you for coming, Philippe.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘We live and work in very dangerous times. You’ve heard of the Ignifer?’ Philippe nodded. ‘He appears to have marked Sir John and me down for death and it’s all connected to Firecrest Manor, where you are physician, yes?’

‘One household amongst many.’

‘And Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, an enigmatic man. I fed him physic but I hardly knew him. To be honest, his household always seemed cloaked in secrets and mystery.’

‘And Lady Isolda?’

‘No better than her husband. She wore her beauty like a shield, fair of face and lovely of form. Isolda kept her distance and she made sure you kept yours.’

‘And her health?’

‘I never had to tend to either Isolda or Vanner the clerk, but Sir Walter was close to his sixty-sixth summer, a man whose body had certainly been battered by time and indulgence.’

‘In the year before he died,’ Cranston asked, ‘Beaumont fell ill, greatly confined to his bed. Could that have been poison?’

‘It’s possible, Sir John. Look,’ the physician sipped from his tankard, ‘Brother Athelstan, we have discussed this before. It is very easy to disguise poisons. Too much foxglove and the heart can be seriously affected. Too much arsenic, and remember it can be used for stomach ailments, and the person dies. I would go on oath that some of my patients who died of so-called natural causes were truly poisoned, but it’s one thing to allege, another to prove and convince a jury. Sir Walter is a fine example. He had served abroad. God knows what ills, miasmas, contagions or diseases he’d encountered. He returned to London and lived high on the hog; his belly, bowel, blood and humours must have been affected by all of this. Yes, I had my suspicions, but it was a question of much suspected and nothing really proved. I gave him potions to purge, cleanse and restore his humours. I urged caution in what he ate and drank. After a while, this wasn’t necessary – Sir Walter ate and drank very little.’

‘But on the morning you examined his corpse you concluded that he had been poisoned?’

‘I disagreed with the local physician Milemete – though, there again,’ Brother Philippe spread his hands, ‘it’s hard to link cause and effect. I examined Beaumont’s corpse most carefully: his face was liverish, eyes slightly popping, a white sputum or froth coated his lips and chin. Here,’ the physician patted his own stomach, ‘purplish blotches. Now,’ he supped from his tankard, ‘there are physicians who would argue that such symptoms could be caused by malignant humours rather than a potion. You must also remember, as I told Sutler, that Sir Walter was known to take his own remedies – for example, the last cup of posset was thickly coated with herbs and spices. The wealthy ignore my advice and, as both of you know, many gardens contain more poisons than a sorcerer’s cabinet. When I arrived in the house that morning, of course, there were whisperings and mutterings, so I was most scrupulous. I examined the inside of Sir Walter’s mouth, which had turned singularly dry. I was able to establish that he had drunk a thick, rich posset. I removed some of the crushed herbs, little shreds caught between his teeth and gum. I noticed a blackness of his tongue, mouth and throat. I detected an offensive smell and I concluded that the posset had been used to disguise something. Sutler pressed me on this and I had to be careful. I did concede that I couldn’t prove it beyond reasonable doubt. I used a less rigorous assessment, namely, that on the balance of probability Sir Walter appeared to be poisoned. Sutler seemed satisfied with that.’

‘Of course, he would be,’ Athelstan conceded.

‘You must remember my conviction deepened when Sutler produced more proof. If that steward and buttery clerk had not given evidence, it would have been very difficult to prove anything against Isolda. According to Sutler, Isolda seized the posset to feed her husband, she changed the goblet and Vanner, who went into the city to buy an extra goblet, appears to have been her accomplice. Both judges and jury fastened on that and, Brother, what real defence did Isolda muster?’

‘And the maid?’ Cranston asked. ‘Rosamund Clifford?’

‘Very strange. I was summoned to attend Sir Walter’s corpse. Buckholt told me that Rosamund was lying very ill. Of course, I examined her. She had been vomiting until her belly ached. She had a fever, a terrible thirst and looseness of the bowels, but she was also very young and vigorous.’

‘Could she have been poisoned?’ Athelstan asked. ‘It’s strange that she fell ill on the same day Sir Walter died.’

‘Brother, coincidence is one thing, proof is another. Rosamund had an ailment of the belly but such a condition, though not as serious, was common in this household.’

‘Was it?’

‘Oh, yes, Brother, belly sickness, bowel disorders, ailments of the spleen and other conditions but nothing fatal. The same applied to Rosamund. She did not die. I did ask her if she could explain the cause of her illness. She was unable to. I told her to drink good clear water and not to consume anything else until her stomach became calm and the fever abated. I distilled her a potion, dried moss mixed with sour milk. She recovered but by then her poor mistress had been arrested, tried, condemned and executed.’

‘And the Great Miracle at St Erconwald’s?’

‘Brother, I met Fulchard of Richmond on his arrival in the city. He came into the House of Mercy at the hospital because of his condition, badly burnt down his right side, weak and infirm after his journey south. Such terrible injuries are eye-catching. I also noted his left side, the colour of his hair and distinguishing marks. You might ask why. As a physician, I would reply that’s a habit. If a man’s hand is shrunken, you immediately look at the other to compare, to judge, to assess. He told me about his past life and the hideous injuries he’d received years ago in a Greek tavern. I gave him treatment and a letter of attestation which,’ Philippe gestured at Cranston, ‘he could use in London if stopped by the city bailiffs who wage constant war against counterfeits.’

‘True,’ Cranston grunted.

‘Anyway,’ the physician continued, ‘Master Tuddenham summoned me to St Erconwald’s and presented me with a Fulchard of Richmond who was all healed. Of course, I found him stronger, fit and able, intelligent and reflective, yet still the same man. I noted the mole high on his left cheek, I questioned him about his past experiences. Brother, I could find nothing to say he wasn’t Fulchard of Richmond. Like you, I am a priest. Our faith teaches that due to God’s grace miracles do happen. Master Tuddenham is a lawyer, a master of logic. I had to tell him the only conclusion I could reach. A miracle had occurred. That there was no other evidence to suggest trickery.’ Philippe sighed and drained his tankard. ‘Brother Athelstan, Sir John, what have I talked to you about? Signs and symptoms, and that is what we all deal with, particularly in physic where the rash on a man’s chest or back can have a hundred and one causes. It can be symptomatic of a wide variety of contagions, a predictor of minor infirmity or some deadly disease. The same is true of Fulchard. I found him the same man with all his symptoms cured. I could produce no evidence to contradict such a story.’

The physician made his farewells and left. Buckholt then joined them. Athelstan questioned him closely about the events of that fateful day, but the steward would not concede anything he had not declared before.

‘I hated Isolda,’ he confessed. ‘I despised her. She poisoned Sir Walter and I believe she weakened him in the months before his death. She used Vanner as she used anybody. She loved no one but herself. Master Sutler had the truth – she was an assassin.’

‘You mention Vanner?’

‘And I have answered you, Brother. She used him. I know what I saw that day. I believe both of them were involved in Sir Walter’s murder.’

‘Did you serve with Sir Walter abroad?’

‘No.’ Buckholt shook his head. ‘My father did and died in Outremer. I think that’s why Sir Walter gave me a post in his household. And before you ask, I have never seen “The Book of Fires”. I don’t know where Sir Walter kept it or what he meant by his riddles. I don’t know where it is now. Perhaps Vanner knew more than I but he’s probably dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Athelstan asked sharply.

‘Vanner liked his comforts. He hasn’t fled. He took none of his possessions except his chancery satchel. He’s not been seen, he’s just disappeared. I suspect Isolda killed him, though God knows how, when, where or why.’

Athelstan studied this stubborn, resolute steward who seethed with hatred for his former mistress. Did that hatred, he wondered, cause him to lie, and what was its source? Did he believe Isolda had frustrated his yearning for the fair Rosamund?

‘Did you have any dealings with Falke, Lady Anne or Parson Garman?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Very little. Why should I?’

‘Garman is parson at Newgate. They say he is close to the Upright Men. A supporter of the Great Community of the Realm.’ Cranston jabbed a finger. ‘They also say the same about you.’

‘I don’t know who “they” are,’ Buckholt snapped. ‘Most of London supports their cause. Gaunt is hardly popular, is he? Anyway, what has that got to do with Sir Walter’s death?’

‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Athelstan asked softly. ‘The Ignifer is dealing out judgement.’

‘You mean the ghost of Lady Isolda,’ Buckholt jibed. ‘Yes, that’s what they say. Only a soul steeped in wickedness such as hers could wreak such horror.’ He lifted his hand. Ave beads were wrapped around his fingers. ‘I put my trust in God. I know what the Ignifer is doing.’

‘What?’

‘He is leaving me for last so I can drink and feed on all the terrors which are supposedly coming for me. I will deal with that when it happens. I do not regret what I did.’

‘But you do regret some things, don’t you?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Rosamund Clifford? You used to visit the Minoresses with Sir Walter. You became acquainted with young Rosamund?’

‘No, Brother, I didn’t become acquainted; I fell in love with her. I truly did and I still am.’

‘But she rejected you?’

‘She’s possessed by her mistress.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask her yourself. It’s quite simple. Rosamund only thought what Lady Isolda thought. Rosamund only did what Lady Isolda approved of. As I said, ask her yourself.’

‘And this morning?’ Athelstan queried.

‘What about this morning?’ Buckholt flinched as Cranston banged the table.

‘Rosamund and I accompanied Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia into Cheapside. We went our separate ways on different tasks and met a few hours later at the Standard.’ Buckholt refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.

‘What tasks?’ the friar demanded.

‘Oh,’ Buckholt flapped his hand, ‘very few. I inveigled Rosamund into the Bishop’s Mitre off Cheapside.’

‘I know it well,’ Cranston murmured.

‘I tried to talk to her but she wouldn’t listen. I …’ he took a deep breath, ‘… let her go, drank too much and staggered out to complete my errands.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘That’s the truth.’

Athelstan could see Buckholt was growing more taciturn, so he dismissed him and summoned Rosamund Clifford into the buttery. The dark-haired, pretty-faced maid, garbed in a cloak draped over a russet dress with white edging at neck and cuffs, almost crept into the room. She sat down on a chair, hands in her lap, smiling demurely as if she was truly perplexed about why she had been summoned. Athelstan stared hard at this young woman, fighting to curb his own anger and resentment. He disliked her holier-than-thou attitude, that air of bewildered innocence, as if all the horrors happening around her were of no concern whatsoever.

‘You were a foundling, and a novice at the Minoresses?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You have no knowledge of your parents?’

‘No, Brother.’

‘And your mistress’ relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘In all things harmonious, Brother.’

‘And the poisoning of Sir Walter?’

‘Brother, I fell ill on the same day. I was gravely sick, confined to my chamber.’

‘Did your mistress ever discuss the possible annulment of her marriage?’

‘Brother, such matters were beyond me.’ Rosamund blinked quickly. ‘I was only her maid.’

You are a liar, Athelstan reflected. You know the truth about that. You are too good to be wholesome, too sweet by half. He stared at a point above Rosamund’s head. He’d once heard a lecture on the human soul. How many believe the body houses the soul, whereas this theologian argued that the soul houses the body. Did souls brush each other and speak silently in their own spiritual language? Athelstan closed his eyes. He felt that now. Rosamund was a secretive, sly and subtle spirit hiding behind a mask of feigned innocence.

‘Brother?’

Athelstan opened his eyes. He glanced at Sir John and winked quickly.

‘Sir John, as coroner of this city, I want you to arrest Rosamund Clifford now.’

‘On what charge?’ Rosamund screeched, springing to her feet, her face twisted in resentment.

‘Sit down, mistress,’ Cranston roared, ‘or I will have you in chains!’

Rosamund obeyed, bringing her clenched fists to her face and glaring at Athelstan, who leaned across the buttery table.

‘Have you ever seen,’ he asked, ‘a human being burnt alive, mistress? Hideous! Even the bloodthirsty crowds who gather to watch at Smithfield become sickened by the sight. They throw stones to stun him or her to lessen the pain. A short while ago, I witnessed a poor torch-bearer, a totally innocent soul, burn to death for being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. That was the first assault on me. This morning the Ignifer launched a fresh attempt. Others have also been murdered for doing nothing more than their duty. Sir John and I are desperately trying to resolve mysteries including the possible innocence of your executed mistress.’ Athelstan’s voice rose to a thunderous shout. ‘We want your help but all we get are your honeyed lies pattering through your pretty mouth. Very well, Sir John. Flaxwith and your bailiffs are outside. I suggest we take mistress Rosamund to Newgate.’

‘On what charge?’ she screamed again.

‘Oh, possibly murder, frustrating the Crown in its searches, lying, perjury.’ Athelstan waved a hand. ‘Sir John, I would be grateful if you could arrange it.’

Cranston, who now realized what Athelstan intended, hastily complied. Flaxwith and his bully boys entered the buttery and escorted them out into the hallway. The commotion had roused the household. Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia, escorted by Buckholt, hurried to protest, but Athelstan wasn’t in a giving mood and they were soon out into the freezing twilight. They made their way swiftly up through the tangle of streets towards the fleshing market which stood close to the iron-gated prison. The butchers and slaughterers and had now finished their grisly trade. Huge bonfires burnt the day’s rubbish. Stalls were being taken down by apprentices who moved amongst the horde of beggars, fighting the half-wild dogs for giblets, offal and other discarded globules of flesh. The air stank of brine and blood. Salt and vinegar sharpened the breeze. Huge high-sided carts were being prepared to take away the gutted cadavers of cows, pigs and a host of slaughtered birds. The cobbles gleamed red from the washing vats now being emptied. Urchins danced in and out close to the bonfires to roast white scraps of meat they had filched. Beadles, supping from blackjacks, wandered about, their iron-tipped canes whisking the air. Flaxwith and his bailiffs forced their way through the broad concourse which stretched in front of the sombre, soaring mass of Newgate prison. Athelstan knew it well. A hall of horror piled upon horror. A place of calamity. A dwelling from the darkest Hell. A bottomless pit of violence where voices screamed and howled unheard. Athelstan kept his cowled head down as he entered that stygian kingdom of absolute despair. Newgate was greatly feared even though its keeper, Matthew Tweng, an old soldier friend of Sir John’s, had been appointed to implement reforms. Tweng certainly faced a herculean task. The air was foul, riven by the most wretched cries, howls and screams. The very walls sweated in a glistening mess. Huge cobwebs spanned corners. The fleas and lice underfoot were so thick and plentiful, every step crunched and crackled. Vermin swarmed impudently. Smoke and cooking stenches swept through mingling with the rank odour of cesspits, close-stools and open garderobes. They crossed a maze of shuttered, stinking wards where the screeching of lunatic prisoners echoed constantly. They picked their way around the filth which swilled ankle-high, kicking aside the prowling dogs and pigs. Athelstan glanced over his shoulder. Rosamund Clifford looked as if she was about to faint. Athelstan steeled himself. He recalled that poor torch-bearer turned into a living flame. He whispered what he wanted and both coroner and keeper promised they would do a full and complete circuit of this antechamber to Hell. They visited the underground dungeons, known as the stone-hole, and they entered the ‘Newgate kitchen’ where the quartered bodies of recently executed traitors were being hacked, boiled, soaked and tarred. The heads of all three victims lay close by, waiting to be cauldron-cooked in a broth of blood, bay-salt and cumin seeds. Once ready, the severed tangled remains would be publicly exposed throughout the city. Close to this were cells where gaunt-faced prisoners loaded with chains shuffled like ghosts, mad eyes glared at them through grilles high in the dungeon doors. They left the building, passing across the great yard where a prisoner was being pressed to plead under a heavy door loaded with chains and stones. Tweng unlocked an inside gate, iron spikes along its rim. They were now in a dry stone dwelling where, for a high price, prisoners could be lodged more comfortably, though it was still bleak and soulless. Athelstan was aware of iron-gated windows, thick oaken doors festooned with bars, bolts and spikes. Rosamund Clifford was almost prostrate when the heavy door of the cell where the Lady Isolda had been housed was unlocked. A square chamber with a black wooden floor and whitewashed walls, the furniture was paltry: a cot bed, table, stool, chair and jakes pot. Athelstan ordered Rosamund to sit on the bed with a glowing lanthorn on the table beside it.

‘You can sit there and reflect,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Come, Sir John.’ They left the chamber, with the keeper locking the door behind them.

‘She may be a pretty young maid,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘but she is also a bare-faced liar who is prepared to lead us a merry dance around the maypole of truth. Master Tweng,’ Athelstan shook the grim-faced keeper’s hand, ‘I am grateful. Now, sir,’ he plucked at the keeper’s sleeve, ‘may I impose on you further? Sir John and I must wait a while before revisiting our demure maid.’ Tweng showed them to a small cubicle, no more than a recess with stone seats built in beneath the heavily barred lancet window. He asked if they needed anything else. Athelstan shook his head. Tweng left as they made themselves comfortable, pulling their cloaks tightly around them.

‘A busy day,’ Cranston yawned, ‘and a dangerous one.’ He gestured with his head. ‘Do you really believe Rosamund is hiding the truth?’

‘Yes, I do, Sir John. I sense what is happening with her. I reflect on Buckholt’s words and he has studied the woman he loved. She is possessed by the soul of her mistress. Sir John, I have lived my life in male communities: the novitiate at Blackfriars, hall life in Oxford. In such communities men form intense relationships, sometimes as sexual, intimate and loving as any marriage. The same deep and even illicit friendships are formed in nunneries. I know that because I have heard many a confession. Now most of these friendships are truly innocent. They spring from a deep dependence but, occasionally, I have come across friendships, particularly between young women, which are deep and intensely passionate: it’s almost as if the soul of one possesses the other. A domination emerges which is breathtaking. The tie between those women is stronger than any oath a warrior knight makes to his lord, a monk to his abbot or even a wife to her husband. I truly believe that’s happened here.’ Athelstan rose and paced the paved gallery running past the enclave. He paused, closed his eyes and listened to the soul of this dreadful building nicknamed the Jug, the Stone, the very pit of Hell. Foul odours polluted the air whilst he could hear, though faintly, the constant, raucous noise of the prison: yells, curses, screams, shouted orders and cries of dreadful pain. Rosamund would also hear these. Athelstan prayed she would weaken; he was desperate to plan a way forward. He was tired of being deliberately frustrated, of not being able to grasp anything substantial. He was in a chamber of leaping, shifting shadows with no idea of the truth …

‘Brother?’

‘Come, Sir John.’

‘Our guest awaits.’

Rosamund was still sitting on the edge of the bed, as close as possible to the pool of light from the lanthorn. She glanced up fearfully as they entered, shivered and returned to plucking at the folds of her dress. Cranston took the stool brought by the turnkey and sat down. Athelstan picked up the lanthorn and walked over to the bleak whitewashed wall. Former inmates had carved graffiti, usually prayers such as ‘Jesu Miserere’ – ‘Jesus have mercy’, or ‘Kyrie Eleison’ – ‘Lord have pity’. He carefully studied the most recent scratchings and glanced over his shoulder at the turnkey.

‘Lady Isolda was the last person to be imprisoned here – I mean, before Mistress Rosamund arrived?’

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘How was she as a prisoner?’

‘Few visitors came. She kept to herself. There was that outburst when she attacked Lady Anne. Towards the end – well, she went to the execution cart like a dream-walker.’

Athelstan nodded and, holding up the lantern, used his finger to trace the letters which looked as if they had been recently carved there, ‘LIB’ – Lady Isolda Beaumont. The friar stared in puzzlement at the scratches next to it, the letters ‘SFSM’.

‘Rosamund?’ Athelstan repeated the letters. ‘Do you understand what these mean?’

The maid rose and stumbled across to stand beside the friar. ‘No!’

Athelstan turned swiftly and caught the slight cast in her eyes. He recalled his studies on demonology and possession. For a few heartbeats he wondered if Lady Isolda’s ghost had set up house in the soul of this young woman. Oh, she looked frightened and cowed, yet there was something else, a secret, stubborn resistance.

‘Shall we begin?’ And, taking her by the elbow, Athelstan led her back to the bed. ‘That scratching on the wall means nothing to you?’

‘I told you, Brother, nothing.’

‘Sir Walter and Lady Isolda were married for five years. How long were you her maid?’

‘Four.’

‘You knew each other at the Minoresses. You must have grown up together?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were close friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘We can leave you here to rot, not in a comfortable cell but deep in the bowels of this pestilential place.’

‘I am telling you the truth, Brother.’

‘Did your mistress murder Sir Walter?’

The dark eyes shifted and the pretty lips puckered, as if the death of her master was slightly amusing.

‘I don’t know. I truly don’t.’

‘I think you know more than you tell us, Rosamund. But let’s come to your illness. You succumbed to the sweating sickness on the same day Lady Isolda gave the posset to Sir Walter?’

‘Yes. Brother Philippe will attest to that. I lay ill. I only fully recovered after my mistress died.’

‘And your relationship with Sir Walter?’

‘I helped him.’ She sniffed. ‘When we were alone I put my hands under the coverlet. I played with him until he was satisfied.’

‘Did you visit him the day he died?’

‘Yes, very early in the day. He asked for my ministrations. I complied,’ she shrugged, ‘reluctantly, but I think he liked me to act all coy and shy.’

‘Did you talk?’

‘Only about what he wanted.’

‘And his health?’

‘Sir Walter was very much the same. He complained of his belly being delicate. I soothed him and I left. I noticed nothing untoward.’

Athelstan hid his surprise. Rosamund was very cunning. She must have realized that she would have to concede something, which is what she was doing now.

‘And your mistress knew of such ministrations?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Rosamund leaned forward. ‘Sir Walter could not bear her near him, so he asked me to comfort him.’

‘What?’ Cranston broke from his doze.

‘My mistress,’ Rosamund now perched on the edge of the bed like some conspirator with Athelstan and Cranston as her confederates, ‘told me she had married for wealth but she found Sir Walter as mean as a miser with little passion in bed or the parlour. I think she frightened him. According to my mistress, he was impotent with her.’ She sniffed, looking all petulant. Athelstan wondered if the young woman wasn’t fey-witted. ‘Sir Walter became angry with my mistress and that’s when the lies emerged.’

‘What lies?’

‘That Isolda was really his daughter.’

‘Why on earth should he think that?’ Athelstan exclaimed.

‘According to my mistress, in his bachelor days Sir Walter Beaumont had been a great one for the ladies. He had enjoyed many mistresses. He knew for certain, or so he claimed, that baby girls, his offspring, had been left in the care of the Minoresses. Isolda had immediately caught his eye. Only after the marriage did he begin to wonder whether the likeness between Isolda and one of his paramours was because they were mother and daughter.’ Rosamund paused at a piercing scream which ran through the prison, a blood-chilling cry from the press yard.

‘Peine forte et dure,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Justice can crush. Remember that. So,’ he continued, ‘Isolda was bitterly estranged. What did she make of her husband’s scruples?’

‘Nothing but a pretence, a sham, a pretext to get rid of her. Isolda was convinced he was planning an annulment.’ She chewed the corner of her lip. ‘He was encouraged by that fat tub of lard his brother and his bitch-wife, Rohesia. Lady Isolda hated them and so do I. They planned that Sir Walter should die without an heir.’

‘Lady Isolda had to accept all this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, but Sir Walter also made lewd references to me, to the possibility of me becoming his leman, his mistress. Lady Isolda agreed to this – she had to. Firstly, Sir Walter might become crueller. Secondly, she begged me to use my skill in making her husband confess to the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires”.’ Rosamund fell silent as if listening to the nightmare sounds of the prison. ‘Before you ask, Brother, Lady Isolda believed she would be cast off. She told me that if we acquired that book we would both be very, very rich. Sir Walter welcomed my ministrations. He said I was very skilled. I asked him about “The Book of Fires”. Sir Walter refused to even mention it, so I withheld my favours.’

‘And?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir Walter laughed. He mocked me. He became evasive. He then told me he had left the book on a Greek island called Patmos, and that its whereabouts would be a revelation to everyone. Later he changed his story, claiming that book was locked in that casket in his bedchamber. Other times he rambled and grew feverish. He claimed there were spies paid by the Greeks in his household.’

Athelstan held up a hand. ‘Greeks?’

‘Yes, from Sir Walter’s past. He would then tell me about his early days. How he had served in Outremer. How he relished the intrigue. He described the different women he’d possessed and the fortune he’d accumulated.’

‘But he never showed you “The Book of Fires”?’

‘No, the closest he ever said “The Book of Fires” was …’

‘In that casket in his bedchamber?’

‘Yes. However, when it was opened after he died, the casket was empty.’

‘And this alleged spy of the Greeks?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know – possibly Vanner. I do believe they approached a number of the household at Firecrest Manor but Vanner knew no more than I did. Brother, I can assure you on oath, the whereabouts of that manuscript are a total mystery to me.’

‘Was Vanner Isolda’s lover?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘He wasn’t, was he?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Perhaps she promised favours she never gave. She used him as she used you?’

For a brief moment Athelstan saw the anger flare in Rosamund’s eyes, a tightening of the lips and jaw, almost as if she had been struck, then she blinked.

‘Isolda would never use me. I know the truth.’

‘Oh, I am sure you do, but whether you are telling it now is another matter. Vanner? What happened to him?’

‘He disappeared, fled whilst I lay ill.’

‘And your mistress? Did she meet anyone else outside Firecrest Manor? Go into the city on some mysterious errand?’

‘I was her maid,’ Rosamund coolly replied. ‘Where she went I was supposed to follow. Yes, there were occasions when she would not want me to accompany her.’

‘Whom did she meet? The Greeks?’

‘I suspect so. They wanted “The Book of Fires” – my mistress told me so. They promised her gold. But there were other occasions. I think you are correct, Brother – she met someone else apart from the Greeks.’ Rosamund shrugged prettily and glanced away. ‘I don’t know who.’

Athelstan stared down at the ground. This woman was leading him up the devil’s staircase away from the truth. She was telling him a mixture of fable and fact. She would not confess to her true relationship with Isolda nor betray her mistress in any way.

‘Don’t you think it was a coincidence,’ Cranston asked, ‘that you fell so seriously ill on the day Sir Walter was allegedly murdered by his wife?’

‘Sir John, as you say, it was a coincidence. I cannot explain it.’

‘Did lawyer Falke know your mistress before the death of Sir Walter?’

‘No, no, certainly not.’ Rosamund’s relief at the change of direction in the questions was obvious.

‘And Buckholt,’ Athelstan asked, ‘he was sweet on you, yes?’

‘I could not tolerate him. I told him so.’

‘He believes you rejected him because of Isolda?’

‘Nonsense! Buckholt was lewd and greedy for me. I wanted nothing to do with him. He hated my mistress and she despised him.’

‘So Buckholt’s testimony about your mistress and the goblet of posset might have been a lie?’

‘I think it was. The same goes for that little runt of a buttery clerk, Mortice. Lady Isolda truly disliked him. She thought he looked at her lecherously.’

‘And Lady Anne Lesures?’

‘I know very little of her. Kind, considerate, a fairly constant visitor to both the Minoresses and Firecrest Manor. She introduced me there as Lady Isolda’s maid and companion. Lady Anne recognized how close we had been in the nunnery. She believed that after being placed in the Beaumont household I would make a good match.’

‘But not as grand as Sir Walter, you mean, with Steward Buckholt?’

‘Perhaps, but that was Lady Anne, not me. I was devoted to my mistress and made that very clear to Lady Anne. I told Buckholt the same this morning in a Cheapside tavern.’ Athelstan nodded in agreement. He was correct: the only person who mattered to this young woman, whether living or dead, was Lady Isolda.

‘And your origins?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know. I was a foundling and raised as one by the Minoresses.’ Athelstan caught the steel in her reply. Both she and Isolda were of the same spiritual stock. They’d hardly been born when they were given away, whatever the reason, by their own kith and kin, who had rejected them as babies. No one had really cared for them, so why should they care for anyone else? Such an attitude would have bound them closely together. Cranston rose at a rapping at the door. He went, had a few words with someone in the passageway and came back.

‘Parson Garman has returned from the execution ground. He awaits you in the chapel.’ Athelstan turned back to Rosamund. ‘Parson Garman was much smitten with Lady Isolda?’

‘I know nothing of that, Brother.’

‘Did Garman visit Firecrest Manor before the murder?’

‘Yes, he did, but he had business with Sir Walter.’

‘What business?’

‘Ask him yourself, Brother. He’s apparently waiting for you.’

Athelstan stared at the graffiti on the wall and wondered if it hid some secret Isolda kept to herself. He breathed in deeply, there was little prospect of Rosamund telling the full truth. Isolda dead was as influential with this young woman as she was when she was alive. She would say no more. Athelstan got to his feet.

‘Mistress, the keeper will arrange for an escort to take you back to Firecrest Manor. We are finished, at least for the time being.’ Athelstan swept out of the cell, Cranston followed. A guard, waiting in the dank mildewed gallery, led them up a flight of steps into the prison chapel; a barn-like room with a hammer-beam roof, a paved floor and whitewashed plaster walls stretching down to a stark stone altar in the bare sanctuary. Athelstan’s gaze was caught by the myriad small black crosses etched into the plaster walls.

‘Each of those,’ Parson Garman’s voice echoed eerily, ‘represents a human being condemned to death.’ The chaplain emerged from the shadows further down the church. Behind him taper-light danced before a statue of the Virgin. The friar walked over to the white plaster wall. A flaring sconce torch illuminated the hundreds of small hastily etched crosses, a silent but ominous testimony to the legion of condemned who had been brought here before being loaded on to the execution carts. Athelstan blessed the crosses even as Garman beckoned them further down the small narrow nave to a bench against the wall. Cranston and Athelstan sat down, the prison chaplain on a stool opposite them.

‘I am sorry, but I’ve been very busy.’ The chaplain’s dark, close face was drawn, his eyes were red-rimmed and dark stubble darkened his upper lip and square jaw.

‘How many?’ Cranston asked.

‘Five at Tyburn, four at Smithfield and two river pirates on the gallows near Dowgate. Some screamed and begged. Others cursed. A few prayed. All now gone to God.’ He gestured at the wall. ‘All carved crosses, their last memorial on earth. Now,’ he forced a smile, ‘you want to question me. Yet,’ he spread his hands, ‘I have little to say.’

‘How many years have you been chaplain here?’

‘About ten this Pentecost.’

‘You volunteered for this post?’

‘Of course, Brother. Few want it as they would your parish of St Erconwald’s. I understand there’s been a great miracle there?’

‘I do not want to discuss that.’

The chaplain sat back, eyes guarded at the friar’s sharp response.

‘What I want to discuss, Father,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is you. Where were you born?’

‘At Boroughbridge, on the River Ure in North Yorkshire.’

‘I know that place.’ Cranston intervened to ease the tension. ‘My father fought there against Thomas of Lancaster during the reign of the king’s great-grandfather. Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, was speared up the arse as he defended the bridge.’

‘I have heard of such stories,’ Garman responded, ‘though I was born of peasant stock.’

‘And later?’

‘Brother, I journeyed abroad.’

‘No, no,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I will not accept bland words.’ The friar leaned forward, holding the chaplain’s gaze whilst half-listening to the dire sounds drifting in from the prison. ‘Innocents have been killed, horribly burnt. Royal officials barbarously executed for doing their duty. I will be blunt. You tended to Isolda before she died?’

Garman nodded.

‘But you visited Firecrest Manor long before Sir Walter’s untimely death. I know you did. Why? You are youngish looking, my friend. How old are you?’

‘Fifty-five summers last year past.’

‘Old enough to have served with Sir Walter Beaumont abroad – Black Beaumont, captain of the free company of the Luciferi, men skilled in the use of culverins and other ordnance. You were with him in Constantinople, yes? For God knows what reason, you left his service. You entered the Hospitallers as a lay brother then returned to London, where you were ordained as a priest. You eventually volunteered to serve here as a chaplain, where,’ Athelstan gestured at Cranston, ‘we know you have won a reputation for being partial to the Great Community of the Realm, the Upright Men and their minions, the Earthworms. You give them solace, both spiritual and physical. You also, I suspect, have aided in the escape of a few of these from the fastness of Newgate. No, no, no,’ Athelstan held up a hand, ‘you are not alone, Master Chaplain. I too see the suffering of the poor and the dispossessed. Sometimes, secretly, I also support the cause of the Upright Men. What little else can they do in the face of such stifling oppression? Now that does not concern me, but your travels with Black Beaumont certainly do.’ Athelstan pressed his sandal against Cranston’s boot at the coroner’s surprise at Athelstan’s words. The friar had calculated and gambled. He had voiced his suspicions though he had little hard evidence. ‘So, Master Chaplain, the truth,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘or at least part of it?’

‘I was born in Yorkshire,’ Garman began slowly. ‘I met Black Beaumont when I was a green stripling agog for adventure. Beaumont was forming a company. I will spare you the details. Black Beaumont waxed powerful. He realized the power of cannon. He argued that one day massed arrays of culverins and cannon would shatter the schiltroms of pikemen, the phalanxes of archers, the shield-rings of foot soldiers, the cohorts of cavalry. Warfare would be transformed. Battles would take on an even more gruesome aspect. Castles and fortified towers would be smashed to powder. He became a master, a skilled captain. Beaumont wanted money but he was also hungry for knowledge. He hired his company out not just to the highest bidder but to the one who could teach him the most. Eventually we reached Constantinople, attached to the Varangian Guard, manning its walls and gates or skirmishing with Turcopoles out on the plains. Occasionally we served with the Imperial fleet. I witnessed the power of Greek fire, an all-devouring flame which billowed out with a life of its own, a raging inferno almost impossible to extinguish. Brother Athelstan, I saw the sea catch fire. Beaumont became obsessed with discovering its secrets, which the Greeks guarded so closely. He spent every waking moment trying to discover the whereabouts of Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. He bribed officials, officers and courtiers till he found out at last where the secret was kept …’

‘And he seized his moment?’ Athelstan intervened.

‘Yes. Constantinople was racked by famine, plague and civil war. Riots occurred in the great square before Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. Beaumont formed his plan. Other mercenaries were keen to plunder. We broke into the secret chancery, where Beaumont seized the book.’

‘Did you see it?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes. A thick, heavy book though very small: its pages were twined together and bound in a heavily embossed calfskin covered with silver clasps. I glimpsed it for a short while. It reminded me of a book of hours. Anyway, we fled to Manzikert. Of course, the Secretissimi, the secret agents of the emperor, pursued us.’ He shrugged. ‘They still do. Beaumont was ecstatic, full of himself; apart from that glimpse, neither I nor anyone else was allowed to see “The Book of Fires”.’ He pulled a face. ‘The Luciferi broke up. We had no choice. We went our different ways. I had grown tired of my life as a hired killer. I joined the Hospitallers in Rhodes and served in their infirmary. I later returned to England where I was ordained by the Bishop of London and given this benefice. Brother Athelstan, I am a sinner. I have wenched, robbed and killed. In the words of the psalmist, my offence is always before me. I now do reparation here in this stench and squalor.’

‘You also use your position to support the Upright Men.’

‘Brother Athelstan, I plough my furrow, you plough yours.’

‘You could be accused of treason,’ Cranston whispered.

‘Then, Sir John, arrest me and I will impeach Gaunt for a greater treason: the evil he inflicts on the Community of this Realm.’

Athelstan tapped his feet. He recalled ferreting when he was a boy, trying to cover the holes in a warren with netting but the rabbits would still escape. This was similar. Garman could be accused of a host of crimes, yet, on a moral basis, he would escape, arguing these were no crimes but acts of goodness. Garman was a person who exemplified St Augustine’s shrewd observance of human beings – that each individual was a veritable sack of different conflicting emotions. Garman was a priest yet a radical. A former soldier, now devoted to dispossessing the people he served. He preached God’s goodness whilst advocating aggression to curb the greed of Gaunt and others. A man dedicated to peace, yet one who viewed violent revolt as the only way to achieve a lasting peace.

‘God have mercy on us all,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I will not debate philosophy with you, Parson Garman. You visited Sir Walter?’

‘To beg for monies for this place, I have told you that.’

‘You visited him on the very day Lady Isolda allegedly poisoned him?’

‘Yes. I saw him just before his untimely death. As usual I visited him early in the morning. I brought him a delicacy from our days abroad, a dish he could never resist, figs rolled in an almond sauce.’

‘Did he eat them?’

‘No. As always, his belly hurt.’

‘So why did you bring them?’ Athelstan snapped.

Garman just grinned.

‘Did you ever hear his confession?’

The parson snorted with laughter.

‘Did you reminisce about old times?’

‘Never.’

‘Never?’

‘I had nothing to say to him and what could he say to me? We had ceased to be comrades.’

Athelstan pointed a finger. ‘Good Lord,’ he breathed, ‘you came to bait him. You hated Beaumont, didn’t you?’

‘He was a truly selfish, mean-spirited knave. A caitiff as great a felon as any who have been taken from here and hanged. He stole “The Book of Fires” and then turned out his comrades as if we were serfs. He did not care what happened to us. So it was not just to bait him. I visited Sir Walter to wring money out of him for the poor bastards here. I enjoyed making him reflect on Christ’s warning: “What does it profit a man to gain the whole world if he suffers the loss of his immortal soul?” In my hushed conversations, I would warn him about the wages of sin as he drew to the end of his life. What did he love? What did he have? Children? Heirs? And where did he get his wealth from? Fashioning machines of war and other means to kill human beings.’

‘It’s a wonder he did not forbid you entrance,’ Cranston demanded.

‘Oh, Sir Walter was past all that. He took my visits as the fruit of his own sin. I liked nothing better than to remind him of that phrase, “Remember man that thou art dust and into dust ye shall return”.’

Athelstan stared hard at this ruthless preacher, a professional killer who had experienced a conversion along his own road to Damascus.

‘Beaumont stood for everything you hated, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, Brother, he certainly did.’ The answer was almost cheery.

‘And his marriage?’ Athelstan caught the swift smirk. ‘Don’t lie,’ he warned. ‘You know the truth about that May-December marriage. You are a priest. Sir Walter was burdened with guilt – he must have referred to it.’

Garman’s chilling grin widened.

‘Sir Walter was impotent with Isolda,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He suspected, and I think wrongly, that she was his illegitimate daughter, the offspring of one of his cast-off doxies from years ago.’

Garman pulled a face as if to hide his own malicious glee.

‘I wager you did not dissuade him?’

‘Naturally.’ Garman was truly enjoying himself. ‘I did admit that I could see a faint likeness in her of him.’

‘You were lying?’

‘I was just answering his question.’

‘So was Lady Isolda innocent?’ Cranston intervened, taken aback by the heated exchange between these two priests.

‘I think I can answer that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You liked Lady Isolda. You admired her. You felt sorry that she was one of Sir Walter’s many victims. In your eyes, killing the likes of Black Beaumont was no crime, no sin.’

‘As regards her innocence, Lady Isolda never confessed to his murder.’

‘But that doesn’t mean she was innocent.’

‘Nobody is innocent, Brother.’ Garman shrugged. ‘There could be other explanations for his death. On one occasion Lady Isolda said Sir Walter might have taken his own life.’

‘That’s nonsense! There is not a shred of evidence to substantiate such a claim.’ Athelstan pointed at the chaplain. ‘What is more logical, more likely, given your hatred of Sir Walter – how do we know those figs in almond sauce which you brought earlier in the day he died were not laced with poison?’

‘Why should I do that?’ Garman sneered. ‘I much preferred to watch him suffer.’

‘I am sure,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘you are a practical man, parson. Your heart danced to see Sir Walter suffer, to view his growing weakness, his deepening sense of guilt. Naturally you wanted to bait him with the past – that’s why you bought those figs, a delicacy from Outremer which would remind him of a time when he could indulge his appetites. Of course, not now. Sir Walter was ill, his belly extremely delicate. He might have to forgo such sweetmeats and leave them for the servants.’

‘Brother Athelstan, are you claiming I attended Sir Walter for more nefarious reasons?’

‘We’ll come to that by and by. Let’s return to Sir Walter’s death. Did you feed him anything during that last visit?’

‘You mean poison? No, as I have said, I wanted him to suffer, to brood and to regret.’

‘I have asked this before,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Why did you hate him so much? I understand he deserted you, kept “The Book of Fires”, but mercenary companies break up, people go their separate ways. Oh, by the way, what name did you use?’

‘I was called Saint-Croix.’

Athelstan studied Garman carefully. The friar recognized the importance of these moments from years of shriving, of hearing confessions, of listening to souls opening the gates sealed deeply within them. Parson Garman was now very close to those gates.

‘We are not your enemy,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘Like you, sir, I am a priest. All I want is the truth. What is wrong with that?’

Garman drew a deep breath. ‘We fled Constantinople,’ he began, ‘pursued by Turcopole mercenaries. We hid here, there, everywhere we could. Eventually we struck out across the desert.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘The names of the different places we visited now fail me but we stopped at an oasis. We shared out our wine and food. To this day I swear Beaumont drugged it with a sleeping potion. The following morning, we woke late and heavy-headed. Beaumont and his henchmen had fled. We had our horses, water, weapons and maps – he had just forsaken us. We eventually reached Izmir. By then we were tired of each other’s company. I journeyed into Rhodes and entered the service of the Hospital.’

‘And when you returned to England you must have confronted Black Beaumont?’

‘Oh,’ Garman laughed wryly, ‘he claimed it was all due to mere chance. According to Beaumont, he and his henchmen had risen early that day. They decided to let us sleep whilst they struck out to search for the best way forward. They encountered a roving band of sand-dwellers who attacked them, so they took refuge in a high, rocky outcrop. They drove their attackers off but by the time they returned to the oasis we had left.’ Garman wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. ‘A farrago of lies.’

‘And “The Book of Fires”?’ Athelstan asked.

Garman’s eyes swiftly shifted.

‘That’s the real reason you visited Sir Walter. Oh, you loved the baiting and revelled in Beaumont’s discomfiture but your real intent was to seize that book!’

‘Why should I …’

‘Have you too been approached?’

‘What do you mean?’ Garman’s tone was brittle, betraying his fear.

‘Oh, you have,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘by the agents of the Greek emperor, the Secretissimi and perhaps by others? The princes of this earth would offer a veritable fortune for Mark the Greek’s “The Book of Fires”. The Secretissimi are in London – don’t act all surprised, you know they are. You have admitted as much. They want the manuscript back and would pay a fortune for it.’

‘You must know its value,’ Cranston intervened. ‘I mean, from the days you served in the Luciferi calling yourself Saint-Croix. What was your role? If Black Beaumont was skilled in the use of cannon and powder, so must you be. You’ve fired culverins, you’ve mixed the different elements, yes? That’s what the Luciferi offered – the ability to hurl fiery missiles. So, Parson Garman, if “The Book of Fires” fell into your hands, you would know how to manufacture Greek fire and the other deadly mixtures.’

The parson licked dry lips and stared down at the glow of candlelight near the small Lady altar. He sat as if listening to the prison settling for the night, the banging of doors, the sharp clatter of chains.

‘“The Book of Fires”, Garman began, still staring down the chapel, ‘was the cause of everything. Beaumont seized it and made sure that his companions who had served him so faithfully would have no share of it. He brought the secrets back to London and doled out those secrets like a miser would pennies. I suspect he held a great deal back to maintain his monopoly, to hold something in reserve, to tease, bait and lure would-be customers.

‘Naturally, the Secretissimi followed him here, but what could they do against a powerful merchant patronized by the King? Move against him and they would forfeit their immun-ity – they could even end up in this stinking hole or on the scaffold at Smithfield. If they secretly assassinated Beaumont, the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” could die with him or pass into other hands. I …’ Garman beat his chest, ‘had a right to that book. I was with Beaumont in the Imperial chancery when the manuscript was stolen.’ Spittle now formed on his lips. ‘I was a high-ranking member of the Luciferi. I should have had my share. Yes, you are correct, that’s the real reason I took to visiting him. Oh, I deepened his guilt, agitated whatever conscience he had left, milked him for alms but I demanded my share. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, just think what I could do with such wealth.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘But you know the verse of scripture, “By their fruits ye shall know them.”’ Garman’s voice changed as he mimicked that of an old man. ‘Beaumont quavered and trembled. He listed his donations to this and to that but he hadn’t changed. Black Beaumont was a flint-hearted, greedy, nasty human being. If I baited him he taunted me back, saying that the whereabouts of the book would be a revelation, secretly hidden on the island of Patmos. God knows what that babbling meant. But if Lady Isolda was a killer, so was Sir Walter.’ He wagged a finger and rose. ‘I am not just talking about men killed in battle but the cold-blooded murder of friends and comrades.’ Garman, agitated, walked into the darkness then returned to retake his seat. ‘The Luciferi,’ he continued, ‘were mostly English. Beaumont deserted us, taking six of our companions; those who remained with me survived to die elsewhere or return to England. Buckholt’s father was one of the former, which may be why his son later secured the position of steward to Beaumont. Buckholt senior was a much older man, as was Adam Lesures, Lady Anne’s husband, who returned to London and became a wealthy merchant. Lesures was highly intelligent – he had little to do with Sir Walter. They remained fairly estranged. After Sir Roger’s death Lady Anne became more friendly. There were others who returned. Some are dead, a few are now missing.’

‘One of those could be the Ignifer?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that.’

Athelstan could see the chaplain wasn’t convinced.

‘Parson Garman, you claim Sir Walter was a cold-blooded murderer?’

‘Brother Athelstan, that’s one thing I did ask Beaumont time and again. He left with six of our company. I swear to God, not one of these have been heard of or seen since that night at the oasis.’

‘None!’ Athelstan exclaimed. The friar moved on the bench, very much aware of the darkness, the deepening cold, the dying light of the tapers and the winter wind tugging at the outside shutters.

‘You are alleging foul play,’ Cranston murmured. ‘That Sir Walter murdered those six men?’

‘Sir John, it was in his nature. Now look. I have been honest.’ Garman shook his head and refused to meet their gaze. ‘Well, as honest as I can be in this business. Lord Coroner, I am a marked man – my sympathies are well known to Gaunt. I work amongst the poor and dispossessed. I am what I am: a simple prison chaplain with a rich, tangled past. I took this post for many reasons. One of them is the prominence it gave me.’

‘Amongst the Upright Men?’

Garman smiled thinly at Cranston’s remark. ‘There’re other reasons.’ He continued slowly, ‘This prison post is a watch tower. I have worked amongst mercenaries. Now, as I have explained, most of those who stayed at the oasis eventually returned home. Like me, they renounced their false names. A few went back to loved ones but many drifted into London to seek shelter in the twilight world of Whitefriars, Southwark and the other halls of darkness. A few even passed through here. Anyway, over the years, I have been visited by former comrades but never, I repeat never, by anyone who left that oasis with Black Beaumont. Those who visit me tell a similar tale. They too have never heard of those six comrades.’

‘You must have put this to Sir Walter?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, I did, and his reply was stark and simple: they’d wandered off and he knew nothing of their whereabouts or their fate. All I can say is that Sir Walter would have done anything to keep “The Book of Fires” to himself.’ Garman rubbed his face between his hands. ‘Gentlemen, more than that I cannot say.’

‘Lady Isolda’s cell,’ Athelstan asked, ‘those markings on the wall – “SFSM” – do you know what they mean?’

‘No.’

‘And her visitors before she died?’

‘Lady Anne Lesures with her mute body servant, Falke, of course, but no others.’

‘And you still believe her to be innocent?’

‘Brother Athelstan, I am biased. Beaumont was a black-hearted sinner, a truly evil man. If he was murdered, then he merited it. Now, Brother Athelstan, Sir John, I do have other business.’

‘And her last days here?’ Athelstan also got to his feet.

Garman indicated that they follow him out of the chapel along a hollow, stone-paved corridor. The reek of boiled cabbage, sweat and the privy mixed with the stench of tar being heated in an enclave next to a chamber, its narrow door flung open. Inside thick, evil-smelling tallow candles fluttered. A man sat behind a trestle table heaped with items of clothing, buckles and belts, hose, girdles, hoods, jerkins, dagger sheaths, battered purses and women’s clothing. Next to him sat an old clerk with a dripping nose, long, thinning hair and popping watery eyes; he was itemizing the different pieces which the other man held up, brusquely described and tossed into a huge chest to the right of the table.

‘Master Binny,’ Garman declared, ‘I am sorry to interrupt, but Sir John and Brother Athelstan …’

‘Oh, I know Sir John.’ Eustace Binny, Carnifex, or executioner for Newgate, was a cheery-faced imp of a man dressed soberly in a dun-coloured robe. He seemed pleased to meet Cranston and sprang to his feet to clasp Sir John’s outstretched hand before bowing his sweaty pate for Athelstan’s blessing. He introduced his clerk, Scrimshaw, and brusquely ordered him to bring three stools for his visitors before retaking his seat and gesturing at the items heaped on the table.

‘The worldly goods of all those I have hanged this week,’ he declared, picking up a faded petticoat then tossing it back on to the table.

‘The legitimate profits of the hangman,’ Cranston murmured, ‘including those of Lady Isolda?’

‘Oh, a very nice bracelet, a costly gown, petticoats, shoes, girdle and belt. They all came to me. She went to her death in a long grey hair shirt daubed with a red cross. I also had her brooch and the twine which braided her tresses.’ He sniffed as he crossed himself swiftly. ‘My heart was moved to pity. Scrimshaw here watched her strip; he made sure we had everything before he gave her the hair shirt. He said she had a beautiful body, unmarked, white as the purest snow.’

Athelstan glanced at the scrivener, who smiled vacuously back with a display of yellow, blackening teeth. ‘We missed nothing,’ Scrimshaw muttered.

‘No books?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, no books, we are vigilant about that. Books fetch a good price. Our prisoners,’ Scrimshaw smiled reassuringly, ‘when they know they are going to die, are honest. What they own, we get.’

‘Who rented the solitary cell?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Lawyer Falke. He gave us silver for a clean chamber, nearly fresh bedding and the same victuals as ours. We made it very clear that when the end arrived all her property was ours,’ Binny gabbled on. ‘I tell my wife that all movables and items worn by …’

‘Very good, Eustace,’ Cranston intervened. ‘We are more interested in those last two days before her execution.’

‘She was very frightened,’ Scrimshaw screeched. ‘She quarrelled with Lady Lesures and drove her away. I felt sorry for her. She truly didn’t know what was coming. I told her no mercy was to be shown, though for a few coins I could hire some ruffians to toss bricks and stones at her head when she was lashed to the …’

‘Shut up!’ Binny roared, his face turning puce. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan,’ he glanced spitefully at the scrivener, ‘he shouldn’t have said that. When all this,’ he gestured at the chest, ‘is sold to the fripperers I will deduct a fine. Our orders were very clear – no mercy was to be shown and it wasn’t. Everything she ate or drank was tasted. I made sure Scrimshaw,’ he glared at his scrivener, ‘did that. Yet in the end, Lady Isolda frightened herself into a stupor, a daze. I’ve seen the likes before.’

‘She was very quiet,’ Garman spoke up. ‘I was at her execution.’

‘We had to carry her to the execution stake,’ Binny murmured. ‘We bound her fast, the fire started and the crowd thronged about. True, stones were thrown to smash her skull to stun her as you would some cow in a slaughter shed but there was no real need. The flames roared up and she was gone.’

Athelstan hid his chill at the horror described so casually. ‘Afterwards,’ he asked, ‘did anyone come to gather ashes or her bones?’

Binny pursed his lips and shook his head.

‘Oh, yes they did.’ Scrimshaw picked up a cheap bangle off the table. ‘I’ve just remembered – someone did. I was busy around the execution stake collecting chains, any items; you know, it’s very important.’

‘What happened?’ Cranston snapped. ‘Who came?’

‘A man. He was hooded and visored. He carried a cedarwood casket, a little trowel and a pair of tongs. He collected the remains, shards of blackened bone. I asked him who he was.’

‘And? His name?’

‘Reginald Vanner, clerk …’