The House of Shadows

Chapter 9

The two knights were preparing to charge, a surging, united passion of man and horse eager to ride their opponent down. The herald, in the centre of the lists — a long stretch of multicoloured canvas just over a yard high down the centre of Smithfield — raised his white baton, hard to distinguish against the light blue morning sky. All eyes watched him, fascinated by this blue-, red- and gold-liveried herald who would begin the tournament. At either end of the lists trumpeters waited to give clarion blasts on their silver trumpets. Above them, stiffened pennants and loose-tied banners spread out in the early morning breeze. Vividly coloured cloths displayed the arms and heraldic devices of the two opponents: a silver half-moon above red gules and golden scallop shells; and a light grey boar ready to charge against a dark blue field, above that a strip of silver stars against a red background. The two knights waited at either end of the lists in their silver-edged armour, ready to joust; their war destriers, eager to charge, snorted and pawed the ground, resplendent in gorgeously caparisoned cloths and gleaming black harness. The knights sat, heads slightly down so that they could peer more clearly through their visor slits; from each helmet elegantly plumed feathers ruffled in the breeze. The noise of the horses, the creak of harness and the harsh clatter of armour carried across to the spectators, intensifying their excitement.

A drum began to beat, a striking hollow sound. The crowd fell silent, the course was ready. The knights, unable to control their restless horses, let them move forward a little to relieve the tension. All eyes watched their champions, visors down, sitting so immobile in the high horn saddles, shields up, blunted lances ready. The trumpets blasted, a carrying, ringing sound which sent birds in the nearby trees whirring up to the sky. The crowd moaned in pleasure. Another trumpet blast, followed by a third, and the jousters moved forward, a resplendent vision of moving, dazzling colour. The horses broke into a trot, the herald threw his baton down and stepped back even as the horses burst into a gallop, moving to a furious charge, the drumming of their hoofs drowning all sound. Lances came down, crossing over the horses’ necks to meet their targets, shields slightly raised; a magnificent sight, man and horse, free as a bird, fast and furious as a falling falcon.

They met in a dramatic clash of steel. Each shattered their opponent’s lance and shield. One knight swayed slightly in his saddle but managed to stay in his seat. They reached the end of the lists. Fresh lances were brought and the heart-throbbing music of battle began again as both knights moved into the charge, bearing furiously down upon each other. They met once again in the centre, lances shattering, horses neighing and rearing. The knight who fought under the banner of the Grey Boar swayed dangerously. He tried to right himself, his horse swerved, chain-mailed feet broke free of the stirrups and the knight tumbled to the ground with an almighty crash. His opponent reined in and turned round. The fallen knight tried to raise himself, struggled weakly and lay back as squires and pages, in tabards brightly coloured as a field of flowers, hurried across to help.

‘Well I never! God and St George help us!’ Sir John Cranston, Lord Coroner of the City, turned to the small, thin-as-a-beanpole man standing next to him. ‘Well, Bohun, that was a mighty fight. Reminded me of my younger days.’

‘Yes, Sir John, it did. But what was the tourney over?’

Cranston put his arm round his old comrade’s shoulder.

‘I asked you to meet me here, Bohun, as I knew you would be interested in it. The Knight of the Grey Boar is Sir William Stafford, his opponent Sir Humphrey Neville, both young bucks of the Court. Now, a month ago, our noble Regent staged a Bal des Ardents.’

‘What’s one of them?’ Bohun asked.

‘A little conceit our Regent has imported from France, where the nobles of the Court, for God knows what reason, dress as wild men of the woods, their faces smeared with mud, their heads and bodies covered in coats of hay, straw and bracken. What happens is this. .’ Cranston kept his eyes on the hapless knight as he was lifted on to a stretcher. ‘Oh good,’ he murmured, ‘it doesn’t seem as if he was hurt too badly. What happens is this: the young bucks like to fight, to frighten the ladies, so all the candles are doused in the great hall. The wild men of the woods appear, carrying torches. The lady of their heart has to find which is her beloved. Anyway, to keep my tale brief and pointed, Sir Humphrey, whether by accident or design, let his torch slip and set fire to Sir William’s coat. A lady doused it but Sir William was furious; he claimed it was no accident and challenged Sir Humphrey to a duel. It looks as though honour has been satisfied.’

‘It’s a pity both the stupid buggers weren’t consumed by fire.’

Cranston laughed. ‘Bohun, let’s visit the glories of Smithfield.’

They walked across the open expanse which stretched in front of the great church of St Bartholomew’s and its adjoining hospital, a favourite meeting place beyond the old City walls, with its makeshift stalls, the gathering point for petty tinkers and traders who sold a variety of goods. Most of the great field was dedicated to the horse fair, drawing in people of every kind and quality, from powerful nobles in their silks and ermine-lined capuchins, to travelling people in their sheepskin jackets and shaggy caps. All the entertainers of the City flocked here, not just the whores and the acrobats but the goliards, the storytellers and singers. Pedlars offered relics, cage-holders sold white birds which, if they looked directly at you — or so their owners bawled — could cure you of the malady known as yellow skin. Soldiers from the Tower in their brigadines brushed shoulders with archers from the garrison at Westminster, distinctive in their capeliens, their small iron scull caps, and brilliant blue and gold tabards. Beggars whined for alms from the pretty daughters of powerful merchants, who drew away in disgust. Cranston, one arm across his friend’s shoulder, guided him through the swirling throng, eye ever keen for the rogues and pickpockets who swarmed as thick as crows on a dung hill.

‘How are you, old comrade?’ Cranston gave Bohun a squeeze.

‘Happy as a hog’s turd.’

‘Thirsty?’

‘Always!’

Cranston steered Bohun over to a makeshift ale shop set up under one of the trees, selling hot cups of posset, and tankards of lambswool, strong ale enriched with roasted apples, raw sugar, grated nutmeg and ginger, with tiny sweet cakes floating on the top. He ordered two of these, and he and his comrade sat on a nearby bench, sipping appreciatively at the rim of the leather blackjacks.

‘I used to come here,’ Cranston murmured, gesturing at the crowds. ‘My father was a fearsome man, Keeper of the Horses at the Royal Stables, at Clerkenwell. He would collect me from St Paul’s school and, if the master said I had done well, would bring me here to sip some lambswool. Fine days, eh, Bohun? I didn’t become a philosopher or a lawyer,’ he continued, ‘but first and foremost a knight. I enjoyed the glory days.’ He sipped from the tankard again.

‘Sir John,’ Bohun sighed, ‘I have known you for many a year; our friendship runs deep.’ He placed the blackjack on the ground between his feet and cocked his head, half listening to a group of scholars standing nearby, sweetly singing the hymn ‘Alma Mater Dei’. ‘I was Serjeant of the Tower, responsible for the Garde Manger and Garde Au Vin, supervisor of the food and wine. I suspect you have not brought me here to go back through the Gates of Ivory and Horn into the realm of dreams, of what might have been?’

‘Sharp as ever.’ Cranston plucked at the ganache, the over-robe Bohun wore, tied round the middle with a ribbon. ‘You’ve lost weight?’

‘Bellum intestinum,’ Bohun whispered, picking up the tankard. ‘War within! There’s something wrong with my gut, Sir John. By noon I’m tired and the pain returns, that’s why I’m impatient. So, why have you brought me here?’

Cranston stared at Bohun’s sad face and pitied him. Some of his old friends had already gone; Cranston always feared that some day he would even lose the friendship of Athelstan, whose order could send him to any house in the kingdom.

‘The Lombard treasure,’ he began. ‘Twenty years ago the bankers sent a casket of treasure into the Tower. It was meant for Peter of Cyprus’ crusade against Alexandria. You remember? England had signed a peace treaty with France, so many knights and fighting men flocked to Lord Peter’s banner. An English fleet assembled in the Thames. The bankers provided this treasure, which could later be exchanged for gold and silver, in return for which, as usual, they would receive their loan back with interest as well as a portion of all profits. The treasure was delivered to the Tower, a secure place where our noble Regent, John of Gaunt, was Keeper. He was fearful that it might be stolen if he sent it along the riverbank, or across London Bridge, so it was apparently taken from Tower Quay, across the river, along the south bank of the Thames, under London Bridge to the Oyster Wharf in Southwark. Here it was to be handed over to two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer. They, helped by two boatmen, were to take the treasure across to the Fleet’s flagship, anchored mid-river somewhere between Queenhithe and Dowgate. The treasure was delivered; Culpepper sealed an indenture for it, but since that night, there’s been no sight of the treasure, or those two knights or the boatmen they hired. Now, you were a Serjeant in the Tower at that time.’

‘I suppose I haven’t long left,’ Bohun rubbed his hands together, ‘and I’m not sure of the importance or truth of what I’m going to say, but,’ he sipped at his drink, ‘the Tower was full of Gaunt’s men, archers, footmen and household knights. The Lombards brought their treasure in on a cart.’

‘How big was the chest?’

‘About a yard long, and a little more in height. A great black oaken chest, stiffened with iron bands. It had three locks and someone told me that the keys had already been given to the Admiral of the Fleet.’ Bohun closed his eyes, eager to remember details. ‘The chest was taken into the Norman Tower. The Lombards had pressed their seals on it, and so did John of Gaunt. I remember him, how can you forget that golden hair, those light blue eyes? I saw that chest because it was kept in the same cellar as the wine. Two days later it was gone, that’s all I know. When the news came of the robbery Gaunt was beside himself with rage. He locked himself in the royal quarters, refusing to meet anybody, even messengers sent from his father the King.’

‘And you know nothing?’ Cranston showed surprise.

‘Sir John, the treasure was meant to be a great secret. I don’t know what happened to it or its guardians. But I tell you this, Edward Mortimer was one of John of Gaunt’s henchmen. Oh yes,’ he smiled at Cranston’s expression, ‘Mortimer sealed indentures with him, fought in his retinue in Gascony; that’s where he met Culpepper. And did you also know, Sir John, in the days preceding the Great Robbery, Culpepper and Mortimer were regular visitors to the Tower, met by no less a person than the Regent himself. Of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s nothing wrong in that. They had been given a secret mission. Sometimes a woman came with them.’

‘A woman with golden hair?’

‘No, Sir John. This woman was small and dark. She often stayed in the refectory, being served by the pantry man.’

‘Who was she?’

‘At first I thought she was Mortimer’s woman. In fact she was his sister Helena. Very close to her brother she was, owned a house in Poor Jewry.’

Cranston drained his tankard in one swallow and jumped up, ready to leave.

‘Now to where, Sir John?’

‘Helena Mortimer in Poor Jewry. Is she still alive?’

‘God knows, Sir John.’

‘Well, if she is, I’ll find her.’

Cranston thanked his old friend profusely, said he would ask Brother Athelstan to say a Mass for him and hurried off towards Aldgate. He threaded his way through the back streets of the City, the alleyways which ran alongside the City ditch from St Giles to St Mary Axe Street, and into Poor Jewry. This was a broad thoroughfare, the houses on either side old and high, built on stone bases, the tops leaning over so dramatically they created a tunnel with only a strip of sky between them. A respectable although shabby quarter of the City, with garish signs hanging from hooks above shop doorways; a street where one could buy expensive leather goods and silver trinkets. Most of the houses were no longer owned by a single occupant, but each floor was leased out by absent landlords. Cranston made enquiries in a small ale shop at the corner of an alleyway.

‘Helena Mortimer?’ the ale-wife replied. ‘What business do you have with her?’

She studied this large man with his beaver cap and fur-lined robe, who drank her ale, smacking his lips in appreciation. Cranston fished beneath his robe and brought out his seal of office.

‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’

The ale-wife became all flustered, snatched the tankard from his hand and almost hurried him out through the door, pointing him further down the street.

‘The second house past the shop. You’ll find the door open. Helena lives on the bottom floor.’

Cranston thanked her, and when he reached the place, almost collided with a small, swarthy woman, her black hair lined with grey, coming out of the door. She had a round, smiling face with smooth skin, and gracefully accepted, in a lilting voice, Cranston’s apologies.

‘Helena Mortimer?’

‘The same.’

The woman stepped back in alarm; Cranston produced his seal.

‘I must have words with you about your brother Edward.’

‘Have you found him?’

‘Not yet, mistress.’

Helena led him back into the house along a narrow, stone-flagged chamber carefully swept and washed. She unlocked a door and took him into a small chamber with a casement window which looked out on to a herber plot. The room was neatly furnished, coloured cloths hung against the white walls, the chairs and stools were of dark polished oak. She invited him to sit on one side of the mantle hearth while she took off her robe and perched herself on a high-legged stool, feet almost dangling. She reminded Cranston of a small, pretty bird, head to one side, eyes bright and watchful.

‘What made you think we’d found your brother?’

‘Just a moment, Sir John.’

Helena rose and, rubbing her hands, took a padded linen cloth and lifted across the small brazier to stand between them.

‘Oh, he must still be alive.’

She got up again and went to a coffer, and with a jingle of keys opened the lock and threw back the lid. She brought across a white woollen pouch tied at the neck and stamped with the red lion rampant of the Mortimer family.

‘Every quarter,’ she announced proudly, ‘at Easter, midsummer, Michaelmas and Christmas, I receive a pouch, like this,’ she leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘containing five pounds sterling.’

‘A generous amount.’

She was intrigued by Cranston’s disbelief.

‘Honestly, Sir John. Every quarter Master James Lundy, Goldsmith of Cheapside, sends one of his apprentices with such a pouch. It’s what Edward promised. You see,’ she chatted on, ‘we Mortimers are from Wales. We are related, very distantly, to the Mortimer family; our kinsman is the Earl of March. Well,’ she warmed to her story, ‘Edward and I were the youngest children of a third son. .’

As she gabbled on about the family history, Cranston, totally bemused, continued to stare at her.

‘I see, I see,’ he interrupted kindly. ‘So you, and your brother, left Wales? He was a master swordsman and archer?’

‘He soon received preferment in the retinues of the great lords. He served Edward the Black Prince, Sir Walter Manny and John of Gaunt before moving to Kent, where I met Richard Culpepper. I truly loved Richard — no, not in the carnal sense, Sir John; he became like another brother. Edward and Richard were inseparable, two eyes in the same head I called them. Richard always looked after Edward. I wasn’t too fond of Culpepper’s brother Thomas, the Benedictine monk, too severe and pious for my liking.’

‘And what about the others?’ Cranston asked.

‘Well, they were kind enough. One of them, Chandler, that’s right, he had lecherous eyes and sweaty hands. Edward challenged him to a duel so he left me alone.’

‘Have you been married, mistress?’

‘Oh no, Sir John, spinster of the parish, though I have my admirers. There’s Master Sturmy, he’s a blacksmith, and John Roper, he’s a-’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Mistress, you heard about the great robbery of the Lombard treasure?’

The change in the woman was remarkable. Her face drained, her lips pursed. She looked at Sir John as if she should dismiss him from her house. ‘My brother was guilty of no crime. Something must have happened.’

‘Of course, mistress.’ Cranston took off his gloves and warmed his fingers over the brazier. ‘But it’s a great mystery, isn’t it? I know a great deal about your brother,’ he continued. ‘I realise he wasn’t a thief.’

Helena’s smile returned to her face, and she offered Sir John a cup of malmsey, which he gratefully accepted.

‘Just tell me your story, mistress.’

‘Twenty years ago,’ she replied in that sing-song voice, ‘around midsummer, we came into London. Edward and Richard were all excited about the great expedition to Outremer. Edward found me lodgings in Candlewick Street. I was left to my own devices, although he and Richard would often visit me on their way down to the Tower.’

‘They often went there?’ Cranston became aware of how quiet the house had fallen; he started at a sound from the passageway.

‘Just mice,’ Helena smiled, ‘and yes, they often went to the Tower.’ She leaned forward. ‘Secret business, Sir John.’

‘Which was?’

‘I don’t know, it was secret.’

‘And Edward never told you?’

‘Oh no, he told me how Richard had fallen in love. I was a little bit jealous and said how lonely I had become, so sometimes they took me to the Tower with them. I was all amazed, Sir John, not even the castles in Wales are like that.’

‘Whom did they meet?’

‘It must have been His Grace, John of Gaunt; both Edward and Richard were closeted with him. I was young and carefree and paid little attention. Edward did his best for me. He said he would buy me this house.’

‘What?’ Cranston almost dropped his cup of malmsey. ‘I thought your brother was poor?’

‘So did I, Sir John. One day he announced he had been given a commission, good gold and silver.’

‘And Richard?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps he was given money too? But, knowing what I do, he probably gave it to his leman, the golden-haired one he often talked about. I chose this house. Poor Jewry is not too wealthy but not too poor. After the Great Plague, prices had fallen. It has five chambers above. I let these out to scholars from the Inns of Court. Edward promised he would bring back a treasure from Outremer, and every quarter I would receive five pounds sterling.’

‘And when did these payments begin?’

‘Well,’ she glanced up at the ceiling, at the small Catherine wheel of candles dangling from its gleaming black chain, ‘Edward’s companions returned to England about two or three years afterwards. I hadn’t heard from my brother, but it was around then that the payments began.’

‘Now look, mistress.’ Cranston put his cup on the floor and grasped her hand. Helena’s smile widened. Cranston felt a deep sadness. This woman truly adored and loved her brother, she could believe no ill of him; for years she had refused to confront the truth. ‘Mistress,’ he repeated, ‘here we have a great mystery. Your brother Edward disappeared, he did not go to Outremer. No one knows where he is, not even you, but four times a year for the last seventeen years you receive five pounds sterling, a goodly amount! Surely you must ask yourself where your brother is? Why doesn’t he visit you? How does he send this money to the goldsmith? He was a landless swordman, what profits did he have?’

Helena blinked furiously, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, ‘Sir John, I don’t really know. This is what I think. His Grace the Regent, although he wasn’t Regent then, also loved Edward and trusted him with the Lombard treasure. I believe something terrible happened on the river that night. Edward and Richard were attacked, perhaps Richard was killed and Edward had to flee, rather than face disgrace. Sir John, he would have been accused of robbery, he could have been hanged! I think he fled, he changed his name, and one day,’ she added hopefully, ‘he will return.’

‘But why not now?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Sometimes, Sir John,’ she pointed to the door, ‘just occasionally, I feel as though I’m being watched. Perhaps Edward knows that, if he was caught here or elsewhere, and I was with him, I could be accused of being his accomplice.’

Cranston sat back in his chair and stared across at the tapestry picture hanging on the wall: Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden under the Tree of Knowledge; a golden black-spotted serpent had wound itself around the trunk and the jaws of its great hydra head parted in a display of sharp teeth and thrusting tongue. I wonder, Cranston reflected, what was the serpent in Edward Mortimer’s life? He accepted the logic of what Helena was saying; to a certain extent it possessed its own truth. But where had Mortimer, a poor knight, managed to secure such money, and was he in hiding, still looking after his sister?

‘James Lundy, the goldsmith, surely you’ve gone to him?’

‘Of course, Sir John, but you know goldsmiths. Master Lundy is a kindly man but still a goldsmith. He will not reveal the secrets of his customers. “I don’t tell people I give you the purse,” he declares, “I don’t tell anybody that I pass it on to you.” All he will say is that at any hour of the day, though usually at night, a man hooded and visored, garbed like a monk, comes in, leaves the purse, receives Master Lundy’s signature and leaves.’

‘But Master Lundy must see the red lion emblem on the pouch. He’s a goldsmith, he must remember the great robbery and realise that a Mortimer was involved in it.’

‘I asked him the same.’ Helena went and refilled her cup, bringing back the jug to fill Sir John’s. ‘He informed me that all he receives is a sealed black pouch. He doesn’t know what is inside; that is what is passed on to me.’

Cranston sipped at the malmsey. The more he studied this mystery, the more perplexed he became. Perhaps he should have brought Athelstan here.

‘Did your brother,’ he made one last try, ‘say anything, mistress? Something you have reflected on over the years, which could provide some clue as to what happened?’

Helena closed her eyes, face tight with concentration. ‘Just one thing.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He told me I would never starve, and that perhaps, one day, I would be a great lady.’

‘And that’s what you are.’

Cranston drained the cup and got to his feet. He grasped Helena’s hands and kissed her fingertips, made his farewells and left. He was in the passageway smelling so sweetly of rosemary and rue when Helena came tripping behind him.

‘Sir John,’ she called breathlessly. ‘You have been so gracious. There is one other matter.’

She asked him to stay whilst she went upstairs and brought down a small coffer with artificial jewels studded in the casing. She opened this and took out a gold cross on a silver chain.

‘This was my mother’s.’

‘Very beautiful,’ Cranston agreed. ‘But what significance does it have?’

‘On the day before Edward disappeared, he came to see me, looking rather pale and agitated, which was unusual. I asked him what the matter was but he wouldn’t tell me. Now I know. Edward always wore this round his neck. He asked me to keep it safe but said that before he sailed for Outremer he would collect it again. Now isn’t that strange, Sir John? Why didn’t he wear it that night?’

‘Perhaps he was afraid of losing it.’

‘But the same could have happened on board ship or in the savage fighting before Alexandria. He always wore it.’

‘Mistress, I truly do not know.’

‘Now you must think I’m feckless,’ Helena continued, ‘that I live in a fool’s paradise. I won’t accept that my brother has died. The truth is, Sir John, as regards Edward I live in a fog of mystery. If he’s alive, why doesn’t he come and collect the cross, never mind see his beloved sister? Yet if he’s dead, who is sending me that money?’

‘I can’t answer that,’ Cranston replied, ‘but I do have one final question for you. After your brother’s disappearance, did anyone visit you?’

‘Oh, John of Gaunt came to see me. He brought me gifts, he said if I was ever in distress I was to write to him.’

‘Anyone else? Such as the knights, Culpepper’s comrades?’

Helena shook her head. ‘Only one, Richard’s brother, Malachi the Benedictine. After the English fleet returned he often visited me for a while, asking questions, but I didn’t tell him anything. He was so cold-eyed.’

‘What sort of questions did he ask you?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh, the same as you.’ She pointed behind her. ‘He sat in the chamber fingering his beads. One thing he did say was had I ever truly searched for my brother? I told him a little of what I had done, how I had written to friends in Wales. I even wrote to Sir Maurice Clinton, but he never replied. Then he said a strange thing. Had I thought of hiring a man-hunter?’

‘Pardon?’

‘A man-hunter. You know, Sir John, often former soldiers, they hunt down criminals. I replied no.’

‘Did he now?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Mistress, I thank you!’

Cranston strode out of the house and left Poor Jewry, turning left into Aldgate, down past Leadenhall, the Tun and into Cornhill. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that even the range of villains fastened in the Great Stocks opposite Walbrook failed to attract his attention with their raucous shouts and cries. Passers-by looked at him curiously as the large coroner, a well-known sight along this broad thoroughfare, seemed oblivious to their greetings and shouted questions. Cranston strode along the Mercery, thumbs pushed into his large war belt, only standing aside when the Cart of Shame, full of criminals bound for the stocks, forced him into a doorway. The late morning’s cargo was a bevy of prostitutes caught soliciting outside their marked corner around Cock Lane. They all knew Sir John of old, and made rude jokes or gestured obscenely at him. This time they were disappointed. Cranston did not react but stared back stonily. He leaned against a door post and gazed across at the various stalls under their coloured awnings. This part of the market sold leather goods, pots and pans and finely textured tapestries from abroad. As he watched the swirl of colour, even the appearance of a famous pickpocket, nicknamed ‘Golden Thumb’, failed to provoke him.

Cranston was fascinated by what Helena had told him. Was Edward Mortimer still alive? Was he still sending money to his sister? But, more importantly, had Malachi the Benedictine hired the Judas Man? Was Athelstan correct? Had the Night in Jerusalem become a spiritual magnet drawing in all the sins from the past? Cranston recalled his own schooling along the chilly transepts of St Paul’s Cathedral. His masters taught him about the Furies of Ancient Greece who pursued criminals down the tunnel of the years and always caught their victim. Everyone who had gathered at the Night in Jerusalem, as well as those who hadn’t, such as old Bohun and Helena, was linked mysteriously to that great robbery twenty years ago. Except one: the Judas Man hunting the Misericord, yet he had never made any reference to Mortimer or Culpepper. Had Malachi been searching for the Misericord because that rogue, now dead and rotting in a casket, did possess some knowledge about the Lombard treasure and the men who stole it? Yet there seemed to be no tie between Malachi and the Judas Man. He had never even seen them speak together. Cranston cursed his own memory, though he was certain Malachi had denied any knowledge of that ruthless hunter of men.

‘Don’t lurk here!’

Cranston whirled round and quickly apologised to the fierce-eyed old lady who had appeared in the doorway resting on a cane. He remembered why he was here and continued his journey to West Cheap and the shop of the goldsmith Master James Lundy. Two beautiful blonde-haired girls were playing outside, well dressed in their smocks of fustian. They announced that they were Master James’ daughters and pointed through the doorway where their father was instructing apprentices who manned the stalls outside. Cranston walked in. James Lundy was small, his black hair swept back. He looked up as Cranston entered, and his gentle face creased into a smile.

‘Well I never, Sir John!’

They clasped hands and Lundy took him into the counting office at the back of the shop, a small, lime-washed chamber, its heavy oaken doors bound with steel and its only window a fortified hole. Chests and coffers, all neatly labelled, were grouped against the wall or on the heavy wooden shelves higher up. Lundy waved him to a stool.

‘Sir John, to what do I owe this pleasure?’

‘Helena Mortimer.’ Cranston decided to ignore the niceties. ‘I respect you, Master James, but my business is urgent. Every quarter you send a pouch to her house in Poor Jewry.’

‘To be just as blunt, Sir John, I don’t know what’s in that pouch or why it is sent. I am a banker, a goldsmith. People trust me with their valuables and their secrets.’

‘How is the man dressed?’

Lundy smiled. ‘You’ve visited Mistress Helena, haven’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t know it’s a man. Sir John, he comes to my shop cowled and masked. He gives me the purse and coins for my trouble. I give him a receipt and he leaves.’

‘Aren’t you suspicious?’

‘What he does is not a crime. People make reparation, pay compensation; if they want to keep their faces and motives hidden, who am I to insist? That’s all I can say.’

Cranston thanked him and left, fully determined to pay a visit to the Lamb of God and then return to Southwark to question Brother Malachi.