The House of Shadows

Chapter 11

Athelstan and Cranston sat blowing on their fingers in the freezing Chancery room of the Tower. Athelstan’s throat felt slightly sore and his back sweaty and cold. He wondered if he was about to suffer an attack of the rheums. He quietly promised himself a boiling cup of posset before he retired that day and tried to forget the symptoms. He stared round the circular room high in one of the towers, just a short walk from the Norman Keep. The lancet windows had been boarded up, a fire burned in the cavernous hearth, braziers crackled and glowed, yet the chamber was still freezing cold. Colebrook, the surly lieutenant, with whom Cranston and Athelstan had done business before, had greeted them at the Lion Gate, and taken them immediately up to the Chancery room. Hubert, the chief clerk, had reluctantly left his beloved filing and recording of memoranda, writs, letters and proclamations. A small, curiously bird-like man, in both appearance and movement, Hubert had gestured at the various great coffers and chests arranged neatly around the room by regnal year. At first he gave Cranston a lecture on the storage, preservation and filing of parchment and, ignoring their interruptions, insisted on showing them how documents were recorded and stored. He then proudly demonstrated the new invention he had found in Hainault, what he termed a ‘Rotulus’, a small wheel with a handle on the side. The roll of vellum was attached to a clasp on the rim and the wheel cranked round so that a searcher could scrutinise the different membranes twined to each other.

‘If a letter is sealed by the Great or Privy Seal,’ Hubert pompously announced, ‘it is copied and brought here. Oh, I heard you before, Sir John, I remember the year of the Great Stink, and who can forget the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’ He creased his face into a look of sharp condemnation. ‘I was in the Chancery at that time; letters of proclamation were issued, north, south, east and west. Come, I’ll show you.’

He searched amongst the coffers and brought out a small roll of parchment, its contents summarised in Latin shorthand on the back. He inserted this on the Rotulus and Athelstan began his search.

‘Very curious,’ Athelstan remarked, turning the wooden handle. ‘There’s no doubt His Grace the Regent,’ he nodded at Hubert, ‘although he wasn’t that then, there’s no doubt about his rage.’

‘Oh, very true,’ the clerk intoned. ‘Brother, I saw him the day after the robbery. Raging like a panther he was. Eyes bright with anger, he lashed out with his tongue.’

‘You’re sure of that?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Brother, I’m a skilled clerk. I have inscribed the letters of the old King, when he was lying in bed, ill with myriad ailments. On that day His Grace was angry. If he had caught the perpetrators he would have hoist them from the highest gallows.’

Athelstan, Cranston standing beside him, continued the search.

‘Most remarkable.’ Sir John pointed to one document. ‘The ships weren’t riding at anchor off Southwark but between the river fleet and St Paul’s Wharf.’

‘And look,’ Athelstan pointed to a line, ‘there’s no reference, well at first, to the Oyster Wharf. Simply to a great robbery along the river.’ He turned the handle again, moving the document forward. ‘Only a month after the crime is the Oyster Wharf mentioned. Remember what I said, Sir John, about Archimedes. We must go to the right place, and now we have it.’

He paused as Cranston took a deep draught from the miraculous wine skin, offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head, and then to Hubert who, despite his size, surprised Cranston with the generous swig he took.

‘What it means, Sir John,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and we shall have to ask His Grace this question, is why was the Oyster Wharf mentioned, when all the evidence indicates that the robbery took place on the south bank of the river, but much further down? Imagine, Sir John, if you can, the Southwark bank. You pass the Bishop of Winchester’s inn, the stews, the washing places, and then what?’

Cranston closed his eyes. ‘Muddy banks,’ he replied, ‘marshy fields, giving way to mud and shale. Lonely places.’ He opened his eyes. ‘The ideal spot.’

‘Exactly, Sir John, I think that’s where the robbery took place.’

Hubert the clerk was listening intently.

‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ he muttered. ‘By St Mary and all the angels, this is interesting.’

‘It will become common knowledge soon enough.’ Athelstan stood back. ‘Right, Sir John, in that fertile mind of yours, imagine the treasure barge, leaving the Tower. It goes directly across the river, following the bank along the Southwark side, past the Oyster Wharf, down to this lonely spot. Culpepper and Mortimer are waiting with their own barge. They use lanterns or torches to bring the party from the Tower in to where they are waiting. The treasure is exchanged. In the flickering light of the torches, Culpepper hastily signs the indenture.’

Athelstan returned to the Rotulus and found the indenture. ‘Only one word, thesaurum, the Latin word for treasure, indicated the great wealth he received. The document had been drawn up by some clerk. The party from the Tower probably took writing implements with them. Culpepper scrawled his name, “Ricardus Culpepper”, with a cross beside it, and beneath that “Edwardus Mortimer”, who drew a roughly etched lion, his family symbol.’ Athelstan stared at the signatures. Something about them pricked his memory, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the treasure is exchanged, the Tower barge leaves. I’m not too sure when the bargemen arrived, but there, on that dark lonely bank, the demon struck. Whatever people say, I truly believe four souls were sent into eternal night. The treasure chest is stolen, the barge is ransacked and pushed out into the river, where the tide takes it down to some reeds near Westminster.’

‘And the corpses of the four men?’ Cranston asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t.’

‘But why all this mention of the Oyster Wharf?’

Athelstan was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. Colebrook entered, grasping a tap boy from the Night in Jerusalem by the scruff of his neck. The lad broke free and hurtled towards Athelstan, almost colliding with him.

‘Brother,’ he gasped. ‘You have to come.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Sir Domus-’

‘Sir Thomas,’ Athelstan corrected.

‘Well, he’s dead,’ the boy retorted, ‘stabbed through the heart with a pricket. Master Rolles is fair raging like a hungry dog on a leash.’

‘When did this happen?’ Cranston asked.

‘This morning,’ the boy declared, eyes riveted on the coin in Athelstan’s hand. ‘A real mystery,’ he whispered. ‘The windows all shuttered, the chamber doors all locked and barred. Master Rolles wasn’t pleased with that either.’ His little eyes didn’t leave the coin. ‘A good door to the Galahad Chamber broken down, bolts and hinges all destroyed. Sir Thomas lying in his own blood like a duck on a stall, fair swimming in blood he was-’

‘Thank you,’ Athelstan interrupted, pressing the coin into the child’s hand. ‘Now lead on, Gabriel.’

‘My name is not Gabriel.’

‘It is today,’ Athelstan smiled.

They thanked Hubert and Colebrook and, with the lad scampering ahead like a monkey released from its chain, left the Lion Gate, up Thames Street and into Billingsgate. They pushed their way through the fish market, thrusting aside the sharp-eyed apprentices eager to sell them the fresh catch of the day. The boy moved like a coursed hare, dodging round the stalls, making obscene gestures at anyone trying to stop him. On the approaches to London Bridge, Cranston had to roar at him to halt whilst he and Athelstan paused to catch their breath.

‘Another murder, Brother,’ the coroner gasped, ‘and it looks as mysterious as the last.’

And they were off again, threading their way through the narrow thoroughfare. They passed the shops and houses built on either side of the bridge, the gaps where the great laystalls stood, full of reeking rubbish from the midden heaps, wary of the makeshift sewer coursing down the centre of the thoroughfare. The stench was sickening. Athelstan hated the place. the bridge rails soared the long ash poles bearing the severed heads of traitors and criminals. The boy had to slow down here, as the crowds thronged, to look over the side and watch the water rushing through, gape up at the severed heads, visit the shops and stalls, or pray in the cold darkness of St Thomas’ Chapel, built in the middle of the bridge directly above the rushing torrent. Athelstan crossed himself as he passed the half-open door. He sketched a blessing in the direction of Bourdon, the diminutive Keeper of the Bridge, who was sitting on the steps of the chapel, between his feet a bucket of brine in which he was washing the severed head of a criminal. Athelstan kept his eyes on the ground. Such sights were offensive, and the dizzying height over the rushing water always made him feel nervous. He was pleased to be off the bridge and hurrying down the lanes and alleyways and into the courtyard of the Night in Jerusalem.

Rolles met them at the door and, like a prophet come to judgement, mournfully took them up the polished oaken staircase into the Galahad Chamber.

‘I told people not to move anything.’

‘Has Brother Malachi been sent for?’ Athelstan asked, staring down at the blood-soaked corpse.

‘He was here much earlier this morning,’ Rolles replied. ‘Then left with his belongings. Good riddance, say I.’

‘Did he come up here? Did he visit Sir Thomas?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, his chamber is on the other side. Anyway, at that time Sir Thomas wasn’t in his chamber but sitting in the garden. He came in, took a cup of malmsey and returned to his chamber. He’d hired the services of one of Mother Veritable’s girls, a whore called Rosamund. I’ve put her in the garden arbour.’

Athelstan turned and looked at the door. The lintel had been ruined; the leather hinges, bolts and locks had torn away huge strips of wood as they were forced.

‘The door was fully secured?’

‘See for yourself, Brother.’

Cranston went across to the window. This was still shuttered, the bar down. The room was very warm, and beneath the faint fragrance of perfume he smelt something else, the tang of blood, of something unwholesome. He opened the shutters and stared at the window with its small latch door which looked as though it hadn’t been opened for days, whilst it was too small for a man to force his way through. He turned back to the corpse, lying slightly on one side, mouth and eyes open, the skin a dirty white. He could tell from the arms and hands that the muscles were stiffening, and reckoned Sir Thomas must have been dead for at least two hours.

Athelstan took napkins from the lavarium and used them as a kneeler beside the corpse. Removing the small wooden cross he wore around his neck, he performed the rites of the dead, blessing the man’s brow, eyes, nose and bloodied mouth, sketching with his thumb as he quickly recited the words of absolution and invited the powers of heaven to go out and meet this soul, to protect him against the hands of the enemy. Athelstan secretly wondered if it was too late. Perhaps the soul had already left the body, its fate resting with the mercy of God. Once finished, he turned the corpse over and, using both hands, pulled out the pricket, an ugly-looking weapon with its broad base, the point as sharp and deadly as any slitting knife. It came out with a gentle plop, and more blood dripped. Athelstan handed the pricket to Cranston and carefully scrutinised the corpse. The flesh was cold and clammy, the muscles hard. He noticed how most of the blood stained the stomach and the lap of the gown. He could detect no other bruise or mark, and when he sniffed the goblet of wine standing on the table, as well as the plate of sweetmeats beside it, no malevolent odour. He picked up a solace stone and felt how it fitted snugly into the palm of his hand.

‘Sir Thomas often used that.’ Clinton stood in the doorway, Branson behind him. ‘He would often use that stone, flexing his fingers to comfort himself.’

‘Did he need comforting?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir Maurice shrugged.

‘And you, sir,’ Cranston pointed to Sir Reginald Branson, ‘do you know anything about this man’s death?’

‘Only what you see,’ Branson retorted tersely, ‘and all I can add, Lord Coroner, is that good men, knights of the Crown, are being foully murdered, but no one is brought to justice. He was murdered.’ Branson advanced into the room. ‘Look, Sir John, at the corpse, search this chamber. Sir Thomas liked life and all its comforts. He brought up a goblet of wine, a dish of sweetmeats. He had invited a young lady to share his company; that was all cut short! Someone came into this chamber and stabbed him to the heart.’

Athelstan, still kneeling down, picked up Davenport’s right hand, slightly blood-splashed, the skin clean and smooth, the nails neatly cut. He sighed and got to his feet and, ignoring Clinton’s protests, began to search the chamber with Cranston’s assistance. He found nothing significant: personal treasures, a prayer book, clothing, documents, purses of silver. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed curtains of the tester bed had already been folded back, as if Sir Thomas was preparing for his visitor. Athelstan could find nothing of significance, no sign of a struggle.

‘Is this how the room was?’ he asked.

Sir Maurice nodded.

‘But how,’ Athelstan asked, ‘can a man be stabbed to the heart when the door is locked and bolted, the windows shuttered, with no other entrance? There isn’t one, Master Rolles, is there?’

The taverner shook his head.

‘Yet someone came in here,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘a friend who was allowed to get very close, snatch up that pricket and stab Sir Thomas through the heart. Had he drunk much claret today?’

‘A fair bit,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘He was sitting out in the garden for most of the morning, enjoying the sunlight, watching the carp in the pond.’

‘He then came in.’ Rolles picked up the story. ‘He was in excellent humour. He demanded a goblet and a plate of sweetmeats to be sent up to his chamber and asked me to send for Rosamund.’

‘So he didn’t use the Castle of Love? The pocket in the tapestry.’

‘Oh yes, Brother, but I’d failed to check it. What with all these troubles, and so early in the day. . When I did look I found the small roll of parchment. Sir Thomas was very eager. I asked if he wanted Rosamund to come after dark. He replied no. When the wench arrived, that’s how we found him, dead.’

Athelstan asked Cranston to clear the room. The coroner politely told Rolles and the two knights to wait downstairs. Athelstan went to the high wooden settle. He sat, arms crossed, staring down at the corpse and the blood pools all about it.

‘Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘in God’s good name, what is happening here? Here is a man hale and hearty, more interested in his claret and his wench than anything else, but he is found stabbed to death in a locked chamber.’

‘He had drunk heavily, Brother. Perhaps more deeply than we thought, which would make him weak and vulnerable.’

‘To whom?’ Athelstan lifted his head. ‘There’s only one explanation, Sir John; the only logical explanation is that the assassin crept in here, stabbed Sir Thomas, and hid until the door was broken down, but even then. .’ He got to his feet. ‘I must see this fair Rosamund.’

They went down the stairs. Athelstan told Sir Maurice he could see to the corpse of his comrade. Rolles took him out into the garden, where Rosamund, wrapped in her cloak, was sitting in a flower arbour, cradling a cup of posset and chewing rather noisily from a bowl of grapes.

Athelstan introduced himself and Cranston and sat down beside the young woman. Despite her fiery red hair, laughing mouth and merry eyes, Rosamund reminded Athelstan of Cecily the courtesan. For a while, he just sat staring out across the garden, admiring the small lawns, the raised herbers, the vegetable plots, separated from the herb garden by a small trellised walk over which rose bushes now grew. To his right, screening off the high-bricked curtain wall, broken by a small postern gate, was a line of trees. In the centre of the garden, with coloured stone edging, glittered a broad carp pond.

‘I always love gardens,’ he began, ‘especially ones like this, laid out to catch the sun.’

‘Mother Veritable has a garden.’

Rosamund smiled at Sir John, who stood outside the arbour, glancing admiringly down at her. She crossed her legs, swinging a foot backwards and forwards, plucking at a red tendril of hair, turning her face, only too eager to flirt with this powerful Lord Coroner.

‘The ostler brought me out here. I am sitting in the very place Sir Thomas did before he went up to his chamber. Oh, Brother Athelstan, what a hideous sight. I’m only too pleased to be sitting here. Master Rolles’ garden is famous. They say, when he bought the tavern, he laid it out himself.’

‘You saw Davenport’s corpse?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh yes, like a lump of meat on a flesher’s stall, blood everywhere, and that pricket, sticking out like a demon’s knife.’

‘And there was no one in the room?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, besides the corpse.’

‘Of course not.’

Rosamund chatted on and, without being invited, smiling flirtatiously at Cranston, recited everything which had happened that day, from the moment she had been summoned by Mother Veritable, to finding the corpse of Sir Thomas. She then finished the bowl of grapes, drained the cup of posset and jumped to her feet.

‘I must go now,’ she said softly, her eyes never leaving Cranston. ‘I’ve been a good girl.’

Cranston opened his purse and thrust a silver piece into her hand. Standing on tiptoe, Rosamund kissed him on each cheek and, hips swaying, walked up the path back into the tavern. Cranston sat down next to Athelstan.

‘Beautiful garden,’ he agreed. ‘I wish I could have the same, but the dogs would eat the carp and the poppets would fall in the pond. What do you make of all this, Athelstan? Who could have killed Sir Thomas?’

‘Shifting mists. Shifting mists,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Sometimes, Sir John, I get a glimpse of the truth. These murders, are they in a logical line — I’ve talked about this before — or are there two lines? Different assassins, working on their own evil affairs? I’m sure that those good knights, and Master Rolles, and everyone else in the tavern, can account for their movements. Brother Malachi was apparently back in St Erconwald’s. It’s the Judas Man who concerns me.’

He rose to his feet, followed by Cranston, and walked over to the carp pond, watching the great golden fish swimming lazily amongst the reeds. Athelstan tried to hide the flutter of excitement in his stomach. He had seen something today, small items glimpsed and then dismissed. He wished he could go back to St Erconwald’s, sit down and reflect on what he had learned. Lost in his thoughts, he re-entered the tavern. Rolles was in the tap room, supervising the slatterns and the cooks. Athelstan, uninvited, walked into the kitchen. Through the clouds of steam billowing across from the ovens and the two great blandreths hung above the fire, he studied the open windows and the side door.

‘Can I help you?’ Rolles, wiping bloodied fingers on his apron, stood in the doorway.

‘Yes, sir. Have you had sight of the Judas Man?’

‘Not a glimpse, but his horse and harness remain in the stables.’

‘I would like to see his chamber.’

Rolles shrugged and ordered a tap boy to take Athelstan up. Cranston decided he would stay and sample the tavern ale. The boy, armed with a bunch of keys, took him on to the second gallery and unlocked the door to the Judas Man’s chamber. The friar closed this and leaned against it, staring around. There was nothing much: a truckle bed, a few sticks of furniture, a lavarium; the chest at the foot of the bed was empty, as was a small coffer on the table. Athelstan noticed the fresh ink stains on the table and wondered what the Judas Man had been writing. He was about to leave when he changed his mind and began to search the room more thoroughly, lifting stools, moving the bench, pulling the bed away from the wall. He exclaimed in pleasure at a small screwed-up piece of parchment lying on the floor. He unrolled it and took it over to the small window to obtain a better view. On one side was a list of supplies, but on the other the Judas Man had written, time and again, ‘1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 4 not 5, 4 not 5. .’ He had underscored these columns. What on earth did that mean? 4 not 5?

Athelstan heard voices from the yard below and, standing on tiptoe, stared out of the window. Henry Flaxwith, his two hounds of hell beside him, was arguing with an ostler. Athelstan folded the piece of paper up, slipped it into his wallet and went downstairs. Cranston was sitting in the tap room, Flaxwith whispering in his ear. The coroner beckoned the friar over.

‘I do not want to drink, Sir John.’

‘What a pity,’ Cranston smiled. ‘I think you are going to need one.’ He patted Flaxwith’s burly hand. ‘Henry’s been a good hound. He has been out along the river and visited the Fisher of Men.’ He lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘He’s found the Judas Man, naked as he was born.’ Cranston tapped his chest. ‘Dead as a stone. A terrible wound to his chest. The Fisher of Men found his corpse trapped amongst weeds under London Bridge.’

‘You are sure?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Henry, how did you know?’

‘I have just come from there. I asked the Fisher of Men to view his corpses. I would recognise that man anyway, drenched with river water, his skin slimed green. Brother, it was the Judas Man, and he is dead. .’

Cranston and Athelstan stood at the entrance to the Barque of St Peter which stood set back from the quayside near La Reole. The air reeked of tar from the nets and cordage drying in the weak sun; a sombre place, especially now in the early afternoon as the sun began to wane and the mist to boil in from the Thames. Even on a sunny day this was not a place frequented by many. People called it ‘the House of the Drowned Man’, or ‘the Mortuary of the Sea’. The Barque of St Peter was a single-storey building fashioned out of grey stone, with a steep red-tiled roof, built by the fathers of the city as a death house for corpses dragged from the Thames: a primitive chapel where the bodies of the drowned could be laid out for inspection and either collected by grieving relatives or, if not, buried at very little cost to the Corporation in one of the poor man’s plots in the City cemeteries.

The main door of this macabre chapel fronted the quayside, all about it clustered the wattle-and-daub cottages of those who served there under the careful guidance of the Fisher of Men. Above the wooden porch was a roughly carved tympanum showing the dead rising from choppy waves to be greeted by the Angels of God or the Demons of Hell. Beneath it were scrawled the words ‘And the sea shall give up its dead’. On the right side of the door, near the net slung on a hook which the Fisher of Men’s company used to bring in bodies, were inscribed the words ‘The Deep shall be harvested’. On the left side of the door a garish notice proclaimed the prices for recovering a corpse: ‘The mad and insane, 6d.; Suicides, 10d.; Accidents, 8d.; Those Fleeing from the Law, 14d.; Animals, 2d.; Goods to the value of 5 pounds, 10 shillings; Goods over the value of 5 pounds, one-third of their market value.’

‘It’s good to see you, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’

The Fisher of Men never seemed to age. He always looked the same, with his cadaverous face, his bald head protected from the cold by a shroud-like cowl made out of leather, and lined with costly ermine. Athelstan could never discover the true antecedents of this enigmatic individual. Stories abounded of how he had once been a soldier, but others claimed he a scholar who had contracted leprosy, been cured and so dedicated his life to harvesting the river. He was definitely cultured and educated, with more than a passing knowledge of scripture, as well as being able to talk in both Norman French and Latin. Beside the Fisher of Men stood his chief swimmer, the young man known as Icthus the Fish. He certainly looked like one, with his pointed face, protuberant eyes and mouth; he was bald as an egg and totally devoid of eyebrows, his long bony body hidden beneath a simple but costly woollen tunic, good leather sandals on his long feet. Nearby, sitting on a bench, were the rest of what the Londoners called the Grotesques, all shrouded in robes to hide their disabilities.

‘May we go in?’ Athelstan asked. The Fisher of Men always demanded that courtesy and etiquette be observed.

‘Well,’ the Fisher of Men smiled, blood-filled lips parted to show perfect teeth, ‘Brother, you may claim what you wish from our chapel. Sir John, there is no fee for you. However, now you are here, Brother, would you first shrive us, hear our confessions?’

Athelstan looked at him in surprise, whilst Sir John stamped his foot in annoyance.

‘While you wait, my Lord Coroner,’ the Fisher of Men added tactfully, ‘perhaps you would like to savour a generous cup of Bordeaux from a new cask, a personal gift from a vintner. .’

Cranston was immediately converted. He sat on a bench outside, cradling a deep-bowled cup, whilst Athelstan, a little bemused, agreed to the request. He was escorted like a prince to the Fisher of Men’s chancery, a small, opulently furnished chamber built at the rear of the barque. The friar sat on a throne-like chair whilst the Fisher of Men and his company trooped in one after the other to confess their sins and be absolved. Athelstan’s exasperation gave way to compassion as he listened to these men, outcasts of society, with their disfigured faces. He was touched by their striking humility as they listed sins such as drunkenness, frequenting Mother Harrowtooth’s house on the bridge, cursing and swearing, not attending Sunday Mass. He tried to reassure each one, asking what good they had done, before imposing a small penance of one Paternoster and three Ave Marias.

After an hour, he was finished, and with Cranston standing next to him, still sipping at the claret, Athelstan led the assembled company in prayer. Standing on that shabby quayside, he intoned the lovely hymn to the Virgin Mary, ‘Ave Maris Stella’ — ‘Hail Star of the Sea’ — accompanied by Icthus on pipe and drum. Once this was done, the Fisher of Men and Icthus escorted Cranston and Athelstan into the Sanctuary of Souls, a long chamber with a makeshift altar at the far end under a stark Crucifix fashioned out of wood from a royal boat, so the Fisher of Men informed Cranston, which had sunk in the Thames, drowning a party of revelling courtiers. On wooden planks before the altar was a line of corpses laid out on trestle boards, each covered a death cloth, a pot of incense glowing beside it to drive off the dreadful stench of the river in which all these corpses, at varying degrees of putrefaction, had been found.

‘We try to keep things neat and wholesome,’ the Fisher of Men informed Athelstan. ‘Death may be stinking, but life is fragrant.’

The Fisher of Men led them down the line of the dead, describing the various corpses. ‘This was a maid who committed suicide near Queenhithe. Oh, and this one,’ he pointed to one bundle where a clawed hand hung from beneath its cover, ‘this is Sigbert, who thought he was a swan and tried to fly from the bridge. But this,’ he added triumphantly, ‘is what you are looking for.’ He pulled back the cover to expose the Judas Man, naked except for a cloth over his groin, still drenched in river water and covered in green slime. Despite the liverish skin, the changes brought by death and the river, Athelstan immediately recognised the hunter of men. He lay, eyes half closed as if asleep, lower lip jutting out, the pallid white flesh slightly swollen.

‘That’s caused by the river,’ Icthus explained in his high-pitched voice. ‘The body always swells.’

Athelstan was more concerned by the dreadful black-red wound high in the man’s chest, and the feathered crossbow bolt embedded deep.

‘Do you want me to remove that?’ the Fisher of Men said.

‘No, no.’ Athelstan lifted a hand.

For a while, his companions remained silent as he quickly performed the rites for the dead.

‘He was a soldier,’ Cranston observed. ‘You can tell that from the wounds on his body — look at the cuts.’

‘A fighting man,’ Icthus agreed. ‘The muscles on his arms and shoulders are strong.’

‘If he was a fighting man,’ Cranston declared, ‘how was he killed like that? Whoever held that crossbow must have been very close. Where did you find him?’

‘Beneath London Bridge,’ Icthus replied. ‘We were out this morning looking for Sigbert. I saw him, floating near the starlings, the wooden supports. A great deal of rubbish is dumped there, the reeds cluster thick and rich. He was trapped by it, floating face down, pushed up by the reeds underneath, as well as the refuse.’

‘If he was there,’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, ‘where was he thrown into the river?’

‘He was found just under the bridge,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘almost beneath the chapel of St Thomas, so I would guess he was thrown directly over.’

‘But,’ Athelstan gestured at the corpse, ‘he’s stark naked. Even at night the bridge is busy. How does a fighting man allow an enemy to get so close and release that deadly crossbow? If he was killed on the bridge and fell over, then he would still be in his clothes, sword belt on. I find it hard to imagine someone meeting the Judas Man in the centre of London Bridge, killing him with a crossbow, stripping his corpse and throwing it over, without being observed. Are you sure he wasn’t killed elsewhere on the river?’

‘Brother, you know religion,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘and I know the Thames. I can’t give you all the answers, but this man was thrown over London Bridge and his corpse trapped in the reeds below.’

Athelstan examined the corpse but could find no other wound, no blow to the head or stab wound to the back. He crossed himself and walked out of the barque, plucking at the Fisher of Men’s sleeve.

‘Tell me now,’ he said, ‘another matter. How many years have you worked here?’

‘I know what you are asking.’ The Fisher of Men shaded his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun. ‘It’s my business to know everything which goes on along the river. The robbery of the Lombard treasure? I was here then. I and my company.’ He made a face. ‘Though it was different then. Icthus was yet to be born, but his father was just as good. Well, we were paid to comb this river for the treasure. I swear the only thing we found was that barge, many miles downstream, trapped in the reeds where it is very marshy, few people go there.’

‘So do you think the attack took place at the Oyster Wharf?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, I don’t. I never did. Quaysides are busy places.’

‘So why do you think you were told to look there?’

‘I don’t know. Our orders were to comb both sides of the river as far down as Westminster. Apart from that barge there was nothing else.’

‘And the barge?’ Cranston asked.

‘Empty, nothing but a floating piece of wood.’

‘Tell me,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you know the Thames. If you had to wait at night to take possession of a treasure chest, without others knowing or being seen?’

The Fisher of Men pointed south-east across the river.

‘Somewhere between Southwark and Westminster, where the banks are flat and firm, and you can see both the river and the land behind you.’

‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan asked, ‘for four men to be killed and their bodies to be-’

‘Hidden? Weighted down?’ the Fisher of Men asked. ‘I doubt it. Perhaps one corpse, but four? I know the story, Brother. If those four men were attacked at the dead of night, their assailants would be moving quickly, clumsily. You can tie rocks to a corpse, weigh down its clothes, but time and the river will take care of that. I’ve always said this, and I’ll say it again: if those men were killed by the riverside, their corpses were taken elsewhere.’

‘Buried along the banks?’ Cranston asked.

‘But that would take time,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘You’re not talking of a shallow grave, but a burial pit. I know enough about the river. Earth and soil are shifted; eventually their bodies would be uncovered.’

The Fisher of Men clasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘If you ever wish to become our chaplain, Brother, you are most welcome. You are correct. If those men were killed, their corpses must have been taken away. Is there anything more I can do to help?’

Athelstan shook his head, clasped the man’s hand and made their farewells to Icthus and the rest of the company.

‘Where to now?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan walked up an alleyway leading from the quayside.

‘Why, Sir John, the bridge.’

Athelstan kept to the alleyways as he and Cranston discussed what they had seen and heard at the Barque of St Peter. The coroner was full of observations. Athelstan, half distracted, kept thinking about what the Fisher of Men had said. How could four strong men be attacked at the dead of night, so swiftly, so deadly, their corpses removed, as well as the treasure?

He was still thinking about this when they reached the bridge and walked along its thoroughfare, stopping every so often to examine the gaps between the houses and shops built on either side. Some of these places were nothing more than short, thin alleyways leading down to the high rails overlooking the gushing water. Athelstan went into the Chapel of St Thomas, but quickly realised no one could bring a corpse in there. He went out, further down, until they came to the great refuse mound, piled high between two wooden slats with a third behind; this served as a drawbridge. Cranston explained how, when the cords were released, the slat would fall, and the be tipped into the river. The front of the lay stall was a high wooden board. Two young boys, pushing a wheelbarrow, loosened the pegs, pulled the board down and, wheeling their barrow in, tipped the rubbish out. The area around the lay stall was free of any encumbrance and the passers-by hurried along, clutching their noses, pulling cloaks up or using pomanders against the awful stench. The rubbish was a dark slimy mass: broken pots, scraps of clothing, the refuse of citizens, piled high to be fought over by rats, cats, and the gulls which wheeled screaming above them, angry at being disturbed from their feasting.

‘Must we stay here, Brother?’

‘That’s where the Judas Man was tossed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I’m sure of that. Buried deep in the rubbish. When that trap door was lowered, his corpse fell, into the river. Sir John, I’ve seen enough.’

They hurried across the bridge. Athelstan agreed with Sir John to stop at a small ale house to wash, as the coroner put it, the dirt and smell from their noses and mouths. Cranston persisted in questioning Athelstan about the lay stall on London Bridge, but the friar sat on a stool as if fascinated by the chickens pecking in the dust just outside the ale-house door. He seemed particularly interested in the carts which passed, and although Sir John asked him questions, Athelstan replied absent-mindedly; he even began to hum the ‘Ave Maris Stella’ under his breath.

‘I think the Archangel Gabriel is outside the door, don’t you?’

‘I think you’re right, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied dreamily.

‘Brother, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’

‘I would like to go to the Night in Jerusalem.’

Athelstan put his tankard down and, like a sleepwalker, left the inn, leaving Cranston to drain his blackjack.

They made their way through the streets and into the tavern yard. Athelstan looked into the hay barn, then visited the stables, asking the ostlers which was the Judas Man’s horse. He patted this distractedly on the flanks and left, walking across the yard, stopping now and again, trying to memorise every detail before following Sir John into the tavern. Being mid-afternoon, the tap room was busy with all the traders and pedlars chewing on roasted pork from tranchers at the communal table and warming their fingers over the chafing dishes. There was no sign of the knights or Brother Malachi. Master Rolles came bustling up.

‘You’ve a visitor!’ He pointed to the far corner.

‘Oh yes.’

Athelstan went across and stared down at Ranulf the rat-catcher, the ferrets scratching in the box by his feet.

‘Ranulf?’

‘Brother, I have come as a messenger from the parish council.’

‘What’s the matter?’ Cranston asked, coming up behind.

‘Hush now,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Ranulf,’ he warned, ‘I’m busy. I’ll take no nonsense.’

‘Oh no, peace has been made.’

‘Deo gratias.’

‘Oh no, Brother, not that!’ Ranulf had misunderstood the Latin. ‘We all put it to the vote,’ he smiled triumphantly, ‘on one condition: that everybody agreed to abide by the majority decision. Cecily the courtesan will be the Virgin Mary.’

‘Good.’ Athelstan sat down on the stool opposite. ‘Can I buy you a pot of ale?’

‘No, no.’ Ranulf seized his precious box and kissed the small bars through which the ferrets pushed their pink snouts. ‘We’re all going to celebrate at the Piebald tavern. Oh, Brother, by the way,’ Ranulf sat down again, ‘Benedicta decided to clean the church. She found this.’ Ranulf undid his leather jerkin, took out a piece of rolled cloth, put it on the table and left, eager to join the celebrations at the Piebald tavern. Cranston took his seat whilst Athelstan unrolled the cloth. He stared down at the thin, wicked-looking dagger.

‘One of those used against Malachi.’ Athelstan quickly put it into his leather writing satchel.

‘I’ve seen that before.’ Cranston leaned across the table. ‘It belonged to the Judas Man.’

Athelstan was about to reply when the tap room fell strangely silent. He glanced across; mailed men-at-arms wearing the royal livery thronged in the doorway behind a dark cowled figure.

‘Sir John Cranston, Brother Athelstan?’

The cowled figure came forward. Master Rolles pointed to the corner and Matthias of Evesham strolled across, a beaming smile on his face.

‘Well, Sir Jack,’ he gave a mocking bow, ‘Brother Athelstan. As Scripture says, you have appealed to Caesar, and to Caesar you will go. His Grace, the Regent, awaits you at his Palace of the Savoy.’