The House of Shadows

Chapter 7

They found the Night in Jerusalem eerily quiet. Rolles had kept the door shut, refusing to allow customers inside the stable yard. Ostlers and grooms lounged about, whispering amongst themselves. The passageways and tap room lay silent. Sir Maurice Clinton and the rest were already waiting in the solar. Cranston and Athelstan greeted them and were halfway up the stairs when they met Rolles.

‘You are too late, sir.’ Rolles pointed back at the chamber. ‘Broomhill’s dead. Stapleton the physician has just left — there was nothing we could do.’

The taverner looked strangely agitated. Athelstan regarded him as a man with a soul as hard as flint, which not even the most dire of circumstances could weaken; now his fleshy face was pale and unshaven, eyes red-rimmed.

‘I am not a well man, Brother.’ The taverner gestured at his clothes, which were soaked in blood. ‘I am losing custom. I do not want these knights here ever again.’

He paused as Brother Malachi came up the stairs, a stole round his neck, in his right hand a phial of holy oils, in his left a beeswax candle.

‘I must anoint him,’ murmured the Benedictine.

They let him by. Rolles continued on his way down; Athelstan and Cranston went up on to the gallery and waited outside the Morte D’Arthur Chamber.

‘You may come in.’

Brother Malachi was standing by the bed, the candle snuffed, the holy oil replaced in its small leather bag.

Cranston whistled as he looked round. ‘It’s like a battlefield!’

The bed drapes, linen, coverlets and rugs were drenched in blood. Bandages, linen pads, as well as the poultices Stapleton had used to try and staunch the bleeding lay everywhere. The corpse, its skin as white as a leper’s, sprawled on the bed, naked from the waist down. Athelstan went across whilst Cranston, grasping his miraculous wine skin, turned away in disgust. Broomhill’s right leg was shattered midway between knee and heel. The wound exposed raw flesh, muscle and vein, and, peering down, Athelstan could see even the bone beneath was gashed. The smell was offensive; infection had already set in.

‘He must have been in agony,’ Athelstan remarked, staring at the dead man’s face, contorted by his last convulsions.

‘Stapleton gave him an opiate,’ Malachi replied.

‘There was nothing we could do.’ Rolles stood in the doorway like a prophet of doom. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Did he say anything before he died?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He babbled about the past.’ Rolles came into the chamber. ‘He talked of a great river beast which could swoop up and gulp a man’s body. He was feverish, he didn’t know what he was saying.’

‘What was he doing in the cellar?’

‘He went down in the evening. I found a jug nearby; perhaps he was going to fill it from one of the vats?’

‘Aren’t there servants, scullions, tap boys?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Of course,’ Rolles snapped, ‘but sometimes the galleries are deserted, and I do not object to favoured customers helping themselves. The knights always pay well.’

‘Pay well.’ Athelstan echoed the words. ‘Brother Malachi, what is the source of these knights’ wealth?’

‘Estates, some of the most fertile land in Kent, flocks of sheep, fishing rights. You could fill a charter with the sources of their profit.’

‘But once they were poor.’

‘Poor men become rich when their fathers die. Moreover, the knights brought plunder back from Egypt. They stormed palaces and treasures. Sir Maurice Clinton seized a box of mother-of-pearl, exquisite in their beauty, called the Pearls of Sheba; supposedly they once belonged to the great Solomon’s lover.’

‘And what happened to these?’

‘On our way home, the fleet docked in Genoa. The Genoese were only too pleased to buy whatever treasure the Crusaders had seized.’

‘Did you receive a portion of this wealth?’

‘No,’ Malachi smiled, ‘but my order did.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s leave here.’ Cranston picked up a coverlet and draped it over the corpse. ‘Master Rolles, I want to see where he was wounded.’

Malachi stayed in the chamber whilst Rolles took them down to the cellar, Athelstan gingerly following the coroner down the stone steps, where a few candles glowed in wall-niches. At the bottom they paused as Rolles lit lantern horns slung on hooks to reveal a long, low-ceilinged cavern with vats and barrels stacked down either side. In the corner, to Athelstan’s right, were garden implements: mattocks, hoes and spades.

‘I did my best to clean the blood,’ Rolles muttered, and gestured at the great oval-shaped mantrap now resting against the wall. He pulled this out and prised apart the teeth.

‘A simple contraption,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘yet so deadly.’

The trap opened up and was kept apart by a spring. When Rolles touched this with a stick, the teeth came together with such a clash Athelstan jumped.

‘I need this,’ Rolles explained, sensing Athelstan’s horror. ‘Brother, ask Sir John, anyone! I have carp ponds, stables and outhouses which must be protected. A gang of rifflers can take your livestock in a night. Just knowing the traps are here will keep them away.’

‘You need a licence,’ the coroner snapped.

‘I have that. I know the law, Sir John, I can only use this when I can prove I am in danger of being robbed.’

‘More importantly,’ Athelstan crouched down, ‘why was it left open down here last night? And why did Sir Laurence come down here?’

He picked up the metal jug.

‘Was this from his chamber?’

‘I don’t know.’

Athelstan stared down the narrow passageway of this gloomy cellar, trying to imagine what had happened. Undoubtedly the Knights of the Golden Falcon would have been upset by Chandler’s death, as well as their own forced confessions about consorting with prostitutes. They might have drunk deeply. Sir Laurence, eager for more wine, took a jug from his own chamber or the kitchen and came down here.

‘This cellar is always in darkness, isn’t it?’

‘Of course,’ the taverner replied. ‘Candles are lit only when necessary.’

‘What if Sir Laurence came down here expecting to see somebody. He didn’t know this place. What do you do, Sir John, when you walk downstairs in the dark, particularly if you have been drinking?’

‘Take great care; those small candles in the wall-niches provide scanty light.’

‘And we don’t know,’ Athelstan mused, ‘if Sir Laurence was carrying a lantern.’

He closed his eyes, trying to recall how he came down the steps of the bell tower at his church. He hated that spiral staircase; he was never too sure when he reached the bottom. Wouldn’t Sir Laurence have felt the same? Athelstan got to his feet. The area around the steps stank of the brine and vinegar Rolles had used to clear up the blood; here and there splashes still stained the wall and the ground at the foot of the steps.

‘Sir Laurence must have been distracted.’

Athelstan pulled the mantrap over, placing it closed at the bottom of the steps. He then walked down between the vats and barrels to the far wall. The brickwork here was uneven and Athelstan noticed, just above his own gaze, a rather large gap.

‘Sister Wax,’ he murmured, recalling his discovery at the squint hole at the church earlier that day. ‘Sister Wax, you’ve helped me again!’

The wax on the brickwork was soft and clean, freshly formed.

‘Master Rolles, come here.’ The taverner came down to join him. ‘Did you place a candle here?’

The taverner brushed the wax with his fingers.

‘No, no, I didn’t. By the amount of wax, a candle must have been burning here for some time.’

Athelstan asked Rolles to bring a tallow candle down. The taverner took one from the box beneath the staircase, lit it and placed it in the niche. The cellar lanterns were doused. Athelstan went back up the steps, ignoring Cranston’s moans about the darkness, then turned and came slowly down again. Even though he was aware of the small lights in the wall-niches, he was still attracted by that solitary candle burning at the far end of the cellar. He reached the bottom step.

‘Sir Laurence was murdered.’ His voice echoed sombrely through the darkness. ‘Master Rolles, please light the lanterns. Sir John, if you would. .’

They left the cellar and walked out into the stable yard, well away from any eavesdropper.

‘I’m sure Sir Laurence was murdered,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘That’s how it was done. Somebody, somehow primed that trap and invited him down to the cellar. I wonder what the lure was? Perhaps a revelation about the mysteries now besetting us, or something else?’

‘It was dangerous,’ Cranston declared. ‘Somebody else could have been killed.’

‘I don’t think the assassin cared. The real question is, who is it? The taverner? Any of those knights? And the Judas Man and Mother Veritable seem to be able to come and go as they wish.’

Athelstan stared across at the hay barn.

‘Do we have one assassin, Sir John,’ he asked, ‘or two? Even more? Think of these mysteries as lines. We have the Misericord’s strange doings; we have that infamous robbery twenty years ago; we have the death of those two young women; now we have the murder of two knights. It’s a question of logic, Sir John. Do the lines run quite separate and parallel, or do they meet, tangled up with each other?’

He was about to continue when the Judas Man came swaggering through the gate, his face bright with pleasure.

‘I’ve found him!’ He clapped his leather-clad hands. ‘Brother Athelstan, I apologise for my earlier rudeness, but the Misericord’s been caught.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Just near Bishopsgate. I had men on the road leading out. They’ve sent a message; the Misericord is safely in Newgate and I shall visit him there.’ Chuckling with glee, the Judas Man tapped Athelstan on the shoulder and entered the tavern.

‘He’ll find little comfort there,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Brother, where are you going?’ Athelstan was already striding towards the gate.

‘Why, Sir John, to Newgate. I want to question the Misericord before the Judas Man pays him a visit.’

This time Cranston found it difficult to keep up with Athelstan’s pace as they threaded through the needle-thin alleyways down to the quayside. They were delayed for a short while, as bailiffs with staves and clubs were trying to break up a small but very noisy crowd shouting, ‘Shovels and spades!’ the usual cry which went up along the riverside whenever any private individual tried to take over a stretch of the Thames.

‘It’s happening along both banks of the river!’ Cranston exclaimed as they climbed into Moleskin’s barge.

‘That’s right, Sir John,’ Moleskin agreed. ‘If the rich have their way they will buy up every plot of land along the Thames. I won’t be able to moor my barge without paying a tax, whilst you, Sir John, won’t be able to water your horse.’

‘And the women of the parish,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘won’t have anywhere to wash their clothes. Water is a gift, Sir John; as the Gospel says, the Good Lord lets his rain fall on the just and the unjust.’

‘But the unjust gets more,’ Sir John quipped, ‘because he owns a bigger barrel.’

‘And has stolen the just man’s,’ Moleskin added, pulling back the oars and taking the boat out across the choppy tide.

While Cranston and Moleskin badgered and teased each other, Athelstan stared moodily across the river. A bank of mist still hovered mid-stream. Athelstan quietly prayed that Moleskin would have his wits about him, as well as a sharp eye for the various wherries, fishing boats and barges of every description going up and down the Thames. To his right he could make out the lines of London Bridge, including the poles bearing the severed heads of traitors. He wondered how Master Burdon, the Keeper of the Bridge, was doing. Burdon was a mannikin, very proud of the trust shown to him, an engaging little man if it wasn’t for his rather macabre habit of combing the hair of the severed heads.

Athelstan, reflecting on the tumult behind him, wondered how the likes of Burdon, Moleskin, Pike the ditcher, Ranulf and the rest would cope when the great revolt occurred. He had listened most attentively to Sir John, he had witnessed first hand the soul-wrenching poverty of London’s poor, aware of the stories flooding in from the countryside of how the peasants seethed at the taxes, levies and tolls imposed upon them. Would the revolt reach Southwark? Would his own parishioners join in? Would they achieve anything, or would it all end in murderous street fighting, and mass executions in Smithfield and elsewhere? He heard Moleskin mention the death of the two whores on the night of the Great Ratting, eager to find out if Cranston knew all the gory details. Was their journey across the Thames connected with this? Cranston replied evasively while Athelstan thought about the Misericord being trapped outside Bishopsgate.

‘Have you taken anyone suspicious across?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I am suspicious about all my passengers, Father.’ Moleskin nodded at Cranston.

‘You’ve heard how the Misericord escaped?’

Moleskin shook his head, but his eyes betrayed him.

‘If you were fleeing London?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I certainly wouldn’t use the bridge or a barge,’ Moleskin replied, ‘but go south through the countryside.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Athelstan pointed at the approaching bank. ‘So he must have been going to meet someone, and I know who.’

Once they had landed at Queenhithe, Athelstan reminded Cranston about his previous night’s visitor.

‘So he was going to meet his sister?’ Cranston asked.

‘I think so. One last visit, perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He made a mistake; the Judas Man knew more about the Misericord than his victim realised.’

They walked up into Thames Street, making their way through the busy crowds. The thoroughfares and lanes were much broader here than in Southwark, the people better dressed in their fur-edged coats, mantles and ermine-lined hoods, the markets more prosperous, the stalls piled high. From the prices being bawled Athelstan understood how steeply the cost of everything had risen, be it cloths and leather goods from abroad, or vegetables from the garden estates outside the City. They passed the towering mass of St Paul’s, up Dyer Lane and into the shambles, where the fleshers and butchers had their stalls. The broad cobble-lined lane had turned slippery with the offal and blood strewn about. Packs of dogs vied with beggars and the poor in snapping up these morsels. The air was rich with the odour of raw flesh; even the butchers and apprentices were drenched in blood, their stalls slippery with the juices dripping off. For the price of a penny, the poor were allowed to place pots and pans underneath to collect these drippings. Cranston was well known here; he was greeted noisily by the bailiffs and beadles as well as the officials who guarded the chain in front of Newgate, its forecourt stretching up to the prison’s iron-barred black gates.

Athelstan always hated the place; it was a veritable pit of misery. Outside the gate, prisoners thronged, manacled together, sent out to collect alms by their gaolers for both themselves and other inmates. Relatives of those held in the pits and dungeons fought to bribe guards and turnkeys with messages and gifts for their beloved ones within. A woman shrieked that she had children to feed but how could she do so whilst her husband was in chains? Athelstan pressed a coin into her hand; only when they had passed through the gate and into the prison yard beyond did Cranston, with some exasperation, explain how the woman was a mummer who often preyed on passers-by. The prison yard itself was also noisy. Lines of prisoners, shivering in their rags and unshod feet, waited to be taken down to the cells, whilst a tired-looking bear sat chained in a corner. One of the gaolers explained how its keeper had become drunk and attacked a spectator.

‘It seems a pity to punish the bear,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘it looks so tired and old.’

The gaoler followed his gaze, scratching the stubble on his cheek.

‘What do you suggest, Brother, a blessing?’

‘No.’ Athelstan pressed a coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure it’s fed and watered and looks a little happier before we leave.’

The gaoler agreed, then escorted them into the foul-smelling prison. They walked along narrow, badly lit passageways, down mildewed steps, into what the gaoler called the Netherworld, a narrow, sombre passageway with dungeons on either side. They were introduced to its keeper, a burly, thickset man with a leather apron around his waist. He recognised Sir John and swiftly handed back the coroner’s seal of office which Cranston always carried to identify himself.

‘The Misericord is along here.’ He gestured with a sturdy finger. ‘The Judas Man paid me well to keep him secure.’

He led them along the corridor. Occasionally Athelstan heard a groan, a scream, or raucous abuse hurled at them through the small grilles at the top of each door; occasionally he glimpsed mad, gleaming eyes staring out at them. The Misericord’s cell was at the end, built into what used to be the foundations of the ancient Roman wall, one of the most secure cells in the prison, the keeper explained, inserting a key and scraping back the rusting bolts. The dungeon inside was small, with no window or gap for air or light. It reeked like a latrine and the rushes on the floor had turned to a muddy slime. The Misericord, sitting in a corner, sprang to his feet. The keeper beckoned Athelstan in and handed him the small tallow candle he was carrying.

‘Brother, I thought. .’

‘You thought I was the Judas Man.’

The Misericord agreed and slunk back into the corner, gazing fearfully at Sir John.

‘Let’s make your guests as comfortable as possible.’

The keeper took the candle from Athelstan and placed it on a rusty iron spigot jutting out of the wall. He brought in two stools for Cranston and Athelstan, then closed the door, but not before explaining that he would keep it unlocked; if they needed help, he would be just outside.

‘Why have you come?’ the Misericord asked. ‘Did my escape embarrass you?’

‘I know how you escaped.’ Athelstan sat down. ‘Time is short, the Judas Man will be here soon.’

‘He can’t hurt me, he dare not.’

‘He won’t hurt you,’ Cranston explained. ‘He simply wants to see you hang.’

‘I’ll quote the Neck Verse.’

‘Ah!’ Athelstan replied. ‘The first lines of Psalm 50. You’ll claim Benefit of Clergy and demand to be handed over to the Church courts. The Judas Man will still hunt you down. So tell me,’ Athelstan leaned forward, ‘why is he hunting you so ruthlessly? Who hired him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re lying. You may be a felon, but London is full of Misericords.’

Athelstan noticed how the prisoner’s face was bruised above his right cheek, whilst his jerkin was torn and rent.

‘You were manhandled, weren’t you?’

‘The bailiffs certainly weren’t Franciscans.’ The Misericord smiled. ‘But why are you here?’

‘I could offer you a pardon.’ Athelstan gently nudged Cranston’s boot. ‘The Regent could give you an amnesty for all crimes committed, on condition you leave London, and tell me everything you know.’

The change in the Misericord was remarkable. He stared open-mouthed at the coroner, who sat pinching his nostrils against the foul smell.

‘You can really do that?’

‘Of course. The Lord Coroner here will personally arrange it, full pardon and clemency. You’ll be given a letter to show to all sheriffs, port reeves, bailiffs and mayors for safe passage.’

The Misericord put his face in his hands.

‘The truth,’ Cranston demanded. ‘The full truth.’

‘Who hired the Judas Man?’

The Misericord lifted his face. ‘I don’t know, Brother.’ He raised his hands to plead as Cranston snorted in derision. ‘I don’t know. It may have been Mother Veritable, even the Judas Man doesn’t know.’

‘Why should Mother Veritable hire him?’

‘For a number of reasons. As you know, Brother, I sold a potion, a powder, which I claimed could increase a man’s potency between the sheets. Now, I often visited Mother Veritable’s house. I became firm friends with Beatrice and Clarice. No, no, it’s true, I enjoyed their company, they enjoyed mine. They said I wasn’t like the rest. I showed them dignity and treated them as ladies. They would tell me about their customers, their strange lusts and desires. They weren’t supposed to. Mother Veritable keeps a strict house. They told me about the knights, particularly the small fat one who drank poison and died.’

‘Sir Stephen Chandler?’

‘Yes, the same. He visited the girls every time he came to London, not just when the Knights of the Golden Falcon met for their annual feasting. Sir Stephen had great ambition in matters of the bedchamber but not the potency to match it. I persuaded the girls to sell my miraculous powder to their lordly customer. They did, and made a pretty penny.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘Of course not, Brother. The girls laughed, and I made up a poem about Sir Stephen.’

‘I found that,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘amongst their few possessions. Something about a red crown, a cock, losing its power. I’ve seen such songs composed by scholars when they want to mock a master.’

‘Why the red crown?’ Cranston asked. ‘I don’t see the significance.’

‘Chandler had red hair,’ Athelstan replied, ‘whilst Stephen, in Greek, means crown.’

‘And cock,’ the Misericord finished the explanation, ‘was a nickname given to Chandler when he was young. He truly portrayed himself as a lady’s man. Now, I gave my poem to the girls but I also sold copies in certain taverns in Kent. Somehow Sir Stephen discovered that. He complained to Mother Veritable. She beat the girls, took what gold they’d hidden and banned me from her house.’

‘So Sir Stephen, as well as Mother Veritable, had great grievance against you? He too could have hired the Judas Man.’

‘All things are possible, Sir John, especially with that cruel harridan.’

The Misericord fell silent, as if listening to the faint sounds in the rest of the prison, the muted cries and groans, the slamming of doors, the ominous rattling of chains.

Athelstan stared round the cell. In the poor light he saw how the walls were encrusted with dirt and slime. Here and there some prisoner had carved his name or a prayer, other times just a sign, a star, a woman’s breasts or, more commonly, a gallows with a figure hanging from it.

‘Why do you think it was Mother Veritable who hired the Judas Man?’ Cranston asked. ‘Why choose her rather than Sir Stephen?’

‘I had interfered with her girls, mocked a powerful customer.’

‘But there’s something else. It involves your sister, doesn’t it? Last night, in the church, I heard Mother Veritable’s name mentioned.’

‘Brother, your ears are as sharp as your wits. Two years ago I was still friends with Mother Veritable, she allowed me to shelter in her house. She met Edith and was much taken with her. She wanted me to entrust my sister to her.’

‘To become a whore?’ Cranston asked.

‘I’ve heard of worse things happening,’ the Misericord declared bitterly. ‘Walk the streets of your city, Sir John, not every whore is plying for custom because she loves it. I, of course, refused. Mother Veritable offered me gold and silver. What she called pleasures beyond imagination. I still refused. I was banned from her house but, where possible, I would meet Beatrice and Clarice outside.’

‘Did you invite them to the Night in Jerusalem for the Great Ratting?’

‘No, Brother, I did not. It could have been Chandler. Remember, he did approach both girls. I think he was demanding satisfaction.’

‘You said you met the girls?’

‘Where possible, but I used their friend Donata as a messenger. One night, oh, it must have been about two months ago, they came to the Night in Jerusalem. Some customer had hired them and I met them out in the yard. They were both very excited. They claimed that they had some proof about what had happened to their mother and, perhaps, the truth behind the great robbery.’

‘What!’

‘Yes, my Lord Coroner. They didn’t tell me much. I asked them, but they refused. They were giggling, and claimed that if they kept their wits they would possess a great treasure and be able to leave Mother Veritable for ever. Of course, I didn’t believe them.’

‘They must have offered you some proof?’

‘They said my sister had it. She had it on her person. They were talking in riddles. They’d also confided in Donata. Donata said they didn’t know whether to be happy or sad at discovering something which could prove the fate of their mother. I begged Donata to try her best to find out, but Beatrice and Clarice had not forgotten the beating Mother Veritable had given them over Sir Stephen. They kept their own counsel.’

‘Do you think Chandler murdered them?’

‘It’s possible, Brother. On the night of the Great Ratting I was in the tap room. I wanted to be there, not only to lay my wager and collect my generous winnings, but to talk to Beatrice and Clarice. I knew the Judas Man was hunting me, following my tracks as carefully as any hound. I played that trick on poor Toadflax and kept in the shadows. When the fight broke out, Beatrice and Clarice had left the tap room for the hay barn. I was frightened. I knew the Judas Man would soon realise he had made a mistake and cast his net further. So I slipped into the kitchen, where Master Rolles was roaring at some poor cook who had made a mistake. I asked him for help as well as where the girls had gone. He replied that they were in the hay barn, that I should join them there and hide.’

‘Did Master Rolles always offer such help?’

‘Yes, I know him of old. He is very strict. I can only enter his tavern with his permission and only hide when he tells me. You know how it is, Sir John, I have similar arrangements with innkeepers, hostellers and taverners the length and breadth of England.’

‘Did you meet Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘Brother, I was terrified out of my wits. My belly was full of ale and roast pork. I was going to meet them. I glimpsed a chink of light through the hay barn door, but I had to relieve myself. I dared not go to the latrines at the far side of the wall. I was frightened of being trapped there. So I ran outside. I was accosted by other people, who had also been at the Great Ratting. Men who had fled at the approach of the Judas Man, telling me about the fight which had begun in the tap room. Now, on any other night I would have run, put as much distance between myself and that tavern as possible.’

‘But you wanted to meet Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘Sir John, I was determined to. I had been in the hay barn before — it’s a good place to hide. So I returned to the yard. I saw Sir Stephen, drunk as a sot, go staggering through the door. I waited awhile and then followed. I peered through.’

The Misericord’s fingers went to his face.

‘Both girls were dead. One of them may have been moaning a little, Beatrice with a dagger thrust in her. Clarice was certainly dead, a crossbow bolt high in her chest. She seemed to be awash with blood. Sir Stephen was kneeling beside the corpses. I’m sure I glimpsed an arbalest.’

‘Did he kill them?’

‘Brother, he could’ve done. In his drunken state he may have believed he had good cause. I ran back across the yard and hid in the shadows. Sir Stephen came out and closed the doors, replacing the bar.’

‘Replacing the bar?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Brother, I’m sure that, just before I saw him entering the barn, Sir Stephen was holding the bar. He must have taken it off, and despite being drunk, he knew where it lay.’

‘So,’ Athelstan declared, ‘either the girls went into the barn and someone barred the door from the outside, Sir Stephen goes across, removes the bar, enters the barn and kills them; or. .’ Athelstan tapped the writing satchel next to his leg. ‘Or the killer, someone else, followed those girls into the barn, killed them and left, sealing them in. The lantern was still glowing?’

‘Oh yes, Brother, I saw it, fastened to one of the hooks. By then I was truly frightened. I did not want to be accused of their murder, so I fled. I had drunk too much that night, my wits were blunted. The following morning the Judas Man picked up my trail, so I fled to your church for sanctuary.’

‘And you don’t know what the girls had discovered about their mother?’

‘Brother, if I did I would tell you. Of course I wondered what their words meant.’

‘Did you discuss it with Edith?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, Brother. I never told her where the silver and gold I earned came from. Oh, I think she suspected. She did not like Mother Veritable and complained bitterly about how she looked at her. Edith said she would have nothing to do with her, the brothel or anyone who lived there. She would not even have her name mentioned unless it was necessary.’

‘This morning. .’

Cranston took a generous mouthful of claret from the miraculous wine skin; he offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head, and then to the Misericord, who snatched it and drank quickly.

‘You were saying, Sir John, this morning?’

Cranston plucked the wine skin back.

‘This morning, I discovered that, when you were a lad and not yet old enough in mischief to compose poems mocking old men, you served as a tap boy in Master Rolles’ tavern?’

‘Oh yes. He and my father were kinsmen, but distantly related. Even then, Sir John, I had a nose for mischief, and what better place than Master Rolles’ tavern? I would serve as a tap boy, or in the kitchens. I loved to mix with the cunning men, the footpads, the charlatans, the quacks, and listen to their colourful tales of life on the highway, of whom they’d tricked and duped.’

‘So, you knew the Knights of the Golden Falcon before they became Crusaders?’

‘Oh yes, and Guinevere the Golden. Great days, Sir John! Master Rolles had recently purchased the tavern and was determined to make a name for himself. Those knights sheltered there when they were younger, more vigorous.’

‘Do you recall the evening the Lombard treasure was stolen?’

‘Of course, Sir John. The Fleet was preparing to sail. On that particular afternoon Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer were absent. I had seen them leave just before sunset. They wore quilted jerkins, sword belts fastened around their waists, they’d drunk and eaten sparsely. At the time I did not know what was happening. Around the same hour I’m sure I saw Guinevere, then she too disappeared. I never saw her again.’

‘Now listen.’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘You do recall that evening, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten. Over the years you must have refreshed your memory. Yes?’

The Misericord nodded in agreement.

‘And the recent revelations, by Beatrice and Clarice. .’

Athelstan paused at a hideous scream from the passageway outside.

‘You are not to be worried, Brother,’ the Misericord murmured. ‘That’s a prisoner who thinks he is the Holy Spirit — he throws himself against the wall.’

‘My question is this,’ Athelstan continued. ‘It is a most important one. Did you see Mother Veritable, Master Rolles or any, or all, of those knights leave the tavern the night the Lombard treasure was stolen?’

‘No, Brother. Ask Master Rolles. They had hired a private chamber. Mother Veritable entertained them. The revelry went on late into the night. They were much the worse for drink the next morning.’

‘And afterwards?’ Cranston asked.

The Misericord shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘In a matter of days, Sir John, the Fleet had left. The hunt was on for the Lombard treasure. The rest of the story you know. The brave knights went on Crusade, and years later, returned to England. That is all I know! Will I have my pardon?’

‘You’ll be shown clemency,’ Cranston got to his feet, ‘but it will take time.’

‘Will you bring me food and drink?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Athelstan promised. ‘For the moment, you must be patient.’

They left the Netherworld, Athelstan insisting Cranston accompany him to the convent of the Minoresses, which lay on the other side of the City, near Aldgate.

‘I’m hungry,’ the coroner protested.

‘You are always hungry,’ Athelstan remarked. He thanked the keeper as they walked back into the prison yard. ‘Oh, I must see that bear.’

‘Of course, the founder of your order loved animals.’

‘Wrong order, Sir John, that was St Francis, although Dominicanis can be translated as “Hound of God”!’

In which case, Cranston reflected, as he watched Athelstan walk over to inspect the bear, apparently in a better mood judging from the rotten fruit strewn about it, ‘Yes, in which case,’ Cranston murmured to himself, ‘you belong to the right order, Athelstan, God’s hound and mine.’

Athelstan returned, satisfied that the bear was being looked after properly, at least for a while. They left the prison, forcing their way through the press and up past Cock Lane into Smithfield. Athelstan declared he preferred the fresh air beyond the City walls than the stink of Cheapside. Cranston could only agree. The day was still fine but beginning to cloud over, the breeze growing stronger, tugging at the coroner’s hat. They took the road which snaked between the great carved mass of the Priory of St Bartholomew and the high red-brick wall of the hospital of the same name. Here the beggars and the infirm swarmed around the gates soliciting alms, or waiting impatiently to be seen by one of the good brothers. A few of these, rogues from the City, greeted Cranston’s appearance in raucous fashion. The coroner replied with good-natured abuse whilst quietly wishing Athelstan wouldn’t walk so fast. He tried to draw the Dominican into conversation, but Athelstan, cowl over his head, was more concerned about the heavy black smoke rolling in from the great City ditch, where the scavengers, masked and hooded like imps from hell against the fiery background, were busy burning the mounds of refuse. They turned the corner, passing Ramsey Inn, Cripplegate and on to the Moor. Athelstan paused, pushing back his cowl to savour the fresh breeze and watch the birds, great black-winged ravens, circle noisily above him.

‘Well, Athelstan, what do you make of all that? Do you think the Misericord is telling the truth?’

‘As much as he can, Sir John. He does deserve a pardon. I only hope the Judas Man does not take the law into his own hands. I’ve met his sort before; every grudge and grievance is personal, a source of animosity. He hates the Misericord, but whether it’s because the rogue showed him a clean pair of heels, or for some other matter, I can’t decide.’

‘And Chandler murdered those two girls?’

‘Did he, Sir John? One thing that intrigues me is the bar across the door to the hay barn. Whoever killed Beatrice and Clarice — why should they worry about locking the door? An assassin would flee. One thing is certain,’ he continued, ‘the Misericord may be a fugitive, a nimble-footed rogue but he would scarcely stand aside whilst two of his friends were murdered. As for their murderer? I don’t know.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Mother Veritable is certainly a nightmare soul. She is wicked enough to have those girls killed as well as hunt down the Misericord.’

‘And the murders of Sir Stephen and Sir Laurence?’ Cranston asked.

‘Ah now, that is a mystery!’

‘Could the knights be responsible for all the deaths?’ The coroner tugged at Athelstan’s sleeve. ‘Could they have killed Culpepper and Mortimer, murdered Guinevere the Golden, stolen the Lombard treasure and hidden it away until their return?’

‘Sir John, continue.’

‘They arrive back in England, laden with plunder which only increases their ill-gotten gains. They become landowners, lords of the shire. Every year they meet in London to celebrate their success. Recently they discover that not only is one of their number being tricked by the Misericord and mocked by two whores, but those two prostitutes have also stumbled on what happened twenty years ago.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked, turning his face against the breeze.

‘Well, they hire the Judas Man to track down the Misericord. They want to see him dance in the air at Smithfield. They persuade Chandler to hire those two girls, to wait in the hay barn on the night of the Great Ratting, where later he kills them. Or perhaps Sir Laurence Broomhill went out before him to commit the murderous deed?’

Athelstan changed his writing satchel from one hand to the other, carefully watching the path before him. The Moor was peppered with rabbit holes, a constant trap for the unwary.

‘Sir John, I accept there’s a certain logic behind what you say, but it’s a dangerous path to follow. According to your theory, the knights are all thieves and murderers, vulnerable to betrayal. However, it doesn’t explain how Sir Stephen was murdered, his wine so cunningly poisoned, or how Sir Laurence was enticed down to that cellar and into the hideous trap awaiting him. There are further problems. The Misericord has just informed us that the evening the Lombard treasure was robbed, all the knights, along with Master Rolles and Mother Veritable, were carousing in a chamber at the tavern, much the worse for drink. How did the murderers dispose of four bodies: Culpepper, Mortimer and the bargemen; five if we include Guinevere? Moreover, Culpepper and Mortimer were knights; they would not be easy victims.

‘Next we come to the Lombard treasure. It disappeared without trace. If Sir Maurice and the rest stole it, surely they’d try and sell it? And yet.’ Athelstan paused so abruptly Cranston bumped into him. ‘I’m sorry, Sir John. There was undoubtedly mischief planned that night, some subtle plot. Remember what Mother Veritable told us, how Guinevere had hinted and boasted that one day she would escape her life of drudgery? I wonder what did happen to her? Is it possible Culpepper and Mortimer are still alive, lurking somewhere in the City, hiding behind different names? Then there’s the business of the Regent. Why is he so interested in our investigation? Could the Judas Man be involved? Where was he twenty years ago? Is there any connection,’ while Athelstan chattered on, Cranston stopped to drink from the miraculous wine skin, ‘between a man who has no proper name and the conspiracy to steal the Lombard treasure?’

Athelstan paused whilst Cranston thrust back the stopper to his miraculous wine skin.

‘I’m certainly going to ask him the next time we meet,’ Cranston grumbled.

‘There’s one further problem, Sir John. If those knights stole that treasure but didn’t try and sell it, where did they hide it whilst they were in Outremer? They could hardly conceal it on a war cog or some military camp!’

Athelstan returned to his reflections as they passed St Mary of Bethlehem and continued down Portsoken, to the limestone buildings of the Minoresses. A porter let them through a postern gate and took them across neatly laid-out gardens and herbers into the guesthouse, a long, whitewashed chamber, starkly empty except for a table, a high-backed bench, two chairs and a stool. At the far end was the Franciscan cross of San Damiano, with its richly coloured texture and finely etched images, each of which told a story. Whilst they waited, Athelstan described it to Cranston, explaining how it was the cross St Francis had prayed before when he received his mission to rebuild Christ’s Church.

‘Brother Athelstan?’

Athelstan turned. Edith, accompanied by Sister Catherine, stood in the doorway.

‘Is everything well?’ She hastened towards him. ‘Is my brother safe?’

‘No, he is not.’ Brother Athelstan grasped her hands, moved by the stricken look on the young woman’s face.

‘Is he taken?’ she gasped.

She had gone so pale Athelstan thought she was about to faint and guided her gently towards a chair. He introduced Sir John and pulled up a stool to sit opposite her.

‘Your brother has been captured and taken to Newgate. There is hope for him yet. He has told us certain things which may well earn him a pardon.’

Edith put her face in her hands as Sister Catherine hastened across the room, patting her gently on her head, murmuring how all would be well and that she would pray for it to be so.

‘What you did last night,’ Athelstan declared, ‘was foolish.’ He gestured to Sir John to sit in the other chair. ‘You helped your brother to escape, didn’t you? A change of clothing, money, even a weapon. He was captured trying to come here. I am sorry to bring you the ill news, but-’

‘I had to help him,’ Edith interrupted, glaring at Athelstan. ‘You don’t understand, Brother Athelstan, how much I hate that old bitch, that evil harridan.’ She ignored Sister Catherine’s glare of disapproval. ‘If my brother had stayed in your church she would have had him murdered. She hates him for refusing to hand me over to her and her filthy ways.’

‘Your brother was friendly with two of the girls who worked in Mother Veritable’s house.’ Athelstan grasped Edith’s hands again. ‘You may not know their story, about their mother disappearing so many years ago. They claimed that they stumbled on a secret, a clue to what had happened. When your brother asked them what it was, they replied that it could be found upon your person.’

Edith withdrew her hands, staring in disbelief.

‘My brother once,’ she whispered, ‘came here and asked me a similar question. What of significance did I have upon my person. But,’ she spread her hands out, ‘I wear the brown robe and white wimple of a Franciscan novice, I have a troth ring on my finger,’ she touched the Celtic cross hanging on a chain round her neck, ‘and this is all. What on earth would I have in common with two prostitutes or their long-lost mother?’

‘Is there anything,’ Athelstan persisted, glancing quickly at Sir John, making sure he hadn’t fallen asleep, ‘you can tell us?’

Edith sat for a while, shaking her head. ‘Ever since I came here this is all I have worn. Isn’t that true, Sister Catherine?’

The old nun could offer no help, pointing out that she was dressed the same as Edith: a ring symbolising her union with Christ, the cross around her neck, and the girdle around her middle, one of the ends being tied with three knots symbolising her vows of poverty, obedience and chastity. Sister Catherine left them for a while and returned with a tray bearing a jug of buttermilk, four goblets, and a dish of marzipan. Sir John helped himself to the sweetmeats, but politely refused the buttermilk, claiming his miraculous wine skin was sufficient.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the door and one of the convent maidservants came in, shouting Athelstan’s name. The Dominican followed her outside. He’d heard the sound of horses in the yard but was surprised to find the Keeper of the Netherworld from Newgate Prison, face soaked in sweat, leaning down from his saddle.

‘Brother Athelstan, I had to come. I heard you say to Sir John that you were going to the Minoresses and so, when it happened, I had to tell you myself.’

‘What is it?’ Athelstan asked.

The keeper closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

‘The prisoner, the Misericord, he’s dead! I found him poisoned in his cell.’