Текст книги "House of the Red Slayer"

Автор книги: Paul Doherty

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‘Or Red Hand,’ Cranston observed. ‘The mad man who may not be as insane as he appears.’

Athelstan looked up and smiled. ‘But we have made some progress, Sir John. If Fitzormonde is to be believed, we know the reason for the murders: Burghgesh’s death on that unfortunate ship in the Middle Sea so many years ago. The picture on the parchment is to remind his murderers of their foul act and the sesame seed cake a warning of their impending doom.’

‘And that – ’ Cranston almost shouted, glaring across at the landlord to bring his food for his stomach was growling with hunger ‘– leads us to another mystery. Did Burghgesh really die? Or is he back, hiding in London, even the Tower? Or is there someone else? Perhaps his son or some other friend?’

Cranston leaned back as Joscelyn brought across the steaming platters of food. The landlord served Sir John himself, cutting thick slices of pheasant breast and laying them deftly with his one hand on the pewter platter whilst a maid scurried up with a jug of steaming gravy in which the bird had been cooked. Sir John grinned his thanks, took his own pewter spoon from his wallet, drew his dagger and set to as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Athelstan watched in astonishment: Sir John’s permanent hunger always fascinated him. A slattern brought his own meal, a thickly spiced bowl of soup. Athelstan asked to borrow a pewter spoon and ate slowly.

‘They’ve forgotten the bread,’ Sir John grumbled.

Athelstan called the girl back and small, fresh white loaves, wrapped in a linen cloth, were immediately served. Whilst he ate Athelstan reflected on what they had discussed. He waited a while until Sir John had taken the edge off his appetite.

There is one matter we have overlooked.

‘What’s that?’ Cranston mumbled, his mouth full of food.

‘Horne’s murderer means the assassin knows us or why should he send such a grisly trophy to your house?’

‘Because the bastard’s mad!’

‘No, no, Sir John. It’s meant as a warning. This murderer sees himself as doing God’s work. He is sending a message: Keep well away until my work is done. Don’t interfere.’ Athelstan lowered his spoon. ‘Such a terrible thing,’ he whispered. ‘A man’s genitals hacked off and stuffed into the mouth of his decapitated head. Of course,’ he continued, ‘Fitzormonde mentioned that.’

‘What?’

‘Well, how the Caliph of Egypt would punish in such a way anybody who transgressed his command. The head and genitals hacked off and both exposed above the city gates in Alexandria. It’s obvious. Sir John,’ he continued, ‘our murderer must be someone who has lived in Outremer, someone who knows about the Hashishoni – the flat sesame seed cake, and that awful way of humiliating the corpse of an executed criminal.’

Cranston lowered his knife. ‘But who is the murderer, Brother?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John, but I think we should re-visit the Tower and speak to our group of suspects.’

‘And then?’

‘We go to Woodforde.’

Cranston groaned.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘it’s not far – a few miles through Aldgate and down the Mile End Road. We must find out if Burghgesh ever returned and what happened to his son. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘perhaps it may give you some time to reflect on the Lady Maude.’

Cranston jabbed the point of his knife into a piece of soft meat, mumbled his assent and continued to eat as if his very life depended upon it.

CHAPTER 10

Athelstan and Cranston finished their meal and crossed London Bridge. Beneath them the water moved black and sluggish and they heard chunks of ice crashing against the starlings which protected the wooden arches from the fury of the Thames. They passed through Billingsgate. The air stank with the odour from the stalls, now freshly stocked with herring, cod, tench and even pike as the fishing fleets took advantage of a break in the weather.

The Tower was all abustle when they arrived. Like any good soldier, Colebrooke had the garrison working to break the tedium caused by the freezing weather, as well as to take his own mind off the recent murders. The lieutenant was standing on Tower Green, shouting orders at workmen who were refurbishing mangonels, scorpions and the great battering rams. A number of archers stood ankle-deep in the slush, practising at the butts, whilst others were being mercilessly drilled by the Serjeants. Athelstan vaguely remembered rumours about how, in the spring, the French might attack the Channel ports and even force their way up the Thames to plunder and burn the city.

Colebrooke’s displeasure at seeing Cranston and Athelstan was more than apparent.

‘You have found the murderers?’ he yelled.

‘No, Master Lieutenant!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘But we will. And, when we do, you can build the gallows.’

Cranston stepped aside as a butcher and two fletchers rolled barrels of salted pork down to the store house. The coroner wrinkled his nose. Despite the heavy spices and thick white salt, the pork smelt rancid and his gorge rose as he saw insects crawling out from under the rim of the barrel. He quietly vowed not to accept any food from the Tower buttery or kitchens. Colebrooke, seeing his visitors would not be deterred, turned away to issue further orders. Athelstan took advantage of the delay to walk over to where the bear, squatting in its own filth, was busy plundering a mound of refuse piled high before him. The madman, Red Hand, sat like an elf fascinated by the great beast

‘You are content, Red Hand?’ Athelstan asked softly.

The man grimaced, waving his hands in the air as if mimicking the bear. Athelstan crouched down beside him.

‘You like the bear, Red Hand?’

The fellow nodded, his eyes intent on the bear.

‘So does the knight,’ Red Hand slurred and Athelstan caught the stench of wine fumes on his breath.

‘Which knight?’

‘The one with the cross.’

‘You mean Fitzormonde?’

‘Yes, yes, Fitzormonde. He often comes to stare. Red Hand likes Fitzormonde. Red Hand likes the bear. Red Hand does not like Colebrooke. Colebrooke would kill Red Hand.’

‘Did you like Burghgesh?’ Athelstan asked quickly. He caught the gleam of recognition in the madman’s eyes. ‘You knew him,’ Athelstan continued. ‘As a young soldier, he once served here.’

Red Hand looked away.

‘Surely you remember?’ Athelstan persisted.

The madman shook his head and stared at the bear but Athelstan saw him blink away the tears which pricked his madcap eyes. The friar sighed and rose, dusting the wet ice from his robe.

‘Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Colebrooke is a busy man. He says he cannot waste the day whilst you converse with a madman.’

‘Master Colebrooke should realise,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that it is a matter of opinion, as well as the judgment of God, who is sane and who is mad.’

‘Father, I mean no offence,’ Colebrooke answered, taking off his conical helmet and cradling it in his arms. ‘But I have a garrison to command. I will do what you want.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Good! Mowbray’s body, where does it lie?’

Colebrooke pointed to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Before the chancel screen. Tomorrow it will be buried in the cemetery of All Hallows church.’

‘Is it coffined?’

‘No. no.’

‘Good, I wish to see the corpse, and after that My Lord Coroner and I would like to speak with all those affected by Sir Ralph’s death.’

Colebrooke groaned.

‘We are here on the Regent’s authority,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘When these matters are finished, Master Lieutenant, shall report on the support, or lack of it, we have had in our investigation. We will meet the group in St John’s Chapel.’

Colebrooke forced a smile and hurried off, shouting at his soldiers to search out Sir Fulke and others. Cranston and Athelstan walked over to St Peter’s. The church was a dour, sombre place, cold and dank. The nave was shaped like a box, with rounded pillars guarding darkened aisles.

At the top a small rose window afforded some light. The chancel screen was of polished oak and before it, surrounded by a ring of candles, lay the corpses of Sir Ralph Whitton and Sir Gerard Mowbray. The embalmers had done what they could but, even as they walked up the nave, both Cranston and Athelstan caught the whiff of putrefaction. The two bodies lay under canvas sheets on wickerwork mats supported by wooden trestles. Cranston stood away, waving Athelstan on.

‘I’ve eaten too richly, Brother,’ he murmured. ‘Look for what you want and let’s get out.’

Athelstan was only too happy to oblige. He ignored Sir Ralph’s corpse but lifted back the insignia over the hospitaller’s and the canvas sheet which lay underneath. He did not wish to look at Mowbray’s face. Athelstan had seen enough of death. Instead he examined the white, scabrous legs of the hospitaller, picking up one of the candles to study the purple-yellow bruise just above the shin on the corpse’s right leg. Satisfied, he pulled back the canvas sheet, replaced the tallow candle, genuflected towards the sanctuary and left the church, Cranston following as quickly as possible. They stood on the porch steps and eagerly drank in the invigorating cold air.

‘Good Lord, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I always thought St Erconwald’s was bad but, if ever I moan about it again, remind me of this church and I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

Cranston grinned. ‘It will be my pleasure, Brother. You found what you are looking for?’

‘Yes, I did, Sir John. I believe Sir Gerard was not pushed from the parapet. Someone laid a spear or a piece of wood at the top of the steps whilst the hospitaller was at his usual place at the far end of the parapet walk, near Salt Tower.’ Athelstan pursed his lips. ‘Yes, it could be done under cover of darkness whilst Sir Gerard was lost in his own thoughts.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the distant wall of the Tower. ‘The tocsin sounded. Mowbray hurried along the parapet. In the dark he would not see the obstacle. His leg struck it, he slipped and fell to his death.’

‘But we don’t know who rang the bell or placed the pole on the parapet. Remember,’ Cranston continued, ‘apart from Fitzormonde and Colebrooke, everybody was in Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’

‘Colebrooke might have done it,’ the friar replied. ‘He might have seen the knight standing on the parapet crept up, placed the pole there, and somehow or other arranged for the tocsin to be sounded.’

‘But we have no proof?’

‘No, Sir John, we do not. But we are collecting it. In bits and pieces.’ He sighed. Only time will tell if we are successful.

They found Colebrooke and the rest of the group sitting on benches in the Chapel of St John. Their displeasure at being summoned was more than apparent. Hammond kept his back half-turned. Fulke slouched, staring up at the ceiling; Rastani seemed more confident and Athelstan caught the sardonic mocking look in his dark, brilliant eyes. Colebrooke marched up and down as if he was on parade whilst Mistress Philippa leaned against the wall, looking sorrowfully down at Tower Green.

‘Where is Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked

‘Geoffrey Parchmeiner,’ Fulke replied, ‘being a rather frightened, silly young man, may have many vices. The knight ignored his niece’s furious look. ‘But he works hard. He has better things to do than hang around the Tower answering idle questions whilst good men are killed and the murderer walks scot free.’

‘Thank you for that speech, Sir Fulke,’ Cranston replied, beaming falsely around. ‘We have only one question and I apologise to you, Sir Brian, but it’s a name, that’s all. Bartholomew Burghgesh – does it mean anything to any of you?

Athelstan was amazed at the transformation caused by Cranston’s words. The coroner’s smile widened.

‘Good,’ he announced. ‘Now we have your attention.’ He glanced quickly at the hospitaller’s angry face. ‘Sir Brian, you must not answer, and if you are patient, you will see why we ask. Well,’ the coroner clapped his hands, ‘Bartholomew Burghgesh?’

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sir Fulke snarled and walked into the centre of the room. ‘Don’t play games, Sir John. Burghgesh was one name my brother, Sir Ralph, would never have mentioned in his presence.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked innocently.

‘My brother could not stand the man.’

‘But they were comrades in arms.’

‘Were,’ Fulke emphasised. ‘They quarrelled in Outremer. Bartholomew was later killed on a ship taken in the Middle Sea by Moorish pirates.’

‘Why?’ Cranston barked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did your brother dislike Burghgesh so much?’

Fulke stepped closer and lowered his eyes. ‘It was a matter of honour,’ he murmured. He licked his lips and glanced nervously towards Philippa. ‘Sir Ralph once accused Bartholomew of paying too much attention to your mother, Sir Ralph’s wife.’

‘Were the allegations true?’ Athelstan asked.

Fulke’s face softened. ‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I’ll be honest – I liked Bartholomew. He was funny, always thought the best of people. He was both gentle and courteous.’

Athelstan suddenly glimpsed the steel in Sir Fulke’s character.

‘You really did like him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. I was much distressed at the news of his death.’ Fulke shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he continued. ‘When I was younger, I used to wish Bartholomew was my brother because, God forgive me, I did not like Ralph.’ He looked up, his eyes, sad. ‘Years ago he and Bartholomew served as officers here in the Tower.’ Fulke coughed and cleared his throat. ‘My brother was treacherous. He was cruel. He ill-treated Red Hand. He even beat the priest here when he was only a young clerk.’

The chaplain blushed with embarrassment

‘Come on, tell the truth!’ Fulke now glared round, snarling like a dog. ‘Sir Ralph was hated!’

Mistress Philippa stepped forward, her face white with fury. ‘My father is sheeted, waiting for burial, and you speak ill of him!’

‘God forgive me, Philippa, I only tell the truth!’ Fulke flung out his hand. ‘Ask Rastani! When he was a boy, who plucked his tongue out?’

The Moor just stared back, his eyes never flickered.

‘It’s true!’ Fitzormonde intervened. ‘It was over the Moor that the bad blood first surfaced between Burghgesh and Whitton.’

Fulke slumped back on the bench. ‘I’ve said enough,’ he snarled. ‘But I’m tired of these questions. Mistress Philippa, your father was a bastard and no one here will gainsay me.’

Cranston and Athelstan just stood amazed at this sudden outburst of hatred and animosity. Good Lord, Athelstan thought, anyone here could be Sir Ralph’s murderer. Burghgesh had been well loved. Did someone in this room believe he was God’s executioner to avenge a good man’s death? Athelstan looked around.

‘Master Parchmeiner will not be here today?’ he asked, taking advantage of the sudden lull.

‘No,’ Sir Fulke replied wearily. ‘For pity’s sake, Father, who would want to stay here? So many memories, so much hatred.’

Mistress Philippa sat huddled on one of the benches, her face in her hands. Sir Fulke went over to her and patted her gently on the shoulder. Cranston caught a smirk on Rastani’s face. Was he the murderer? the coroner wondered. He recalled Athelstan’s words, how the slayer of Adam Horne used a method practised in Moorish countries to desecrate the body of a criminal and traitor.

‘We have seen enough,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘We should go.’

‘Just one more thing,’ Cranston announced. ‘You knew Adam Horne the merchant?’

‘Another bastard!’ Sir Fulke hissed. ‘Yes, yes, Sir John. Horne was my brother’s friend.’

‘Well, he’s dead!’ Cranston proclaimed flatly. ‘Found murdered last night in the ruins just north of here.’

Fitzormonde swore quietly. The others looked up in alarm.

‘I wonder where you all were?’ Cranston asked.

‘Hell’s teeth, Sir John!’ Colebrooke snapped. ‘Now the thaw’s come, anyone could slip in and out of a postern gate.’

Cranston smiled wanly. The lieutenant was right: it would be nigh impossible to make everyone account for their movements. Horne could have been murdered any time between dusk and dawn.

‘Come, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured.

They took their leave unceremoniously, Cranston waving Colebrooke aside. They hardly spoke a word until they had collected their horses and left the Tower, going up towards Eastcheap.

‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Cranston suddenly broke the silence. ‘What hatred exists in the human heart, eh, Brother?’

‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied, gently guiding Philomel away from the snow-covered sewer which ran down the middle of the street. ‘Perhaps we should all remember that, Sir John. Minor jealousies and misunderstandings can fan the petty flames of bickering into the roaring fires of hatred.

Cranston glanced at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye and smiled at the barbed reminder what was true of Fulke and others in the Tower was also true of his relationship with the Lady Maude.

‘Where to now, Brother?’ he asked.

‘To Master Parchmeiner’s shop opposite Chancellor’s Inn near St Paul’s.’

‘Why?’ Cranston asked.

‘Because, my dear Cranston, he was not present with the rest in the Tower and we must interrogate everyone.’

They rode up Candlewick Street and into Trinity, a prosperous part of the city Athelstan rarely frequented. The houses were spacious and grand; their lower storeys were built of solid timber, the projecting gables above were a framework of black beams and white plaster. The roofs were tiled, unlike the houses of many of Athelstan’s parishioners who had to be content with reeds and straw. Many of the windows had pure glass and were protected by wood and iron. Servants from these houses regularly flushed out the sewers with the water they used to wash clothes so the streets did not reek as they did in Southwark. Before several of the imposing entrances stood armed retainers wearing the gaudy escutcheons of their patrons: bears, swans, wyverns, dragons, lions, and even stranger beasts. Stocky, well-fed merchants walked arm-in-arm with their plump wives, clad in garments of silk and satin, decorated with miniature pearls of exquisite delicacy. Two canons swaggered by from the cathedral, clad in thick woollen robes lined with miniver. A group of lawyers in gowns of red, violet and scarlet, trimmed with lambswool, sauntered arrogantly by, their cloaks pulled back to display decorated, low-slung girdles.

Pigs wandered here with bells slung round their necks to show they were the property of the Hospital of St Anthony and couldn’t be slaughtered. Beadles armed with steel-pointed staffs dispersed fowl or curbed the yapping of fierce yellow-haired dogs, whilst bailiffs tried to move on a strange creature dressed like a magpie in black and white rags. The fellow loudly claimed he had in his battered, leather coffer some of the most marvellous relics of Christendom: ‘One of Charlemagne’s teeth!’ he yelled. ‘Two legs of the donkey that carried Mary! The skull of Herod’s servant and some of the stones Christ turned into bread!’

Athelstan stopped and restrained the beadles who were harassing the poor fellow.

‘You say you have one of the stones Christ turned into a loaf of bread?’ the friar queried, trying hard to hide his laughter.

‘Yes, Brother.’ The relic-seller’s eyes brightened at the prospect of profit.

‘But Christ didn’t change stones into bread. The devil asked him to but Christ refused.’

Cranston, also grinning, drew close to watch the charlatan’s reaction. The relic-seller licked dry lips.

‘Of course, he did, Brother,’ he replied in a half-whisper. ‘I have it on good authority that when Satan left, Christ did it but then changed them back to show he would not be tempted to eat. It will only cost you a penny.’

Athelstan dipped into his purse and drew out a coin.

‘Here.’ He pressed it into the fellow’s grimy paw. ‘This is not for your stone. Keep it. It’s your ingenuity I am rewarding.’

The man gaped, open-mouthed, and Athelstan and Cranston walked on, quietly laughing at the relic-seller’s quick response. They passed the Littlegate of St Paul’s where a lay brother was feeding a group of lepers with mouldy bread and rancid pork slices, as laid down by the city fathers who judged such food actually helped them. Cranston glared across in disgust.

‘Do you really think it does?’ he asked Athelstan abruptly.

‘What, Sir John?’

‘Such food, does it really help lepers?’

Athelstan gazed at the grey cowled figures with their staffs and bowls for alms. ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps.’

The lepers made him think about the two who lurked in the cemetery of St Erconwald. A memory stirred but he could not place it so pushed the matter to one side. They turned into an alleyway off Friday Street and Cranston began to bellow at passersby for the whereabouts of Parchmeiner’s shop. They found it on the corner of Bread Street a narrow, two-storeyed tenement with a shop below and living quarters above. There was a stall in front but because of the inclement weather this was now bare so they opened the door and went inside. Athelstan immediately closed his eyes and sniffed the sweet odour of fresh scrubbed parchment and vellum. The smell reminded him vividly of the well-stocked library and quiet chancery of his novice days at Blackfriars. The shop itself was a small, white-washed room with shelves along the walls stacked with sheets of parchment, ink horns, pumice stones, quills, and everything else one would need in a library or chancery.

Geoffrey himself was sitting at a small desk. He smiled and rose to greet them.

‘Sir John!’ he cried. ‘Brother Athelstan, you are most welcome!’ He went into the darkness beyond to bring back two stools. ‘Please sit. Do you want some wine?’

Surprisingly, Cranston shook his head.

‘I only drink when Sir John does,’ Athelstan mockingly replied.

The parchment-seller grinned and sat down behind his desk.

‘Well, what can I do for you? I doubt you want to buy parchment or vellum – though, Brother, I have the best the city can offer. I am a Guild member and everything I sell carries their hallmark.’ Geoffrey’s good-natured face creased into a smile. He shook his head. ‘But I don’t think you come to buy.’ His face became grave. ‘It’s the business at the Tower, isn’t it?’

‘Just one thing,’ Cranston answered, moving uncomfortably on the small stool. ‘Does the name Bartholomew Burghgesh mean anything to you?’

‘Yes and no,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘I never met him but I heard Sir Fulke talk of him, and once Philippa repeated the name in her father’s presence. Sir Ralph became very angry and stormed out. Of course, I asked Philippa why. She just shook her head and said he was an old enemy of her father’s, and refused to be drawn any further.’

Athelstan watched the young man intently. Could this languid, rather effete, fop be the Red Slayer? The terrible murderer who stalked his victims in the Tower?

‘Geoffrey?’ he asked

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You have known Philippa how long?’

‘About two years’

‘And Sir Ralph liked you?’

The parchment-seller grinned. ‘Yes, though God knows why. I can hardly ride a horse and the call of arms does not appeal to me.’

‘You were with him the night he died?’

‘Yes, as I have said, I was with him in the great hall. Sir Ralph was morose and became maudlin in his cups.’

‘He was drunk?’

‘Very.’

‘You helped him across to his chamber?’

‘Well, again, yes and no. Master Colebrooke assisted me. I took Sir Ralph to the top of the stairs into the North Bastion tower but the passageway was so narrow Colebrooke helped him the rest of the way.’

‘And you stayed with Mistress Philippa that night?’

The young man looked embarrassed and his eyes dropped.

‘Yes. If Sir Ralph had known, he would have been most angry.

‘But,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘he favoured your courtship of his only daughter?’

‘Yes, I think he did.’

‘Why?’ Cranston barked. ‘I mean, as you have said, you’re no soldier.’

‘No, I am not. I am not a lord or a knight but a merchant, Sir John, and a very good one. I am one of those who lends money so the King can hire his knights.’ The parchment-seller gestured round his well-stocked shop. ‘It may not look much but my profits are high. I am a wealthy man, Sir John.’

‘One other matter.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We have touched upon it before. You went to rouse Sir Ralph. What happened?’

‘The guards opened the passageway door and locked it behind me as Sir Ralph had ordered. I went down and tried to rouse the constable. There was no answer so I went back. I told the guards and took the key to Whitton’s chamber. I was going to open it myself but changed my mind and went for Colebrooke.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Geoffrey pulled a face. I knew something was wrong by the silence, not to mention the cold draught under the door of Whitton’s chamber.

Athelstan remembered the gap under Sir Ralph’s door and nodded. Someone standing outside the room would have felt the powerful draught and know something was wrong.

‘Why didn’t you open the door yourself?’ Cranston asked

The young man smiled weakly. ‘Sir John, I was frightened. Sir Ralph was not a popular man. Looking back, I suppose I was worried someone might be in the chamber.’

‘And the night Mowbray died?’

‘I was with Mistress Philippa, drunk as a lord. Ask the others.’

‘And you never left?’

Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Like the rest, I went to use the privy along the corridor. When the tocsin sounded I lurched out with the others to see what was wrong. I didn’t do much. I was drunk and I hate those parapet steps. I wandered around, looking busy, and found Fitzormonde and Colebrooke standing over Mowbray’s body.’ The young man paused and looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘I know why you are here. There’s been another death in the Tower, hasn’t there?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured and gave Parchmeiner the details of Horne’s death.

Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. ‘I suppose,’ he said wearily, ‘you wish to question me about that?’

‘It would,’ Cranston observed, ‘be helpful to know where you were last night.’

Parchmeiner shrugged. ‘I worked in my shop, then I got drunk as a bishop in a nearby tavern, the Golden Griffin. You could ask there.’

Athelstan smiled. What would be the use? the friar thought, Horne could have been killed at any hour. He studied Parchmeiner’s girlish face. ‘You are London-born?’ he queried, trying to look at the parchment lying on Geoffrey’s desk.

‘No, Brother, I am not. My family are Welsh, hence my colouring. They moved to Bristol. My father traded in parchments and vellum in a shop just beneath the cathedral there. When he died I moved to London.’ Geoffrey picked up the piece of parchment. ‘My sister, now married, still lives there; she has just written inviting herself to town for the Yuletide season. She, her husband,’ his face grew mock solemn, ‘and their large brood of children will bring some life to the Tower.’ He turned to Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, you have more questions?’

Sir John shook his head. ‘No, sir, we have not.’

They rose, made their farewells, and stepped out into the cold, icy street

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘A young man who will go far in his trade, Sir John. He has his roots.’ The friar grinned. ‘Yes, Sir John, like you I wondered if he could be Burghgesh’s son. But I am sure he is not.’ Athelstan stopped and stared hard at the coroner. ‘We are looking for a killer without ties, Sir John. Someone who is pretending to be something he or she is not. Someone who knows about the great act of betrayal so many years ago. The question is, who?’

‘Well!’ Cranston clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll not find it here, Brother, but perhaps in Woodforde…’ The coroner wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stared up at the sky. ‘I don’t want to stay in London,’ he murmured. ‘The Lady Maude needs a rest from me. And you, Brother?’

‘My parish,’ Athelstan drily replied, ‘will, I think, survive the continued absence of their pastor a little longer.’

They separated at the corner of Friday and Fish Streets, agreeing to meet within two hours at a tavern outside Aldgate on the Mile End Road. Sir John stamped off, leading his horse, whilst Athelstan continued down Trinity into Walbrook, along Ropery to London Bridge. Thankfully, he found St Erconwald’s fairly deserted except for Watkin to whom he gave strict instructions about the custody of the church, and Ranulf the rat-catcher who had come to remind him of his promise that if a Guild of Rat-Catchers were founded, St Erconwald’s could be their chantry church.

‘I promise you, Ranulf, I will think on the matter,’ Athelstan replied, trying to hide his amusement at the thought of St Erconwald’s full of tarry-hooded rat-catchers, all looking like Ranulf. The fellow’s yellow, wizened face broke into a sharp-toothed smile. He skipped down the steps as happily as any boy.

‘Brother,’ Watkin mournfully moaned.

‘What is it?’

‘Well – ’ The dung-collector turned on the top step of the church and pointed towards the frozen cemetery. ‘We still haven’t set a watch.’

‘Why should we, Watkin? The grave robbers have moved on.’

The dung-collector shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Brother, and I am afeared worse might happen.’

Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Nonsense. Now look, Watkin, I will be back late tomorrow evening. Take a message to Father Luke at St Olave’s. Ask him to be so kind as to come here and say Mass tomorrow morning. You will know where everything is? And tell the widow Benedicta to help you. You’ll do that?’

Watkin nodded and stumped off, muttering under his breath about priests who didn’t listen to tales of the dark shapes which did dreadful things in city churchyards. Athelstan watched him go and sighed. How could he deal with the cemetery when there was no evidence of any danger threatening? He checked the door of the church was locked and stood engrossed in his own thoughts about Cranston. The Lord Coroner was proving to be as difficult a problem as the dreadful deaths they were investigating. What was wrong with the Lady Maude? Athelstan wondered. Why didn’t Cranston ask her outright?

Athelstan smiled as he went across to his own house. Strange, he concluded. Cranston, who was frightened of nothing on two legs, seemed terrified of his little lady wife. Athelstan checked that the windows and doors of the priest’s house were locked, slung his saddle bags over a protesting Philomel, and both horse and rider wearily made their way along the icy track. He stopped at an ale-house to leave further messages with Tab the tinker for Benedicta and Watkin; they were to lock the church after morning Mass and, if the widow felt so inclined, she should take Bonaventura back to her own house. The friar then made his way back on to the main highway, past the Priory of St Mary Overy and across London Bridge. He stopped midway to say a prayer in the Chapel of St Thomas for the safety of their journey and then continued on his way.