Brother Malachi, of the Order of St Benedict, opened the door to St Erconwald’s Church, closed it behind him and leaned back, staring up at the vaulted roof. Malachi was frightened. There was so much to think about, so much to do, yet dangers pressed on every side. He drew a deep breath and stared round the church. He needed to talk to Brother Athelstan, but the priest’s house was locked up and the only inhabitants of God’s consecrated ground were Bonaventure the cat, that old warhorse browsing in the stable, and Thaddeus, the mournful-looking goat, who was staring out across the cemetery. Thaddeus obviously missed its owner, God-Bless. The beggar man, fast as a rabbit, had joined the rest of Athelstan’s parishioners in the Piebald tavern, summoned there by Pernel the Fleming, who seemed to have come into a mysterious inheritance. Crim the altar boy, playing on the lychgate, had told Malachi all this before running off to join the other children in the stable yard of the Piebald, where they too hoped to profit from the revelry with a slice of roast duck or a cup of mulled wine.
Malachi tapped his foot. He had come here many years ago with his beloved brother, Richard Culpepper. He closed his eyes. Even now, twenty years on, he still felt the heart-pulling pain, a deep sense of loss which haunted his soul, and beneath that, a seething anger, a curdling rage. Sometimes in his monastery Brother Malachi could not sleep; he’d go out and stare at the pale-faced moon and wonder, yet again, what had really happened. Richard must be dead, he had proof of that, unless something equally hideous had happened. Malachi opened his eyes. He tried not to remember the old days, the glory time when Richard’s heart was full of passion, his tongue ever ready to chatter about the brave deeds of valiant knights. He still missed Richard. He cursed the day when that whore Guinevere the Golden had come into his life, pestering him for favours, hinting at what might be. Richard, gullible as ever, had thought a pretty face meant a fair heart. How wrong he had been!
Richard’s fate vexed Brother Malachi, but two other questions dogged his soul. What was Richard planning the night he disappeared, and what did truly happen after darkness had fallen? Over the years Malachi had collected and sifted the information, yet the truth still remained hidden behind the blackness of that night twenty years ago.
‘Tenebrae facta est,’ he whispered to the gloomy nave. ‘And darkness fell.’ Wasn’t that how the Gospel writers described the time of Judas’ betrayal of Christ?
Malachi licked his dry lips. He had come here to think, as well as to see the ring he had given Athelstan. He wanted to draw strength from it. He did not want to think of the others, of Chandler lying like a stinking carp in his dirty bathwater or Broomhill jerking on the bed as the blood spilled out of him like claret from a cracked vat. He heard the squeak of mice and a dark shape shot across the ill-lit nave, scurrying from one transept to another. If Bonaventure was here, Malachi reflected wryly, there would be another death. But wasn’t that how all life was? If he could only discover what Richard had truly planned . . . Malachi sighed in exasperation and walked up the nave, footsteps echoing hollow. He went to the rood screen and genuflected; he found it hard to look at the pyx hanging from its chain in the sanctuary. He stared round the sanctuary. No Misericord now – he did feel sorry for that rogue. Didn’t they say he was rotting in some cell at Newgate?
Malachi climbed the steps to the high altar. He lifted the heavy green gold-lined coverlet, pushed back the linen altar cloth and stared at the relic stone. In the poor light he glimpsed the red cross carved there and felt the rim of the stone. It was still firmly set, which meant that Athelstan had not yet removed it to insert the ring. Malachi replaced the cloths, and recalled the chantry chapel of St Erconwald’s. A taper candle glowed in the Lady Chapel, so Malachi took this, lit another one, and carried both through the wooden partition door and placed them on the altar where he had celebrated Mass. The chantry chapel, despite the statue to St Erconwald, the candles and white linen cloth, did look rather bare and gaunt; no wonder Athelstan wished to furnish it more fittingly. Perhaps when all this was finished, Malachi promised himself, he would donate some money as reparation for what had happened.
Malachi moved across and stared up at the statue of St Erconwald, which gazed sightlessly back from its plinth. He didn’t really have any special devotion to a Bishop of London who’d lived and died hundreds of years before the great Conqueror came. No, Malachi reflected, his devotion was more personal, stemming from those glory days when he and his brother Richard had come into Southwark with the rest. They had often come to this church and lounged in the long sweet grass, resting against the gravestones as they shared wine and food, before that great bitch Guinevere the Golden had swept into their lives and everything had changed. Richard no longer met his brother, he became closeted with his paramour, secretive and withdrawn, often being absent for days and returning without any excuse or explanation.
After the great robbery and Richard’s disappearance, as the Fleet was about to leave, Malachi had come to this church and vowed to its patron saint that if he ever discovered the truth, he would make a special offering. Now he lifted the taper candle to study the relic statue more carefully, feeling beneath the linen cloths. He sighed with relief. Here, too, the relic stone held firm; Athelstan still had the ring in his possession. He was about to sit down on the small stool to continue his plotting when he heard a sound, a door opening or closing. He strained his ears. Was it the cat? He was sure he’d closed the door fully and leaned against it. Another sound, the slithering rasp of a soft boot. Malachi left the chantry chapel, holding up the taper light.
‘Who’s there?’ he called. The murky light deepened the shadows in the corners and transepts. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated.
Malachi’s skin went cold. Was he, too, to become a victim of brutal murder? Surely not! But someone was in the church, slinking through the darkness, watching him like some gargoyle of the night. Again, a sound. Malachi drew back just in time. Something hard and glittering spun through the gloom and embedded deep into the polished wood of the chapel screen. His heart skipped a beat at the sinister glitter of the blade, the dagger’s dark brown handle. Another sound. He stepped back into the chapel, hastily dousing the taper lights. He felt beneath his robe and drew out his own small cutting knife. He didn’t want to become trapped here. He stared across the nave and sighed in relief at the glint of daylight – the side door was off its latch! Malachi tried to control his breathing, the beating of blood in his ears and those trickles of fear which made him want to scratch his neck and back. He had to get out of here before whoever was hunting him trapped and killed him here where he had made his vow. For Richard’s sake, he had to fulfil that vow!
Malachi’s hand went across the altar and snatched up the calfskin-bound missal. He edged to the door of the chapel and hurled the book down the nave. Another dagger whistled through the air, but Malachi was already racing across, even as he heard a third dagger smash against a pillar. He reached the door, opened it and threw himself out. He pulled the door closed and ran across to the priest’s house. The door was still locked and bolted. Malachi ran to the window. Thankfully, the two shutters were wide apart. Malachi quietly prayed to whoever was protecting him; the Dominican must have great trust in his parishioners. He slipped his knife through the slit, prising up the bar beyond. He heard it clatter to the floor, and gathering his black robe, clambered through the window, bruising elbow, arm and knees as he tumbled to the floor. Desperate to escape his pursuer, he forgot his pain as he pushed the shutters closed, seized the bar and replaced it in its iron clasps, wedging it tight with a horn spoon taken from the table.
For a while he stood listening. The silence was broken by the sound of voices of a woman and children approaching the church. Sweat-soaked, Malachi slid to the floor, trembling as the deep anger at what had happened overcame the fear seething within him.
‘Death comes in many forms, yet terrifying all the same.’
Cranston, standing by Athelstan, stared down at the Misericord, his corpse sprawled on the muck-strewn cell floor. In the flickering light of the lantern horn the cunning man’s face was truly ghastly, the eyes no longer merry but half shut in their glazed, sightless stare. The lips, once ever ready to laugh, were now a strange bluish colour, gaping to show the swollen tongue and the dribble of white saliva across the unshaven liverish skin. The cheeks looked puffy, as if swollen.
Athelstan had already performed the death rites; now he stood, as he always did on such occasions, fascinated by the dread of sudden death. He and Cranston had done their best to comfort Edith, taking her back up the very steep steps to her chamber on the third floor of the convent, and leaving her to the tender care of Sister Catherine before hurrying away. The keeper had left before them, riding back to the prison with Cranston’s order ringing in his ears that nothing was to be disturbed or touched before they arrived. Yet what was there to see? How could they explain this?
Athelstan picked up the half-eaten pie. Its crust was thick and golden, the mortrews within glistening and rich. Athelstan recognised one of the famous delicious Newgate pies from the cookshops which bought their meat direct from the nearby flesher stalls. A delicacy of the area, the hard-baked crust enclosed a savoury stew of crushed beef and vegetables. He also picked up the linen cloth in which it had been bound, now muddied and soiled. He wrapped the pie in this, lifted it to his nose and sniffed carefully. He caught the aroma of the savoury meat, but something else, very sweet, as if sugar had been added. Was it some form of arsenic? Or the crushed juice of some deadly herb? He placed the napkin and pie on a ledge.
‘Tell me,’ he turned to the keeper, ‘tell me again what happened.’
‘Well, you left.’ The keeper moved his bunch of keys from one hand to the other. ‘In fact, you had hardly gone when one of my bailiffs entered. He had been given a pie for the prisoner, allegedly bought by Sir John himself.’ The keeper pointed to the corpse. ‘What was I to do? A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be filched. Thank God it wasn’t.’ He squeezed his nose. ‘Usually such gifts are taken by the gaolers, but as you had just left, Sir John, and had a special interest in this prisoner, we handed it over.’
The keeper walked to the door and shouted a man’s name. A sound of running footsteps, and a small, thickset man, garbed in the soiled black and white livery of the prison, came into the cell. He stared mournfully at the corpse, wringing his hands.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ he swallowed hard, ‘I didn’t even know. I thought it was a gift from you. I brought it here still warm.’
‘Who gave it to you?’ Athelstan asked sharply.
‘Brother,’ the man sighed, ‘I don’t really know. I was on duty outside the gates, men and women pushing, beggars whining for alms, prisoners’ wives screeching. All I remember is a black hood, the head turned to one side. The pie was thrust into my hand with a penny.’
‘And the voice?’ Cranston asked.
‘I couldn’t recognise it again, Sir John. Just a few words, “A present from the Lord Coroner to the prisoner known as the Misericord.”’
The bailiff joined his hands together as if in prayer.
‘Sir John, that’s all I can tell you. For the life of me, even on oath, I would not be able to recognise or recall the look of that man or his voice.’
Athelstan dismissed him.
‘So, Master Keeper, you brought the pie to the prisoner?’
‘Yes, of course I did, Brother. I thought the same as the bailiff. A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be interfered with.’
‘What was he doing when you entered the cell?’
The keeper pointed towards the rusting manacles hanging from a clasp in the far corner. ‘Like other prisoners, whiling his time away carving the wall. I’ve looked at it but can’t make sense of it.’
Athelstan picked up the lantern horn, gave it to Cranston and went across. The Misericord’s carvings were fresh, different from the rest. A Latin quotation, ‘Quern quaeritis?’, and beneath it the numbers ‘1, 1, 2, 3, 5’.
‘What does that mean?’ Cranston asked. ‘I understand the Latin – it’s a question, “Whom do you seek?” But what does it mean? And the significance of the numbers?’
‘God only knows,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and the Misericord, but he too has gone to God. Remember, Sir John, the Misericord probably didn’t tell us everything. He must have been holding something back.’
Athelstan returned to the keeper.
‘So, then you left. What happened?’
‘I went back down the passageway. Suddenly I heard this gut-wrenching screaming. Now I’m used to that. What happens, Brother, is that when prisoners are brought here, they often don’t realise what is happening, then something occurs, and it can be something pleasant like food, a cup of wine or a visit, and they realise where they truly are and what has become of them.’ The keeper looped his clutch of keys back on his belt. ‘If I opened the door to every prisoner who screamed I would spend all day doing it. The screaming went on, then it began to fade.’ He jabbed a finger at the wall to his left. ‘Then the prisoner in the next cell, he’s usually quiet, he began to shout that something was wrong.’
‘Who’s in there?’ Cranston asked.
The keeper narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah yes, that’s it. Number 35, Spindleshanks.’
‘Ah!’ Sir John smiled. ‘The relic-seller! Master Keeper, let’s have a word with him.’
The gaoler led them out and opened the next door. A little man, sitting in the corner, sprang to his feet. He was so small and thin in his torn shirt, patched hose and boots apparently far too big for him that Athelstan could see why he was named Spindleshanks, for his legs were as thin as needles. The prisoner walked into the pool of light. A mournful face, even his eyes seemed to droop. He reminded Athelstan of a professional mourner; an impression heightened by the lank grey hair which hung down either side of his face.
‘Oh, Sir John Cranston,’ Spindleshanks whined with a gap-toothed smile. He clasped his hands together. ‘What a great pleasure, what a great honour, a visit from the Lord Coroner.’
‘Innocent or guilty?’ Cranston barked.
‘Oh, guilty, my Lord Coroner. I won’t tell a lie. As felonious as Judas.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Oh, the usual, Sir John, relics, they’ll be the death of me.’
‘How many times is it now, Spindleshanks?’
The prisoner tapped his chin, staring up at the ceiling. ‘My sixth, no, it’s my seventh time, Sir John. It’s bound to be a flogging this time,’ his face grew more mournful, ‘or my ears clipped.’ His lower lip trembled as he fought back the tears. ‘Maybe even a brand mark on my cheek.’
‘What were you doing this time?’
‘Dead dogs, Sir John.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Dead dogs. I was boiling their corpses, crushing their bones in a maer . . . a handmill.’ Spindleshanks answered Athelstan’s puzzled look. ‘I ground the bones down, bought some little gilt cases and a roll of linen, which I cut into ever so small strips, and sold them as relics.’
‘Whose?’ Athelstan was genuinely intrigued by this funny little man.
‘St Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins martyred by the devilish Huns.’
‘And how were you caught?’ Cranston asked.
‘My neighbours, they alerted the watch complaining about the smell.’
‘Well, at least it was only relics and not those potions you were selling. Why have they put you in the Netherworld?’
‘Hermisimus!’
‘What?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Have a smell, Brother.’
Spindleshanks drew closer to Athelstan, and the friar recoiled at the foul stench from the old man’s clothing.
‘Hermisimus, Brother,’ Spindleshanks said proudly. ‘Sweaty armpits.’
‘Even the other prisoners object,’ the keeper explained. ‘We had to put him here for his own safety.’
‘You should wash your armpits,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Use a mixture of mint and wild strawberries, it will help to clear up your condition.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea, Brother. I’ll be able to sell it as a genuine cure, won’t I?’
‘And if you are helpful,’ Cranston stooped down, pinching his own nostrils, ‘I’ll set you free. I’ll write a writ under my own seal.’
‘Oh, Sir John,’ Spindleshanks closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure, ‘that would be most kind.’
‘You’ll give up the dog bones?’
‘On my soul, Sir John.’
‘Tell me then,’ Cranston urged, ‘what did you hear from the adjoining cell?’
‘Oh, I heard the clank of the manacles, so I knew he was carving the wall.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir John urged, ‘but what happened next?’
‘I heard the door open, the keeper’s voice, and then all went silent. Oh, it must have been some time, then low moans, followed by terrible screams. Sir John, they cut me to the heart. He was also shouting something.’
‘What?’
Spindleshanks opened his eyes. ‘I’ll go free?’
‘What?’ Cranston persisted.
‘He was shouting “Askit, Askit,” or something like that. Sir John, that’s all I can recall. I swear if I remember anything else, I’ll visit you personally.’
‘Only after you have washed your armpits!’ Cranston dipped into his purse and thrust a coin into the prisoner’s hand. ‘Now go and wait in the press yard. I’ll send a writ across to the keeper.’
‘Oh, my Lord Coroner.’
Spindleshanks would have sunk to his knees, but Cranston gripped him by the shoulder and thrust him towards the half-open door.
‘Oh, Sir John.’
‘What?’
‘Would you have any need for a thousand relic cases?’
‘Bugger off.’
‘Very good, Sir John,’ and Spindleshanks scampered down the passageway.
‘Have the corpse taken to Blackfriars,’ Athelstan ordered. ‘Put it in a proper brandeum . . . a shroud,’ he explained. ‘My good brothers will put him in a coffin until his sister decides where he should be buried.’
They left Newgate. The area outside the prison had now been turned into a makeshift fair, drawing in the crowds to watch a mummer’s play, an old story, with two central characters wearing the mask and horns of a cow. First, Chivevache, a lean, ugly cow, who fed on patient women; consequently it was always thin and hungry. Next, Bicorne, a large fat cow, because it fed on patient husbands. In between these two danced a character dressed in a leather hood who assumed the role of the ‘Digitus Infamus’, the ‘Middle Finger’, who kept up lewd commentary on why these two cows existed and were so different. Of course, this provoked the ribald interest of the spectators, who quickly divided into male and female, hurling obscenities at each other as the Digitus Infamus explained why wives lacked patience whilst husbands were models of virtue. Every so often the mummer would break off from his commentary to sing an even more ribald song about a gentle cock residing in its lady’s chamber. Naturally, when a boy in tattered rags ran round the crowd with a pannikin for pennies he received plenty of coins from the men and raucous refusal from the women.
‘I’ve seen that play a hundred times,’ Cranston murmured, as he led Athelstan through the milling crowd. ‘The effect is always the same. The men relish the joke and pay the money; next week they’ll return, and the lean, ugly cow will feed on patient husbands and consequently go famished, whilst the fat cow will be the result of patient wives. It’s a clever way of drawing in money.’
They left the great forecourt, and the salacious mummer’s play, and entered the dark coolness of an ale house, ducking to avoid the great green bush hanging above the doorway. Cranston took a window seat and immediately ordered two tankards of ale, while he dictated a letter on behalf of Spindleshanks to the Keeper of Newgate, and sent it back to the prison courtesy of a pot boy. When this was done he toasted Athelstan, took a deep draught and leaned back against the wall.
‘Who killed the Misericord?’ he asked.
‘Somebody who followed us to Newgate and watched us leave,’ the friar replied, ‘and decided to act immediately. All these killings, Sir John, I am sure have their root in what happened twenty years ago. The Misericord discovered something, or was told something by those two girls. They had to die and so did he. But the question is what?’
‘The Night in Jerusalem,’ Cranston observed, ‘lies in Southwark. Somebody must have crossed the river, walked up Cheapside, bought that pie, poisoned it, left it in Newgate and then returned. Hey, lad?’ He called across to the pot boy, who had appeared in the doorway, still breathless after his errand to Newgate. ‘Come here.’ Cranston seized him by his thin arm and pressed a coin into the boy’s dirty little hand. ‘Here’s a shilling, boy. Go to the tavern known as the Night in Jerusalem – it lies in Southwark, not far from the bridge. Tell mine host I wish to see him, all the knights and Mother Veritable, within the hour.’
The boy glanced across at the ale-wife, who stood near the barrels. She nodded.
‘Repeat the message,’ Sir John urged.
The boy, used to such tasks, closed his eyes, faithfully repeated what Cranston had told him, then hurried out into the street.
‘One of those,’ Cranston murmured, ‘must have left Southwark.’
‘One person whom we know little about,’ Athelstan distractedly observed, ‘is the man who was with Culpepper the night the Lombard treasure was stolen – what was his name? Oh yes, Edward Mortimer. In fact, Sir John, we know very little about this treasure or its stay in the Tower. Could you make discreet enquiries?’
Cranston agreed.
‘And I,’ Athelstan offered, ‘will find out more about the Lombards, the name of the banker responsible; I’ll also ask Moleskin if he knows anything about the two bargemen who disappeared.’
Athelstan finished his ale and picked up his writing satchel, cradling it in his lap.
‘I wonder what the Misericord meant,’ he mused, ‘about those numbers and that Latin tag. And what was he shouting? What did he mean by “Askit”? An educated man, Sir John, the Misericord was holding something back; perhaps he recognised that and left such a message on the wall just in case something happened.’
‘Could the Judas Man have killed him?’ Cranston drained his tankard.
‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘He, too, is a man surrounded by mystery, gleeful at the Misericord’s capture. He may have murdered him, fearful lest the Misericord’s quick-silver wits allowed him to escape either Newgate or the hangman’s noose. Which, in turn, provokes another question. Was the Judas Man hired by someone we’ve met, or by a complete stranger? And did that person, whoever it was, instruct the Judas Man to ensure the Misericord was not only captured but killed? Ah well, Sir John, the hour draws on.’
They left the ale house and, avoiding the crowd, went down Dean’s Lane, past Athelstan’s mother house of Blackfriars to East Watergate. The day was clouding over, the crowds intent on finishing trading and escaping the biting cold. The quayside was fairly deserted as it was too early for the fishing folk to prepare for the night’s work. The barges had finished bringing their produce and now stood moored, waiting for the evening. Bailiffs and beadles patrolled the quayside, vigilant against any trader trying to sell or buy without the blessing of the Corporation or the guilds.
They hired a barge, Athelstan was disappointed that he couldn’t find Moleskin, and went upriver, fighting the choppy current. A mist was creeping in. Athelstan huddled in the stern, his cowl pulled tightly about him, whilst Cranston, ever curious, kept up a constant commentary on which barges belonged to which noblemen, as well as those dignitaries of the city travelling to and from the Tower or Westminster.
‘Thank God we don’t have to go under London Bridge,’ Cranston remarked. ‘The river is running heavy and fast, and in this mist I can hardly make out the top of the bridge.’
Athelstan half listened as he closed his eyes and fingered his Ave beads. He was always wary of the river; a good portion of St Erconwald’s cemetery was reserved for the corpses of poor souls who had drowned on the Southwark side . . .
‘That’s it!’
‘What?’ Cranston asked.
‘Nothing, Sir John. It’s just that . . . I wonder if the river was searched for the corpses of Culpepper and Mortimer, not to mention those bargemen. I mean properly searched by the Fisher of Men.’
‘Was he here then?’ Cranston asked.
He’d met the person Athelstan was referring to, a sinister, skull-faced man hired to search the river for the bodies of the drowned.
‘I think he was,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but we’ll see.’
They landed near the Bishop of Winchester inn, a little further down from the infamous bath houses which Athelstan knew were a mask for prostitution and other secret sins. Once he was on the quayside he looked around for Moleskin, only to be informed by the boy guarding his barge that the boatman could be found in the cookshop next to the Piebald tavern, where he had business with Master Merrylegs, the owner. On the way to the Night in Jerusalem, Athelstan and Cranston stopped there. Moleskin was sitting in the far corner deep in conversation with Merrylegs, who supplemented his income with the sale of goods stolen by Athelstan’s parishioners from the stalls in Cheapside. Once Cranston’s huge form was seen bearing towards them, Merrylegs and Moleskin hastily drew apart, sweeping whatever was on the table before them into a leather bag.
‘Oh! God bless you, Brother Athelstan.’ Moleskin tried to hide his guilt behind a smile whilst Merrylegs hurried away. ‘And you, Sir John, do you want some ale?’
‘I would love to know what you have in that bag,’ the coroner replied, ‘but instead I’ll give you a task. You recall the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’
‘Of course, your grace,’ Moleskin hastily replied. ‘All the river people knew about it.’
‘The boatmen, they left widows, families?’
‘Just widows.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘And one of them has died too, drowned washing clothes! Silly woman, she always insisted on drinking ale.’ He wagged a finger in the coroner’s face. ‘Ale and the river don’t mix.’
‘And the other widow?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, that’s fat Margot. She’s left Southwark, sells fish in Billingsgate.’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan declared, ‘after Mass, bring fat Margot to see me.’
Moleskin agreed. Athelstan and Cranston continued their journey. When they arrived at the Night in Jerusalem, Master Rolles was acting all busy in the tap room. He was surly in his greeting, muttering under his breath at how busy he was.
‘I have gathered the rest,’ he declared, wiping his hands. ‘They’re in the solar. Sir John, what is this all about?’
The taverner’s black eyes were almost hidden by creases of fat; his annoyance, however, was obvious, in his petulant whine and the way he kept looking longingly towards the kitchen, where cooks and scullions were busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment.
‘Why, Master Rolles, it’s murder!’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ the taverner muttered.
‘Mine host,’ Cranston slapped him hard on the shoulder, ‘four corpses have been found in your tavern, whilst the Misericord is dead.’
Master Rolles gaped.
‘Dead?’ he spluttered. ‘But he was taken safe to Newgate.’
‘He was safe,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but now he is dead! Poisoned in his cell.’
Rolles immediately ushered them into the solar. The knights were there, surly-eyed and bitter-mouthed, openly seething at Cranston’s peremptory summons, as was Mother Veritable, who made her annoyance obvious by turning away, more interested in what was happening in the garden beyond.
Cranston sat at the top of the table, Athelstan beside him.
‘You seem impatient with us,’ the coroner began, ‘so I’ll be blunt. I’m in no mood for niceties. Where were you all this afternoon?’
He paused while Athelstan undid his writing satchel and laid out a piece of vellum on the table along with his writing instruments.
‘Well?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Where were you all?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Maurice Clinton broke in. I can vouch for that, as can Master Rolles.’ The knight gestured at the taverner. ‘I can also vouch for him.’
‘And you, Mother Veritable?’ Cranston asked sweetly.
‘Why, Sir Jack,’ her voice was rich with sarcasm, ‘I have been here since noon at Master Rolles’ request. We were discussing the burial of poor Beatrice and Clarice.’
‘And none of you left?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The gentlemen,’ Master Rolles declared, ‘rose late, broke their fast, and either stayed in their chambers, sat in the garden or, after noon, dined here. Ask any of the maids or scullions. You had best tell them, Sir John, what has really happened.’
‘The Misericord is dead,’ Cranston declared. ‘He was kept safe in a cell at Newgate, but someone passed him a pie claiming it was a gift from me. The pie was poisoned . . .’
Athelstan watched their faces for any reaction. The knights seemed unconcerned, whilst Mother Veritable just shrugged, a bitter twist to her mouth.
‘Look around you, Sir John,’ Sir Maurice urged. ‘Who is missing?’
‘The Judas Man.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him since this morning. And where is Brother Malachi?’
‘Why should we be interrogated,’ Sir Reginald Branson coughed, ‘because a rogue, undoubtedly bound for the hangman, had his pie laced with poison?’
His words provoked laughter, which Cranston stilled by banging on the table.
‘The Judas Man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘is his horse still in the stable?’
‘Yes,’ Rolles replied, ‘I saw it there myself. If you want, I’ll check his chamber.’
They all waited as the taverner left the solar and, complaining loudly, stamped up the stairs. He returned a short while later.
‘The door was off the latch,’ he declared, retaking his seat, ‘but the chamber is empty. All his goods, saddlebags,’ he spread his hands, ‘gone.’
‘But not his horse?’
‘No, Brother, neither his horse nor the harness. Perhaps the Judas Man has hired another chamber?’
‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Sir Thomas Davenport grumbled. ‘Master Cranston, if we want to, we should be able to leave here.’
‘Sir John, to you,’ Cranston snapped, ‘and I assure you, sir, that if you leave Southwark, I’ll have you arrested and dragged back at my horse’s tail.’
‘Enough!’ Athelstan’s raised voice created a surprised silence. ‘Why this hostility?’ the Dominican continued. ‘Five people have been foully murdered, their souls sent to God before their time. Beneath such murders the events of twenty years ago, the Lombard treasure being stolen, and again five souls disappeared. God knows if they were murdered or not.’
‘Brother, that’s a closed book,’ Sir Maurice countered. ‘The truth couldn’t be established then.’
‘Surely you know the proverb, Sir Maurice: truth is the daughter of time. If we resolve the mystery of twenty years ago, we shall be able to establish the truth now.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘So, none of you left the tavern this afternoon and, therefore, were probably not involved in the murder of the Misericord.’
‘Probably?’ Mother Veritable spat out.
‘Well, mistress, you may not have left the tavern, but a man you hated lies murdered.’
Mother Veritable sneered, tapping her fingers on the table.
‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘the Lombard treasure was stolen. Master Rolles owned this tavern and the Knights of the Golden Falcon were staying here.’
They all agreed.
‘On that particular night you gathered here. The only two persons missing were Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer.’
‘Brother Malachi wasn’t here.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘He had been absent all day visiting Charterhouse and Clerkenwell. He didn’t return until afterwards, when the news of the robbery was all over the city.’
‘Very good.’ Athelstan folded back the full sleeves of his gown. ‘Whilst you stayed here, Richard Culpepper fell smitten with the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. That is correct?’
Sir Maurice agreed; Mother Veritable echoed the word ‘smitten’ under her breath.
‘Mistress, you find this funny?’
‘Yes, I do, Brother,’ came the cool reply. ‘Everybody was smitten with Guinevere, whilst she was smitten with anyone who had gold and silver.’
‘Guinevere hinted,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that there was to be a change in her life. Do any of you know what she was referring to?’
‘She was a whore!’ Davenport shouted. ‘We can’t be held responsible for what went on in her pretty empty noddle.’
‘So none of you were smitten with her?’
‘Well of course not!’ Branson spoke up, his face all aflush. ‘Culpepper was our comrade; each to their own, I say.’
‘Did Culpepper or Mortimer,’ Athelstan continued, ‘tell you why they had been chosen to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it to the flagship?’
‘No.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘We only found that out later. Apparently, as I’ve said, Lord Belvers chose them especially, though rumour claimed His Grace the Regent was responsible.’
‘Why?’
‘They’d both fought in John of Gaunt’s retinue. He was, I suppose, their liege lord.’
‘Both of them?’ Cranston queried. ‘Culpepper is a Kentish name, but Mortimer, that’s a name from South Wales, isn’t it?’
‘True, Sir John. Mortimer was Culpepper’s friend and comrade – a mercenary who often frequented our company, a good swordsman and a master bowman. Culpepper and Mortimer were like two peas in a pod. During the days before the great robbery they were often absent; they acted rather mysteriously, not telling us where they were going or what they were doing.’
‘And you never questioned them?’
‘Well, of course, Brother, we were curious, but those were very busy days: the fleet preparing to sail, men seeking out friends and comrades, and, of course, there was always the attraction of Guinevere the Golden.’
‘So,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘you know nothing about the Lombard treasure or your two comrades being chosen to accept it; you spent that night here in the tavern, you have no knowledge of why Guinevere hinted that she should soon have a change in station, and you have no knowledge of what happened to the treasure, Culpepper and Mortimer?’
‘I speak for us all,’ Sir Maurice abruptly declared. ‘We would also like to know why we are being kept here, and why,’ he added, glaring bitterly at Cranston, ‘two of our comrades, Sir Laurence and Sir Stephen, have been slain, yet their assassin has not been caught.’
‘We are searching for the assassin,’ Cranston stood, pushing back the chair, ‘and until we find that person, everyone in this room, not to mention the Judas Man and Brother Malachi, is regarded as a suspect.’
Athelstan repacked his writing satchel, aware of the ominous silence. Once outside, Cranston put a finger to his lips. He crossed the stable yard and entered the street.
‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, adjusting the strap of his writing satchel over his shoulder, ‘that Culpepper or Mortimer, or indeed both of them, could still be alive, and be responsible for these murders? Where is the Judas Man, and Brother Malachi? They have questions to answer.’
‘Oh, I forgot to ask them that.’
Cranston told Athelstan to wait, and strode back into the tavern. The friar waited impatiently, watching two boys play with an inflated pig’s bladder, only to be distracted by two little girls chasing a rat they had disturbed in a rubbish heap. The sun had disappeared. Athelstan felt cold and hungry, and leaned against the gate post.
‘It’s time to pray,’ he whispered. ‘To eat and sleep.’
‘Well,’ Cranston came striding back through the gate, ‘I asked my question and nobody could help.’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Did any of them hire the Judas Man? They could tell me nothing, not even his true name. I wonder,’ Cranston tapped his boot on the cobbles, ‘I wonder if the Judas Man was hired, or does he have something to do with those events twenty years ago? I have checked the stables. His horse and harness are still there. I’ll get my searchers out. If necessary I’ll arrest him.’
‘Very good, Sir John.’
‘You look tired,’ Cranston said kindly. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your prayers, monk, I’ll see what the Lady Maud has been doing.’
Cranston walked off down the street.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother?’ Cranston turned.
‘I’m a friar.’
‘And a very good one too. Good day to you, Brother.’
Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Some of the parish children were playing in the cemetery. He walked up the steps to the church and into the gloomy nave. He lit some tapers at the Lady Altar and, picking one up, walked round the sanctuary. He visited the chantry chapel and noticed the tapers lying on the floor. The missal was gone, and his curiosity deepened when he found it lying down the nave near a pillar. He hurried across to his house. Nothing seemed amiss, but as soon as he turned the key in the lock, he realised something was wrong, though the kitchen was swept and clean, and the fire built high.
‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry.’
The friar glanced up in surprise as Brother Malachi came down the ladder from the bed loft. The Benedictine looked as if he had been deeply asleep. Warming his hands over the fire, Malachi told Athelstan all about his visit to the church: how he had been attacked and fled to the house for safety.
‘Strange,’ he smiled, ‘I never thought a church could be so dangerous. Brother, I had no choice, there was no one around. I forced the shutters and hid; I dared not go out.’
‘I saw no sign of your attacker in the church or cemetery.’
‘Once I was in here,’ Brother Malachi declared, ‘there was no further attack. I think my assailant fled.’
Athelstan reassured him that he had done the right thing, whilst trying to control his anger at the way the attacker had used his church for murder and sacrilege.
‘He threw knives? You are sure of that?’
‘Very sure, Brother. Two narrowly missed my face; they were long, thin and ugly. I thought I would die from fright. I went into the church to think, to make my devotions. I do not like that tavern. I am now highly distrustful of my companions. My days with them are ended.’
He held up his maimed hand.
‘I have known them for longer than I care to think. I have eaten, drunk, lived, slept and fought with them.’
‘Do you think one of them was your assailant?’
‘Perhaps.’ Malachi rubbed the side of his face. ‘And yet, I know those knights. My assailant moved swiftly, a dagger man, and unless I am mistaken, that is not a skill shared by any of those knights.’
‘Let us see, let us see.’
Athelstan took Malachi back into the church. They lit candles and carefully searched but, apart from the splintered wood in the entrance to the chantry chapel, Athelstan could find no sign of any knife.
‘I’ll get Crispin the carpenter to see to the wood.’ Athelstan patted Malachi on the arm. ‘If you wish, you can stay with me. You would feel safer, wouldn’t you?’
The Benedictine nodded. ‘I’ll go back later to collect my belongings. If you could shelter me, Brother, when this is all over, before I leave,’ he offered, ‘I’ll make good any damage or inconvenience I may have caused.’
Athelstan walked him back to the house, describing what had happened that day. He talked whilst he prepared the evening meal, laying out the tranchers. From its hook in the buttery he brought a roll of cured spiced ham, yesterday’s bread, small pots of butter and honey and a pitcher of ale. He recited the Benedicite and sat down.
‘Did you know the Misericord?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I remember him vaguely as a lad, a cheeky-faced boy who had the run of Master Rolles’ tavern, nothing significant. I’m sorry for his death. God assoil him and give him good rest. Brother, I was not in Cheapside today.’ Malachi grinned. ‘I can tell from your eyes you must be suspicious about everyone.’
‘The Judas Man?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Athelstan, I know nothing of him either, nor do I know anything about Master Rolles or Mother Veritable. The knights? I thought they were honourable men, boisterous when young, valiant warriors in war, respectable and upright in their mature years.’
‘Do you think they could have killed your brother and stolen the treasure?’
‘How could they?’ Malachi glanced away. ‘On the night the treasure was taken, they were drunk. I was across the river visiting brethren at Charterhouse. The next morning I saw them; they were totally dispirited, indeed, irritable. Brother Athelstan, I went to Outremer with these men, I slept beside them on ship, on shore, in the desert. I fought with them before the walls of Alexandria. I heard their confessions. If they owned the treasure it would have been obvious. The mice in your church are richer than they were. They were pressed for money, even to eat and drink. When the ship docked at Genoa to take on supplies they had to pawn some of their own weapons and beg loans from their comrades.’
‘But couldn’t they have stolen the treasure and hidden it until their return?’
‘It’s possible.’ The Benedictine pushed away his trancher, picked up a piece of cheese and chewed on it slowly. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of this kingdom, from Cornwall to the mountains of Scotland. I made enquiries through them; sometimes our abbots act as bankers. I have also circulated lists to the guilds of goldsmiths and jewellers in London, Bristol, Nottingham, Carlisle and even in the Cinque Ports. I promised rewards for any sign of the Lombard treasure being found.’
‘How did you know the description of that treasure?’
‘I went to see Teodora Tonnelli, head of the Lombard banking house in London. He still does business here. He gave me a complete list of what was stolen. He, too, offered a reward.’
Athelstan put his face in his hands. He tried to visualise the Oyster Wharf at night, the cresset torches burning, Culpepper and Mortimer, the two bargemen.
‘How was the treasure transported?’
‘According to Tonnelli, in an iron-bound coffer with three locks. The keys had been given to the captain of the flagship.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan sighed. ‘Further precaution, eh? I can’t imagine someone trying to force that chest on the quayside or on a barge on the river at night.’ He closed his eyes again. ‘I’m trying to imagine, Malachi, how it happened? Did your brother and Mortimer kill the boatmen and disappear into the darkness with the treasure? Or did the boatmen help? If that was the case, surely someone would have seen them, two or four men staggering through the darkness with a heavy chest? Yet, if they were attacked, all four men were well armed; surely they would have defended themselves? The crash of swords, the yells, the cries. Someone must have heard! And how would they get so close?’
Athelstan rubbed his fingers around his lips, wiping away the crumbs.
‘Of course, it is possible a master bowman, perhaps two skilled archers, slipping through the darkness, brought down all four men with well-aimed shafts. But there again, the treasure hasn’t been found, nor the remains of any of the corpses. And if blood was shed . . .’ He opened his eyes. ‘The Oyster Wharf was inspected the following morning, wasn’t it?’
Malachi nodded.
‘I went down there myself, Brother, not a sign. My brother was a fighting man, he had been entrusted with an important task. He would be wary. How could his attackers even get close?’
‘So you can tell me nothing about your brother?’
‘What I know,’ Malachi replied, crossing himself, ‘is what you know.’
‘Do you think your brother and Mortimer survived?’
‘And attacked me in your church? No.’ Malachi picked up a piece of cheese and broke it into two with his fingers. ‘I believe my brother and Mortimer are dead.’ He touched his chest. ‘Just a feeling here.’
Athelstan studied the Benedictine carefully – Malachi seemed very agitated, as if trying to control his temper.
‘No one left that tavern today.’ Athelstan put his thoughts into words. ‘Yet who murdered the Misericord? Who would want you dead?’
‘There’s the Judas Man.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Athelstan brushed the rest of the crumbs off and went to refill the ale jug. ‘I’m afraid,’ he called from the buttery, ‘he’s disappeared and is becoming the scapegoat for every awful act.’
‘I know nothing of him,’ Malachi called back. ‘Why should he attack me?’
‘Tell me about Mortimer,’ Athelstan asked, coming back.
‘A Welshman, related to the great family. You know the kind, the youngest son of the youngest brother; all Mortimer owned was a weapon and a horse. A dark, swarthy-faced man with raven-black hair down to his shoulders. A skilled dagger man, good with a bow. Mortimer and Richard met during the wars in France and became the closest of comrades. I felt as if Richard had acquired another brother.’
Athelstan sensed the hint of jealousy in Malachi’s voice.
‘I know what you are thinking: I’m jealous of Mortimer. Somehow he always made my brother laugh. Mortimer was close, secretive, he’d often disappear for days and nights, shifty-eyed but trustworthy enough. He had a sister, a quiet little mouse of a woman.’
Malachi rose from the table.
‘It’s growing dark, Brother, I can say no more. It’s time for vespers, but I will not go alone into your church.’
‘Let’s pray together,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘For strength against the demon who prowls like a lion seeking whom he may devour.’