The House of Shadows (11 page)

Cranston stood in the tavern doorway, beckoning him over. Athelstan hurried across, grateful for the sweet warmth of the inn. Rolles was busy in the kitchen, but the coroner was most insistent on meeting the knights, and a short while later, Cranston sat at the head of the long walnut table in the solar, Master Rolles, Brother Malachi and the four knights ranged down either side. Athelstan sat at the far end. He brought his writing tray out, uncapped the ink horn and had a sharp quill ready.

‘I must protest.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘My Lord Coroner, we intended to visit Trinity, guests of the Aldermen at the Guildhall.’

‘I couldn’t care if the Lord God Almighty was your host,’ Cranston snapped. ‘I have more questions for you.’

Davenport pulled a sullen face. Sir Reginald Branson, with his long grey hair tied in a queue, made to leave, scraping back his chair, his black and white cloak draped over one arm.

‘If you leave, sir, I’ll have you arrested for murder.’ Cranston pounded the table with a ham-like fist. ‘And the same goes for you, Master Rolles, busy as you claim, even if you had Mary and Joseph in the stable outside, though, knowing you, you wouldn’t even give them that!’

Cranston’s anger stilled all protest.

‘Master Rolles, you hire girls from Mother Veritable?’

‘I’ve told you.’ The taverner’s fat face glistened with sweat; his piggy eyes screwed up in annoyance, he breathed noisily through his nose and gestured at the tapestry. ‘A letter left there, a silver coin with the name of the girl wanted.’ He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Sometimes that’s just left for me, other times I put it there for Mother Veritable’s messenger—’

‘How many coins?’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Whatever the arrangement, it’s a deposit of two coins; one for me, one for Mother Veritable.’

‘Isn’t that against the City ordnances?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Tell him, Sir John.’

‘Southwark lies beyond the jurisdiction of the Corporation. As long as Rolles doesn’t actually house the girls in question, he is breaking no law. So, these wenches simply arrive and their customers are waiting?’

‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘The note will designate where they are to come, to the tap room or to a chamber.’

‘Or a hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Where is your note,’ Cranston asked, ‘inviting Beatrice and Clarice?’

‘I understand Mother Veritable has destroyed it.’

‘You saw them arrive?’

‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘On the night of the Great Ratting they came into the tap room. They were to meet their customer once that was over, about the second hour after midnight. There are hour candles in the tap room. The girls wouldn’t miss such an assignation. I saw them there until just before the fight, when the Judas Man killed Toadflax thinking he was the Misericord.’

‘Why are we here?’ Sir Laurence Broomhill, slightly shorter than the rest, leaned over the table and glared down at Athelstan.

‘You know full well. Would any of you here,’ Cranston stared around, ‘take an oath that they have never lain with either or both of those slain women?’

Sir Laurence sat back.

‘Answer the question.’ Cranston pounded the table. ‘You come up to London to celebrate what you call the “old days”, when you gathered here as Crusaders under the banner of Lord Peter of Cyprus. Every year you return. You lodge here and have Mass said at St Erconwald’s. You also visit the brothel, and always ask for Clarice or Beatrice.’

‘Is this true?’ Brother Malachi asked weakly. ‘You still consort with whores?’

‘You cannot come to Mass,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘You must not take the Eucharist, until you stop such sin, confess and receive absolution.’

The knights were clearly taken aback and stunned into silence.

‘In fact,’ Athelstan continued, ‘I do not want you in my church. You have committed fornication.’

‘More importantly for me,’ Cranston remarked, ‘one, two or all of you may have committed murder. Where were you on the night these girls were killed?’

‘We left the tap room.’ Sir Maurice Clinton spoke up. ‘We left after the Great Ratting. We returned to our chambers.’

‘All of you?’ Cranston asked.

‘Tell the truth,’ Brother Malachi said. ‘Go on, Sir Laurence.’

The knight rested his elbows on the table, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

‘We all returned to our chambers. Brother Malachi came to mine, alarmed by the sound from the fight below. He wanted to know if I would share a cup of wine with him, but I’d gone back downstairs to see what the fray was all about.’

‘And so?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What did you do, Brother Malachi?’

‘I went downstairs, to see what had caused the tumult. By then the man was dead, his corpse laid out in the tap room. I went to take the night air in the stable yard. I saw Sir Stephen come back, his cloak all about him. He appeared agitated.’ The Benedictine glanced quickly around the table. ‘I do not want to betray my comrades. But we must tell Sir John what happened in the tap room.’

‘Well?’ the coroner demanded.

‘During the Great Ratting,’ Sir Maurice replied, ‘Chandler parted company with us. I saw him arguing with the two whores.’

‘You mean he solicited them?’

Sir Maurice nodded. ‘They would have nothing to do with him,’ he continued. ‘They were laughing, pushing him away. He came back sweating, cursing under his breath.’

‘Oh
Domine, miserere!
Lord have mercy,’ Sir Laurence whispered.

Cranston spread his hands on the table.

‘Is it possible,’ Davenport asked, ‘that Sir Stephen was insulted by those two whores? He may have invited them here but they refused him because they had another assignation.’

‘I must confess,’ Sir Maurice broke in, ‘we have been through Sir Stephen’s possessions. He owned a small arbalest, which is now missing.’

Athelstan scrutinised these knights of Kent, powerful lords, men who owned rich estates, warriors of the Cross, who lived secret lives, coming up to London – Athelstan curbed his anger – to roister and carouse. They’d sin secretly in the dark of night then swagger into his church to eat and drink the body and blood of Christ. Oh yes, Athelstan reflected, Sir Stephen, indeed any of these men, would kill a whore in the blink of an eye, out of rage, frustration, or a sense that their famous honour had been besmirched! He stared down the table at Sir Jack, who was also lost in thought; he recalled that the coroner had told him how knights like these, lords of the land, were flinty-eyed, hard of heart and grasping. Little wonder the poor peasants in the shires round London seethed with discontent. Men whispered how there would soon be a rising, led by the Great Community of the Realm. Cranston claimed the revolt would begin in Kent, no surprise with narrow-souled hypocrites like these lording it in the shire.

‘Did any of you go to that barn?’ Cranston asked.

‘What would I have to do with whores?’ The Benedictine raised his right hand and displayed his stunted fingers. ‘The work of a scimitar, Sir John. I could not handle a crossbow. Ask any of these good men here.’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm. ‘I am more a danger to myself with such a weapon than to anyone else.’

‘And you, Master Rolles. Where were you?’

The taverner got to his feet and went to the door. He shouted for Tobias who served as cook and cask-man and returned to his chair. A short while later a young man with spiked red hair, a leather apron wrapped about him, came into the solar.

‘Tobias, tell the gentlemen here where I was after the Great Ratting.’

The man scratched his face with bloodied fingers, then played with the flesher’s knife in the pocket of his apron.

‘The fight broke out,’ he mumbled. ‘Yes, that’s right, the fight broke out, but you were busy in the kitchen. By the time you returned, Toadflax was dead. You had the corpse laid out in the tap room, then you returned to the kitchen.’

‘Yes,’ Rolles declared exasperatedly, ‘and what happened then?’

‘You told me off for letting some of the pork burn, for not removing it from the spit.’

‘And then?’

‘You stayed there. Something had gone wrong with the tourt, the brown bread,’ Tobias explained. ‘It hadn’t risen in the oven.’

‘Thank you, Master Tobias,’ Cranston snapped. ‘You can go!’

For a while, the coroner just sat drumming his fingers on the table, watching Athelstan, head bowed, his quill racing across the parchment held down by weights at each corner. The friar was now chronicling everything that had happened. Cranston was glad, for he could make no sense of this chain of events.

‘Sir John,’ Sir Maurice asserted himself, ‘you have mentioned our failings, but what about Sir Stephen? His corpse lies cold and stiffening in an outhouse.’

‘For all I know, Sir Stephen could be a murderer,’ Cranston retorted. He stopped himself just in time from openly speculating whether Chandler had gone out to the yard last night of his own accord or been sent by his comrades.

‘Talking of who was where,’ Rolles squirmed in his chair, ‘Mother Veritable has been very truthful with you, Sir John. Did she tell you she was here, in the tavern this morning, when Sir Stephen died?’

Athelstan’s head came up, his eyes narrowing. Rolles was obviously losing his temper, quietly seething, alarmed at how much Mother Veritable’s girl Donata had confessed.

‘What are you saying?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Two of her girls were slain here.’ Rolles couldn’t keep the spite out of his voice. ‘It was well known that Chandler had custom with them. He was soliciting both last night, whilst she was in the tavern this morning when he was killed.’

Athelstan returned to his writing.

‘And there’s someone else.’ Rolles licked his lips. ‘The man sheltering in your church, who calls himself the Misericord.’

‘You know him well?’ Cranston asked.

‘He’s a merry rogue,’ Rolles conceded. ‘He was at the Great Ratting last night. He often comes to this tavern.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘He, too, had words with Beatrice and Clarice – that was before he tricked Toadflax into wearing that sheath.’

Athelstan returned to his writing, making careful note of what he heard. Cranston pushed back his chair, rose to his feet and walked down to the window overlooking the garden. The day was dying, the darkness creeping in, the river mist thickening.

‘Sir John, are you finished?’ Master Rolles called out.

‘Is it true,’ Cranston asked, not turning round, ‘that there were sightings twenty years ago of Richard Culpepper and Guinevere the Golden?’

‘As many as leaves on the tree,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘A lavish reward was offered. Nothing substantial ever came of it.’

‘On that afternoon,’ Cranston asked, ‘when Culpepper disappeared, did he pack all his belongings?’

‘Yes, everything.’

‘Including the truth,’ Cranston snapped back. ‘Gentlemen, we are finished, but none of you are to leave this tavern or Southwark without my permission. Oh.’ He smiled falsely at Rolles. ‘The dead women’s jewellery is to be handed back to Mother Veritable.’ He waved a hand. ‘As for Chandler’s corpse, do what you want.’

They left the Night in Jerusalem. Cranston wanted to go to a cookshop, loudly proclaiming he wished to eat in good company and not with a coven of hypocrites.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, ‘I would like to go down to the riverside. I want to see the place where the great robbery took place. Do you know it?’

‘The Oyster Wharf,’ Cranston replied, ‘or so common report had it. I also know where we can eat.’

They set off through the streets, now emptying as night fell and a freezing river mist swirled in. Stalls were being put away; only a few egg-sellers, carrying their baskets, shouted ‘Ten for a penny!’ Cranston led Athelstan through a maze of alleyways and streets, murky and dirty, reeking of all sorts of offal, and back on to the thoroughfare which wound down to the river. They went along Mincing Lane, past a small chantry chapel which, Cranston explained, had been built in memory of the Earl of Pembroke, who had been killed in a tournament on his wedding day. The streets grew noisier as they approached the riverside. The rippers, the gutters of fish, were still trying to sell what produce was left. The weigher of the beam or tron was busy checking the weights and measures for cheese, butter and wax. At last they reached the Oyster Wharf. Further down stood a great windmill; even so, the air reeked with the stench from the nearby tanneries. Fishermen in their hures, shabby caps of sheepswool, were preparing for a night’s fishing. Near the steps, the boatmen had brought in their catches of oysters, whelks and mussels, laying their baskets before the Serjeant of the Whelks and the Assayer of the Oysters, two officials who guaranteed the quality of each catch before they were sold at fourpence a bushel.

The officials stood under a leather awning. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, eating oysters and onions, a hog’s head serving as a table, whilst the coroner shared out his miraculous wine skin. Further down, young boys with baskets ran about offering salmon, mackerel, haddock, eels and herring at only tuppence a catch. The boys stopped to ridicule a fishwife who had been forced to stand in the stocks for selling whitebait, which had now been draped around her neck. Whilst Cranston chattered to the officials, Athelstan wiped his mouth and walked to the steps leading down to the river. He tried to forget the sounds and smells, so as to imagine this quayside on the night of the great robbery. He went as close as he could to the edge. The river was ebbing, the mist blocked off all view, except for the glow of a torch or lantern horn as some barge made its way down to Westminster. The mist tendrils curled like the cold fingers of a ghost.

‘Be careful, Father!’ one of the boys shouted.

Athelstan stared down at the green-slimed steps.

‘The Lombard treasure arrived,’ he murmured. ‘It would be unloaded, probably left on the quayside. Culpepper and his companion, helped by the two bargemen, would . . .’ He stopped his whispering. ‘No,’ he reflected, ‘Culpepper would have waited until those who had brought the treasure had left. He and his accomplice would then kill the bargemen, load their bodies with stones, and arrange . . .’ Athelstan chewed on the corner of his lip. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘This is all nonsense, I must find out more.’