The House of Shadows (24 page)

‘How are you, old comrade?’ Cranston gave Bohun a squeeze.

‘Happy as a hog’s turd.’

‘Thirsty?’

‘Always!’

Cranston steered Bohun over to a makeshift ale shop set up under one of the trees, selling hot cups of posset, and tankards of lambswool, strong ale enriched with roasted apples, raw sugar, grated nutmeg and ginger, with tiny sweet cakes floating on the top. He ordered two of these, and he and his comrade sat on a nearby bench, sipping appreciatively at the rim of the leather blackjacks.

‘I used to come here,’ Cranston murmured, gesturing at the crowds. ‘My father was a fearsome man, Keeper of the Horses at the Royal Stables, at Clerkenwell. He would collect me from St Paul’s school and, if the master said I had done well, would bring me here to sip some lambswool. Fine days, eh, Bohun? I didn’t become a philosopher or a lawyer,’ he continued, ‘but first and foremost a knight. I enjoyed the glory days.’ He sipped from the tankard again.

‘Sir John,’ Bohun sighed, ‘I have known you for many a year; our friendship runs deep.’ He placed the blackjack on the ground between his feet and cocked his head, half listening to a group of scholars standing nearby, sweetly singing the hymn ‘Alma Mater Dei’. ‘I was Serjeant of the Tower, responsible for the Garde Manger and Garde Au Vin, supervisor of the food and wine. I suspect you have not brought me here to go back through the Gates of Ivory and Horn into the realm of dreams, of what might have been?’

‘Sharp as ever.’ Cranston plucked at the ganache, the over-robe Bohun wore, tied round the middle with a ribbon. ‘You’ve lost weight?’

‘
Bellum intestinum
,’ Bohun whispered, picking up the tankard. ‘War within! There’s something wrong with my gut, Sir John. By noon I’m tired and the pain returns, that’s why I’m impatient. So, why have you brought me here?’

Cranston stared at Bohun’s sad face and pitied him. Some of his old friends had already gone; Cranston always feared that some day he would even lose the friendship of Athelstan, whose order could send him to any house in the kingdom.

‘The Lombard treasure,’ he began. ‘Twenty years ago the bankers sent a casket of treasure into the Tower. It was meant for Peter of Cyprus’ crusade against Alexandria. You remember? England had signed a peace treaty with France, so many knights and fighting men flocked to Lord Peter’s banner. An English fleet assembled in the Thames. The bankers provided this treasure, which could later be exchanged for gold and silver, in return for which, as usual, they would receive their loan back with interest as well as a portion of all profits. The treasure was delivered to the Tower, a secure place where our noble Regent, John of Gaunt, was Keeper. He was fearful that it might be stolen if he sent it along the riverbank, or across London Bridge, so it was apparently taken from Tower Quay, across the river, along the south bank of the Thames, under London Bridge to the Oyster Wharf in Southwark. Here it was to be handed over to two knights, Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer. They, helped by two boatmen, were to take the treasure across to the Fleet’s flagship, anchored mid-river somewhere between Queenhithe and Dowgate. The treasure was delivered; Culpepper sealed an indenture for it, but since that night, there’s been no sight of the treasure, or those two knights or the boatmen they hired. Now, you were a Serjeant in the Tower at that time.’

‘I suppose I haven’t long left,’ Bohun rubbed his hands together, ‘and I’m not sure of the importance or truth of what I’m going to say, but,’ he sipped at his drink, ‘the Tower was full of Gaunt’s men, archers, footmen and household knights. The Lombards brought their treasure in on a cart.’

‘How big was the chest?’

‘About a yard long, and a little more in height. A great black oaken chest, stiffened with iron bands. It had three locks and someone told me that the keys had already been given to the Admiral of the Fleet.’ Bohun closed his eyes, eager to remember details. ‘The chest was taken into the Norman Tower. The Lombards had pressed their seals on it, and so did John of Gaunt. I remember him, how can you forget that golden hair, those light blue eyes? I saw that chest because it was kept in the same cellar as the wine. Two days later it was gone, that’s all I know. When the news came of the robbery Gaunt was beside himself with rage. He locked himself in the royal quarters, refusing to meet anybody, even messengers sent from his father the King.’

‘And you know nothing?’ Cranston showed surprise.

‘Sir John, the treasure was meant to be a great secret. I don’t know what happened to it or its guardians. But I tell you this, Edward Mortimer was one of John of Gaunt’s henchmen. Oh yes,’ he smiled at Cranston’s expression, ‘Mortimer sealed indentures with him, fought in his retinue in Gascony; that’s where he met Culpepper. And did you also know, Sir John, in the days preceding the Great Robbery, Culpepper and Mortimer were regular visitors to the Tower, met by no less a person than the Regent himself. Of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s nothing wrong in that. They had been given a secret mission. Sometimes a woman came with them.’

‘A woman with golden hair?’

‘No, Sir John. This woman was small and dark. She often stayed in the refectory, being served by the pantry man.’

‘Who was she?’

‘At first I thought she was Mortimer’s woman. In fact she was his sister Helena. Very close to her brother she was, owned a house in Poor Jewry.’

Cranston drained his tankard in one swallow and jumped up, ready to leave.

‘Now to where, Sir John?’

‘Helena Mortimer in Poor Jewry. Is she still alive?’

‘God knows, Sir John.’

‘Well, if she is, I’ll find her.’

Cranston thanked his old friend profusely, said he would ask Brother Athelstan to say a Mass for him and hurried off towards Aldgate. He threaded his way through the back streets of the City, the alleyways which ran alongside the City ditch from St Giles to St Mary Axe Street, and into Poor Jewry. This was a broad thoroughfare, the houses on either side old and high, built on stone bases, the tops leaning over so dramatically they created a tunnel with only a strip of sky between them. A respectable although shabby quarter of the City, with garish signs hanging from hooks above shop doorways; a street where one could buy expensive leather goods and silver trinkets. Most of the houses were no longer owned by a single occupant, but each floor was leased out by absent landlords. Cranston made enquiries in a small ale shop at the corner of an alleyway.

‘Helena Mortimer?’ the ale-wife replied. ‘What business do you have with her?’

She studied this large man with his beaver cap and fur-lined robe, who drank her ale, smacking his lips in appreciation. Cranston fished beneath his robe and brought out his seal of office.

‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’

The ale-wife became all flustered, snatched the tankard from his hand and almost hurried him out through the door, pointing him further down the street.

‘The second house past the shop. You’ll find the door open. Helena lives on the bottom floor.’

Cranston thanked her, and when he reached the place, almost collided with a small, swarthy woman, her black hair lined with grey, coming out of the door. She had a round, smiling face with smooth skin, and gracefully accepted, in a lilting voice, Cranston’s apologies.

‘Helena Mortimer?’

‘The same.’

The woman stepped back in alarm; Cranston produced his seal.

‘I must have words with you about your brother Edward.’

‘Have you found him?’

‘Not yet, mistress.’

Helena led him back into the house along a narrow, stone-flagged chamber carefully swept and washed. She unlocked a door and took him into a small chamber with a casement window which looked out on to a herber plot. The room was neatly furnished, coloured cloths hung against the white walls, the chairs and stools were of dark polished oak. She invited him to sit on one side of the mantle hearth while she took off her robe and perched herself on a high-legged stool, feet almost dangling. She reminded Cranston of a small, pretty bird, head to one side, eyes bright and watchful.

‘What made you think we’d found your brother?’

‘Just a moment, Sir John.’

Helena rose and, rubbing her hands, took a padded linen cloth and lifted across the small brazier to stand between them.

‘Oh, he must still be alive.’

She got up again and went to a coffer, and with a jingle of keys opened the lock and threw back the lid. She brought across a white woollen pouch tied at the neck and stamped with the red lion rampant of the Mortimer family.

‘Every quarter,’ she announced proudly, ‘at Easter, midsummer, Michaelmas and Christmas, I receive a pouch, like this,’ she leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘containing five pounds sterling.’

‘A generous amount.’

She was intrigued by Cranston’s disbelief.

‘Honestly, Sir John. Every quarter Master James Lundy, Goldsmith of Cheapside, sends one of his apprentices with such a pouch. It’s what Edward promised. You see,’ she chatted on, ‘we Mortimers are from Wales. We are related, very distantly, to the Mortimer family; our kinsman is the Earl of March. Well,’ she warmed to her story, ‘Edward and I were the youngest children of a third son . . .’

As she gabbled on about the family history, Cranston, totally bemused, continued to stare at her.

‘I see, I see,’ he interrupted kindly. ‘So you, and your brother, left Wales? He was a master swordsman and archer?’

‘He soon received preferment in the retinues of the great lords. He served Edward the Black Prince, Sir Walter Manny and John of Gaunt before moving to Kent, where I met Richard Culpepper. I truly loved Richard – no, not in the carnal sense, Sir John; he became like another brother. Edward and Richard were inseparable, two eyes in the same head I called them. Richard always looked after Edward. I wasn’t too fond of Culpepper’s brother Thomas, the Benedictine monk, too severe and pious for my liking.’

‘And what about the others?’ Cranston asked.

‘Well, they were kind enough. One of them, Chandler, that’s right, he had lecherous eyes and sweaty hands. Edward challenged him to a duel so he left me alone.’

‘Have you been married, mistress?’

‘Oh no, Sir John, spinster of the parish, though I have my admirers. There’s Master Sturmy, he’s a blacksmith, and John Roper, he’s a—’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Mistress, you heard about the great robbery of the Lombard treasure?’

The change in the woman was remarkable. Her face drained, her lips pursed. She looked at Sir John as if she should dismiss him from her house. ‘My brother was guilty of no crime. Something must have happened.’

‘Of course, mistress.’ Cranston took off his gloves and warmed his fingers over the brazier. ‘But it’s a great mystery, isn’t it? I know a great deal about your brother,’ he continued. ‘I realise he wasn’t a thief.’

Helena’s smile returned to her face, and she offered Sir John a cup of malmsey, which he gratefully accepted.

‘Just tell me your story, mistress.’

‘Twenty years ago,’ she replied in that sing-song voice, ‘around midsummer, we came into London. Edward and Richard were all excited about the great expedition to Outremer. Edward found me lodgings in Candlewick Street. I was left to my own devices, although he and Richard would often visit me on their way down to the Tower.’

‘They often went there?’ Cranston became aware of how quiet the house had fallen; he started at a sound from the passageway.

‘Just mice,’ Helena smiled, ‘and yes, they often went to the Tower.’ She leaned forward. ‘Secret business, Sir John.’

‘Which was?’

‘I don’t know, it was secret.’

‘And Edward never told you?’

‘Oh no, he told me how Richard had fallen in love. I was a little bit jealous and said how lonely I had become, so sometimes they took me to the Tower with them. I was all amazed, Sir John, not even the castles in Wales are like that.’

‘Whom did they meet?’

‘It must have been His Grace, John of Gaunt; both Edward and Richard were closeted with him. I was young and carefree and paid little attention. Edward did his best for me. He said he would buy me this house.’

‘What?’ Cranston almost dropped his cup of malmsey. ‘I thought your brother was poor?’

‘So did I, Sir John. One day he announced he had been given a commission, good gold and silver.’

‘And Richard?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps he was given money too? But, knowing what I do, he probably gave it to his leman, the golden-haired one he often talked about. I chose this house. Poor Jewry is not too wealthy but not too poor. After the Great Plague, prices had fallen. It has five chambers above. I let these out to scholars from the Inns of Court. Edward promised he would bring back a treasure from Outremer, and every quarter I would receive five pounds sterling.’

‘And when did these payments begin?’

‘Well,’ she glanced up at the ceiling, at the small Catherine wheel of candles dangling from its gleaming black chain, ‘Edward’s companions returned to England about two or three years afterwards. I hadn’t heard from my brother, but it was around then that the payments began.’

‘Now look, mistress.’ Cranston put his cup on the floor and grasped her hand. Helena’s smile widened. Cranston felt a deep sadness. This woman truly adored and loved her brother, she could believe no ill of him; for years she had refused to confront the truth. ‘Mistress,’ he repeated, ‘here we have a great mystery. Your brother Edward disappeared, he did not go to Outremer. No one knows where he is, not even you, but four times a year for the last seventeen years you receive five pounds sterling, a goodly amount! Surely you must ask yourself where your brother is? Why doesn’t he visit you? How does he send this money to the goldsmith? He was a landless swordman, what profits did he have?’

Helena blinked furiously, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, ‘Sir John, I don’t really know. This is what I think. His Grace the Regent, although he wasn’t Regent then, also loved Edward and trusted him with the Lombard treasure. I believe something terrible happened on the river that night. Edward and Richard were attacked, perhaps Richard was killed and Edward had to flee, rather than face disgrace. Sir John, he would have been accused of robbery, he could have been hanged! I think he fled, he changed his name, and one day,’ she added hopefully, ‘he will return.’