by Paul Doherty
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.’
‘But why not now?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Sometimes, Sir John,’ she pointed to the door, ‘just occasionally, I feel as though I’m being watched. Perhaps Edward knows that, if he was caught here or elsewhere, and I was with him, I could be accused of being his accomplice.’
Cranston sat back in his chair and stared across at the tapestry picture hanging on the wall: Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden under the Tree of Knowledge; a golden black-spotted serpent had wound itself around the trunk and the jaws of its great hydra head parted in a display of sharp teeth and thrusting tongue. I wonder, Cranston reflected, what was the serpent in Edward Mortimer’s life? He accepted the logic of what Helena was saying; to a certain extent it possessed its own truth. But where had Mortimer, a poor knight, managed to secure such money, and was he in hiding, still looking after his sister?
‘James Lundy, the goldsmith, surely you’ve gone to him?’
‘Of course, Sir John, but you know goldsmiths. Master Lundy is a kindly man but still a goldsmith. He will not reveal the secrets of his customers. “I don’t tell people I give you the purse,” he declares, “I don’t tell anybody that I pass it on to you.” All he will say is that at any hour of the day, though usually at night, a man hooded and visored, garbed like a monk, comes in, leaves the purse, receives Master Lundy’s signature and leaves.’
‘But Master Lundy must see the red lion emblem on the pouch. He’s a goldsmith, he must remember the great robbery and realise that a Mortimer was involved in it.’
‘I asked him the same.’ Helena went and refilled her cup, bringing back the jug to fill Sir John’s. ‘He informed me that all he receives is a sealed black pouch. He doesn’t know what is inside; that is what is passed on to me.’
Cranston sipped at the malmsey. The more he studied this mystery, the more perplexed he became. Perhaps he should have brought Athelstan here.
‘Did your brother,’ he made one last try, ‘say anything, mistress? Something you have reflected on over the years, which could provide some clue as to what happened?’
Helena closed her eyes, face tight with concentration. ‘Just one thing.’ She opened her eyes. ‘He told me I would never starve, and that perhaps, one day, I would be a great lady.’
‘And that’s what you are.’
Cranston drained the cup and got to his feet. He grasped Helena’s hands and kissed her fingertips, made his farewells and left. He was in the passageway smelling so sweetly of rosemary and rue when Helena came tripping behind him.
‘Sir John,’ she called breathlessly. ‘You have been so gracious. There is one other matter.’
She asked him to stay whilst she went upstairs and brought down a small coffer with artificial jewels studded in the casing. She opened this and took out a gold cross on a silver chain.
‘This was my mother’s.’
‘Very beautiful,’ Cranston agreed. ‘But what significance does it have?’
‘On the day before Edward disappeared, he came to see me, looking rather pale and agitated, which was unusual. I asked him what the matter was but he wouldn’t tell me. Now I know. Edward always wore this round his neck. He asked me to keep it safe but said that before he sailed for Outremer he would collect it again. Now isn’t that strange, Sir John? Why didn’t he wear it that night?’
‘Perhaps he was afraid of losing it.’
‘But the same could have happened on board ship or in the savage fighting before Alexandria. He always wore it.’
‘Mistress, I truly do not know.’
‘Now you must think I’m feckless,’ Helena continued, ‘that I live in a fool’s paradise. I won’t accept that my brother has died. The truth is, Sir John, as regards Edward I live in a fog of mystery. If he’s alive, why doesn’t he come and collect the cross, never mind see his beloved sister? Yet if he’s dead, who is sending me that money?’
‘I can’t answer that,’ Cranston replied, ‘but I do have one final question for you. After your brother’s disappearance, did anyone visit you?’
‘Oh, John of Gaunt came to see me. He brought me gifts, he said if I was ever in distress I was to write to him.’
‘Anyone else? Such as the knights, Culpepper’s comrades?’
Helena shook her head. ‘Only one, Richard’s brother, Malachi the Benedictine. After the English fleet returned he often visited me for a while, asking questions, but I didn’t tell him anything. He was so cold-eyed.’
‘What sort of questions did he ask you?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, the same as you.’ She pointed behind her. ‘He sat in the chamber fingering his beads. One thing he did say was had I ever truly searched for my brother? I told him a little of what I had done, how I had written to friends in Wales. I even wrote to Sir Maurice Clinton, but he never replied. Then he said a strange thing. Had I thought of hiring a man-hunter?’
‘Pardon?’
‘A man-hunter. You know, Sir John, often former soldiers, they hunt down criminals. I replied no.’
‘Did he now?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Mistress, I thank you!’
Cranston strode out of the house and left Poor Jewry, turning left into Aldgate, down past Leadenhall, the Tun and into Cornhill. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that even the range of villains fastened in the Great Stocks opposite Walbrook failed to attract his attention with their raucous shouts and cries. Passers-by looked at him curiously as the large coroner, a well-known sight along this broad thoroughfare, seemed oblivious to their greetings and shouted questions. Cranston strode along the Mercery, thumbs pushed into his large war belt, only standing aside when the Cart of Shame, full of criminals bound for the stocks, forced him into a doorway. The late morning’s cargo was a bevy of prostitutes caught soliciting outside their marked corner around Cock Lane. They all knew Sir John of old, and made rude jokes or gestured obscenely at him. This time they were disappointed. Cranston did not react but stared back stonily. He leaned against a door post and gazed across at the various stalls under their coloured awnings. This part of the market sold leather goods, pots and pans and finely textured tapestries from abroad. As he watched the swirl of colour, even the appearance of a famous pickpocket, nicknamed ‘Golden Thumb’, failed to provoke him.
Cranston was fascinated by what Helena had told him. Was Edward Mortimer still alive? Was he still sending money to his sister? But, more importantly, had Malachi the Benedictine hired the Judas Man? Was Athelstan correct? Had the Night in Jerusalem become a spiritual magnet drawing in all the sins from the past? Cranston recalled his own schooling along the chilly transepts of St Paul’s Cathedral. His masters taught him about the Furies of Ancient Greece who pursued criminals down the tunnel of the years and always caught their victim. Everyone who had gathered at the Night in Jerusalem, as well as those who hadn’t, such as old Bohun and Helena, was linked mysteriously to that great robbery twenty years ago. Except one: the Judas Man hunting the Misericord, yet he had never made any reference to Mortimer or Culpepper. Had Malachi been searching for the Misericord because that rogue, now dead and rotting in a casket, did possess some knowledge about the Lombard treasure and the men who stole it? Yet there seemed to be no tie between Malachi and the Judas Man. He had never even seen them speak together. Cranston cursed his own memory, though he was certain Malachi had denied any knowledge of that ruthless hunter of men.
‘Don’t lurk here!’
Cranston whirled round and qui
ckly apologised to the fierce-eyed old lady who had appeared in the doorway resting on a cane. He remembered why he was here and continued his journey to West Cheap and the shop of the goldsmith Master James Lundy. Two beautiful blonde-haired girls were playing outside, well dressed in their smocks of fustian. They announced that they were Master James’ daughters and pointed through the doorway where their father was instructing apprentices who manned the stalls outside. Cranston walked in. James Lundy was small, his black hair swept back. He looked up as Cranston entered, and his gentle face creased into a smile.
‘Well I never, Sir John!’
They clasped hands and Lundy took him into the counting office at the back of the shop, a small, lime-washed chamber, its heavy oaken doors bound with steel and its only window a fortified hole. Chests and coffers, all neatly labelled, were grouped against the wall or on the heavy wooden shelves higher up. Lundy waved him to a stool.
‘Sir John, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Helena Mortimer.’ Cranston decided to ignore the niceties. ‘I respect you, Master James, but my business is urgent. Every quarter you send a pouch to her house in Poor Jewry.’
‘To be just as blunt, Sir John, I don’t know what’s in that pouch or why it is sent. I am a banker, a goldsmith. People trust me with their valuables and their secrets.’
‘How is the man dressed?’
Lundy smiled. ‘You’ve visited Mistress Helena, haven’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t know it’s a man. Sir John, he comes to my shop cowled and masked. He gives me the purse and coins for my trouble. I give him a receipt and he leaves.’
‘Aren’t you suspicious?’
‘What he does is not a crime. People make reparation, pay compensation; if they want to keep their faces and motives hidden, who am I to insist? That’s all I can say.’
Cranston thanked him and left, fully determined to pay a visit to the Lamb of God and then return to Southwark to question Brother Malachi.
Chapter 10
Athelstan had risen early and roused Malachi from the makeshift truckle bed he’d set up under the bed loft. They had both prepared for Mass, celebrating it just after dawn, before returning to the priest’s house. Malachi was profuse in his gratitude, fearful, as he said, about returning to the Night in Jerusalem. Athelstan kept insisting that he could stay at St Erconwald’s as long as he liked. He repeated his promise over bowls of steaming oatmeal laced with honey, followed by rather stale bread, salted bacon, and the dark brown ale Athelstan had warmed over the fire as Cranston had taught him. Malachi now felt more at ease since his assault and Athelstan easily understood the horror the Benedictine had been through. The fresh light of day illuminated the marks in the church where the assassin’s daggers had smashed into the walls. The Benedictine had recovered his poise and ate hungrily. He accepted Athelstan’s hospitality and said he would return to the Night in Jerusalem to collect his belongings, as well as buy provisions for the pantry and buttery.
‘I’ll send Crim down,’ Athelstan offered. ‘I’ll tell him to wait for you. He’s skilled with a wheelbarrow and you can pile your possessions on that.’
‘One final favour, Brother.’ Malachi put his horn spoon down. ‘I told you last night how I had come to St Erconwald’s to pray; I also came to see the ring I had given you, just once more, before it is sealed under the relic stone.’
‘Of course!’
Athelstan went across to the parish chest, unlocked it and took the ring from its small coffer. He handed it to Malachi, who took it over to the window and, still examining it, brought it back to Athelstan.
‘I’m glad we brought this ring here. It’s the least we could do for the trouble and inconvenience caused.’
Athelstan turned the ring over, looking at those strange crosses carved on the inside.
‘It’s rather small,’ the Dominican declared. ‘More like a woman’s ring. The good bishop must have worn it on his little finger, as we would a friendship ring.’
‘Athelstan,’ Malachi rose, ‘I must go.’
He collected his cloak and left. The Dominican heard him greet the parishioners already congregating outside for another meeting of the parish council. Athelstan put his face in his hands and groaned; as if he didn’t already face a sea of troubles. Bonaventure came through the half-open shutters, dropping softly to the floor. As usual, he went round the table and then sprawled in front of the fire. When Athelstan didn’t bring his bowl of milk, he lifted his head, staring fiercely with his one good eye.
‘Concedo, concedo,’ Athelstan said. ‘You remind me of Cranston when he is eager for claret!’
He gave the great tomcat his drink and sat hunched on the stool by the fire. Last night he and Malachi had chanted both vespers and compline, standing in that shadowy church, their voices ringing out, Exsurge Domine, Exsurge Domine. Athelstan recalled the words of that psalm: ‘Arise O Lord, Arise and Judge my Cause, for a band of wicked men have beset me and wish to take my soul as low as Hell.’ The problem was, Athelstan mused, who were the wicked men? Who had killed the Misericord and launched that vicious attack on a poor unarmed Benedictine monk? What did the Misericord mean by those strange markings on the wall? Or those two dead women, Beatrice and Clarice, by their veiled references to the Misericord’s sister Edith having upon her person the possible solution to their own mother’s disappearance? Athelstan recalled Edith’s tear-streaked face, and felt a pang of compassion and guilt. He must go and visit the poor woman. He had tried to talk to Malachi the previous night but the Benedictine was tired and, as he confessed, had drunk one pot of ale too many, so he had retired early. Athelstan had secured the church, made sure God-Bless had eaten and was warm enough in the death house before retiring himself. He had spent an uneasy night, a sleep plagued by dreams. For some strange reason he dreamed that he was celebrating Mass, and when he turned to lift the Host, a pack of weasels was kneeling before him. He didn’t like such dreams or thoughts.
Athelstan started at the knock on the door. Benedicta came in, her head and shoulders hidden by a thick woollen shawl, beautiful eyes glistening in the cold.
‘Brother, we are ready,’ she exclaimed.
‘Oh, God!’ Athelstan replied, quoting from the psalm, ‘“Come quickly to my aid, make haste to help me.” You are well, Benedicta? I saw you at Malachi’s Mass.’
‘I decided to go to the chantry chapel. I had to get away from Pernel and those gloves she’s bought.’
Athelstan put on his cloak. ‘The troubles of the day are only just beginning.’
He left the house, looked in on Philomel, and followed Benedicta round, up the steps and into the church, closing the door behind him. The parish council was ready in all its glory. Watkin had brought down the sanctuary chair, as well as a smaller one for himself, so that as leader of the council he could sit on Athelstan’s right. The rest perched on benches or stools. From their angry faces and stony silence it was obvious battle was about to begin. Watkin the dung collector was glowering at the floor, his fat, unshaven face mottled with fury. Pike the ditcher looked rather smug. Beside him, sharp-tongued Imelda leaned forward like a cat ready to pounce, eyes glaring at Cecily the courtesan, who looked fresh as a buttercup, her golden hair like a nimbus around her pretty face. She sat all coy and demure in a new dark blue smock with a white petticoat beneath. She had hoisted both up to give Pike a generous view of her delicate ankles. Ursula’s sow was stretched in the middle of it all, fat flanks quivering, fast asleep. Ranulf cradled his ferret box whilst Pernel, her hair freshly dyed, kept admiring the dark red gloves she’d bought, daggered and slashed: their backs, studded with pieces of glass, had little bells fastened to them. She kept shaking these and the tinkling was a further source of vexation to the parishioners. Only Moleskin was missing; Athelstan recalled his meeting with the boatman the previous afternoon.
‘Well, Father, are we to begin?’ Watkin rose.
‘Yes, we are. First bring down the hour candle.’
‘Oh no!
’ Basil the blacksmith moaned. ‘Father, you’re not angry with us?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but I can see you are angry with each other. The clouds are gathering, the anger will come, the lightning will flash!’
Watkin brought the hour candle and placed it next to Ursula’s sow, whilst Crim the altar boy scampered off to bring a taper from the Lady Chapel.
‘I’ve lit the candle,’ Athelstan said, taking his seat. ‘This meeting will certainly end when the flame reaches the next red circle.’
He nodded at Mugwort the bell clerk, who was sitting on his stool, his crude writing tray on his lap.
‘Only take down the important decisions; afterwards, put that ledger back in the sacristy. Right, the preparations for Advent. Watkin, you will have to take your cart and go out to the wasteland to collect as much greenery as possible . . .’
‘You haven’t said a prayer.’ Pernel lifted one gloved hand and shook it vigorously.
‘No, we haven’t,’ Athelstan confessed, ‘and I think we need one.’ He closed his eyes and, in a powerful, carrying voice, sang the first three verses of the Veni Creator Spiritus. The parish council sat transfixed. Brother Athelstan had a rich, vibrant voice, and when he sang with his eyes closed, they recognised that he was not in the best of humours. He had taught them the translation of these words and he always emphasised the same verses: ‘Oh come you Father of the poor, Oh come with riches which endure.’