by Paul Doherty
Cranston, his eyes intent on the bed, just nodded.
‘And you say it was found knocked over and the medicine drained?’
‘Yes, yes, Brother, but leave that. What’s that bloody ferret up to?’
Cranston got his answer. Suddenly there was a violent scuffle under the bed and Ferox emerged, his small snout bloodied as he dragged a fat, long-tailed, brown rat out into the open.
‘Good boy!’ Ranulf whispered.
‘The bloody thing’s as stupid as you are, Ranulf!’
Cranston roared. ‘He’s not here to kill bloody rats but find dead ones!’ Ranulf picked up the dead rat, opened the window and tossed it into the street. Again Ferox went hunting. The minutes passed. Athelstan watched the industrious little ferret and tried not to look at Cranston who, having taken so many swigs from the wineskin, was beginning to sway rather dangerously on the bench. Ranulf kept picking the ferret up and putting it under cupboards and behind chests. Sometimes the ferret would return, other times there would be an eerie scuffling, a heart-stopping scream, and he would re-emerge with a rat. Athelstan had to look away as Cranston began to bellow imprecations. On one occasion Rosamund came and rapped on the door. Cranston roared at her to bugger off and instructed his ‘grinning monk’, as he called Athelstan, to bolt the door.
At last Ranulf was finished. Ferox was put back in his cage. Cranston came down from his perch and all three began to move the bed and bits of furniture, Ranulf even lifting floor boards, but they could find nothing. Eventually, all three went, red-faced and perspiring, to stand in the centre of the room. Cranston’s elation was obvious. He clapped both Athelstan and Ranulf on the shoulder and apologized for bellowing at Ranulf.
‘I’ll buy you the best claret in London!’ he swore. ‘And a drink for your little friend.’
‘He likes malmsey, Sir John.’
‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, he can have a bloody bath in it! But you are sure?’
Ranulf nodded.
‘In which case, we should try the jar.’
He went across, took up the small jug and, using his wineskin, filled the jug to the brim, then raised it to his lips.
‘Sir John, are you certain?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Athelstan, I am about to find out.’ He drank from the jug, draining every drop from it. ‘ Alea jacta! ’ he declared. ‘The die is cast! Let’s see the bitch downstairs.’
They all trooped down to the solar where a tight-faced Rosamund and a much more nervous Albric sat waiting for them.
‘Sir John.’ The woman got to her feet. ‘You have been a good hour in my house. Now get out!’
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ he snapped, advancing within a few inches of her.
‘Why, what else do you want? These ridiculous allegations!’
Cranston breathed in deeply. ‘Rosamund Ingham, and you Albric Totnes, I, Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city, do arrest you for murder and treason!’
Rosamund went white and gaped. Albric slumped wet-eyed and slack-jawed. Athelstan recognized him as an easier quarry. ‘O, Lord,’ he reflected, quoting from the psalms,
‘Stretch out your hand and show your justice.’
Rosamund soon regained her composure.
‘Murder? Treason? What nonsense is this?’
‘You know full well, Mistress.’ Cranston produced from his voluminous sleeve the small jug which he had taken from the chamber above. ‘You agree, Mistress, in the presence of witnesses, that this is the jug containing your late husband’s medicine, an infusion of foxglove or digitalis? A medicine, I understand, which can strengthen the heart if taken in small doses?’
‘Yes, it is. What are you going to say, Sir John, that my husband took too much? He insisted on pouring it himself. No one else was allowed to touch it.’
Cranston nodded. ‘And would you agree, in the presence of witnesses, that this is the jug that was left in your husband’s chamber when I sealed it, and that in your husband’s death throes he knocked it over?’
‘Yes, yes!’
Cranston turned at a sound near the door and summoned over the old manservant.
‘Just in time, me lad!’ he boomed. ‘I could do with another witness. Tell me, Mistress.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Have you ever tasted foxglove?’
‘Of course not! Sir John, you have been drinking!’
‘Yes. Yes, I have. I even drank from this jug.’
Athelstan gazed quickly at AIbric, who might be a coward but, by the look on his face, had already guessed the direction of Cranston’s interrogation. It seemed only to increase his terror.
‘Well,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘foxglove is fairly tasteless. And that’s how you murdered your husband. He kept the main supply of the potion in a stoppered flask in the buttery. What he didn’t know is that, perhaps a month before his death, you poured the potion away and replaced it with nothing more harmful than water.’
‘Don’t be stupid, my husband would have noticed!’
Cranston smiled. ‘Where is that flask?’
‘I’ve thrown it away!’ Rosamund stammered.
‘Well, well,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Why should you do that?’
‘It wasn’t needed!’
‘Rubbish. You wished to hide the evidence! It would never have occurred to him. After all,’ Cranston continued, ‘we see what we expect to see. I understand from my medical friends that foxglove in its liquid form is both clear and tasteless. Perhaps you added something to thicken it a little? What do we have, woman, eh? A man with a weak heart, worried sick about his faithless wife, being deprived for weeks of a life-giving medicine. Oh, yes, Sir Oliver, God rest him, died of a heart seizure — but one brought about by you. Now, Brother Athelstan here is a theologian.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Albric who sat slumped in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. ‘Athelstan will tell you that there are two types of sin. The first is an act, the second an omission. Albric, do you know what omission means?’
The young fop shook his head.
‘It means, you treacherous little turd, that you commit evil by not doing something. You can kill a man by throwing him into the river. You can also kill him by refusing to help him out.’
‘What proof do you have?’ Rosamund demanded.
‘Enough to hang you,’ Cranston answered sharply, coming forward. ‘You see, as your husband died, in the middle of his seizure, his hand flailed out and he knocked over the medicine jar, allowing the liquid to spill out. Now, this house is plagued by rats, hungry and inquisitive.’ Cranston was so furious he found it hard to speak.
‘What My Lord Coroner is saying,’ Athelstan intervened quietly, ‘is that if a rat would gnaw a dead man’s body, it would certainly drink any liquid left lying about. I have looked at that table,’ he lied. ‘As has the professional rat-catcher here. There are signs of rats on that table. Their tracks, as well as their dung, are all over the chamber.’ He glanced quickly at Ranulf who nodded wisely. ‘More importantly,’ he continued, ‘as my good friend here will swear, any rat who drank foxglove would soon die but we discovered no dead rat in that chamber.’ Athelstan schooled his features. He was bluffing and no Justice would convict anyone on the evidence they had produced. His heart skipped a beat as he heard Albric moan. The young man uncrossed his arms and made to rise.
‘This is nonsense!’ Rosamund snapped, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. ‘First the rat could slink away to die anywhere and we have found dead rats in the house, haven’t we, Albric?’ The young man, white-faced, just nodded.
‘That’s impossible!’ Ranulf, entering the spirit of the occasion, now spoke up. ‘Foxglove would kill a rat immediately. I would swear to that. Indeed, I could show you.’
Albric sat down again and stared fearfully at Athelstan.
‘You also mentioned treason.’ Rosamund rushed her words to hide any confusion.
‘Yes, I did,’ Cranston replied softly. ‘Last night I was attacked by footpads. I beat them
off and took one prisoner,’ he lied. ‘He confessed how you hired them to kill me.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘He named you.’
‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ she sneered. ‘Are you also accusing me of hiring three footpads?’
Cranston smiled. ‘How do you know there were three?’
The sneer died on Rosamund’s face.
‘They also named you.’ Cranston nodded at Albric.
‘That’s not true!’ the young man snapped and glared furiously at Rosamund. ‘You said it would be safe!’
‘Oh, shut up, you fool!’ She sat down, covering her face with her hands.
Athelstan relaxed, aware that he had been digging the nails of his fingers into the palms of his hand. He went to stand over the young man.
‘Confess,’ he said quietly. ‘Turn King’s evidence and who knows what the Coroner will do for you?’
Athelstan crouched and patted the young man’s hand then stood up as Albric stared at the floor.
‘I’ll confess,’ he muttered.
Rosamund pushed her tearful, hate-filled face at Athelstan. ‘Shut up, you bloody priest! You ragged-arsed half-man! I did it for you!’ she hissed at Albric. ‘I did it for you!’
He shook his head. ‘We’re finished,’ he whispered.
Cranston turned and beckoned Robert over. ‘Quickly, go down the street. At The Moon and the Cage tavern you’ll find four serjeants. You are to bring them here immediately!’
The steward scurried off. Athelstan and Cranston walked to the front door and waited until the four city serjeants came. Cranston whispered instructions to them then he and his companions left even as Rosamund’s rage turned to hysteria. She screamed her fury at Cranston and Athelstan as the serjeants began to load her and Albric with the chains they had brought.
Outside in the street Cranston stood still, his eyes full of tears. ‘I can’t say anything,’ he said. He shook Athelstan’s hand very formally and then Ranulf’s. He wiped a tear away. ‘Come on. I did not go to Oliver’s requiem mass but let me buy you the funeral toast.’ He pointed down to Ferox, now dozing quietly in his cage. ‘And our little friend here can go home drunk.’
CHAPTER 10
An hour later, a rather drunk Ranulf with an even tipsier ferret staggered out of The Moon and the Cage tavern, muttering that he had to get back to Southwark. Cranston watched the rat-catcher disappear out of the door of the tavern and grew expansive.
‘A fine man, Brother. I’ve always called your parishioners a gang of sinners but there goes a good man.’
‘We are all sinners,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But, God knows, thinking of Mistress Rosamund, I’d draw a line between those who fall due to weakness and those who sin out of malice.’
‘Which brings us,’ Cranston trumpeted, keeping a wary eye on the relic-seller feasting on his ill-gotten gains in the far corner of the taproom, ‘back to the deaths at the Guildhall, eh?’
Athelstan quickly told him about his meeting with Pike the ditcher. Cranston heard him out, smacking his lips and sniffing at the savoury smells from the tavern kitchen.
‘Pike should watch himself,’ he growled. ‘A man who stands with a foot on either side of a flame ends up getting his balls burnt. Oh, by the way, talking of danger, has the Lady Benedicta collected that minx of a girl?’
‘By now, Sir John, she should be safely at the Minoresses.’
‘A bad business that,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Do you know, Brother, there was something evil in that house?’
‘Well, it’s finished,’ Athelstan declared half-heartedly. He agreed with Cranston’s conclusion but still felt guilty about what had happened. ‘However, this business at the Guildhall.’ He ran a finger round the rim of his cup. ‘You realize, Sir John, those murders are not like the ones we usually investigate? You knew Sir Oliver had been murdered. Someone in that house had killed him. The same is true of the other crimes we have resolved, be it the business at the Springall manor or the murder of Sir Ralph Whitton at the Tower last Christmas.’
Athelstan warmed to his theme. ‘You see, Sir John, such crimes originate not from bad blood but hot blood. Political assassination, however, is different. There’s no personal rancour, no malicious glee at the destruction of an enemy, just expediency. This is what we are dealing with now: Mountjoy and Fitzroy’s deaths were coldly decided, seized as a means to bring My Lord of Gaunt’s plans into confusion.’
Athelstan rubbed his lips and, before Cranston could order more wine, told the pot boy to go away. ‘Remember, Sir John, murder is like chess. You move a piece, your opponent counter moves. Sooner or later a mistake will be made or a path opened in order to discover the truth and bring the game to an end. But here our opponent could be anyone.’ Athelstan brushed crumbs from his robe. ‘Three murders,’ he muttered. ‘We know they died but little else. How was Fitzroy poisoned when he ate and drank what the rest did? How could Mountjoy be stabbed to death in the privacy of his own garden? And Sturmey? One minute on the quayside, the next floating in the Thames with a dagger in his chest.’ Athelstan paused as a loud snore greeted his words. He turned to see Sir John, head back, eyes closed, with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Sir John! Lord above!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I can’t even find your ribs, you’re so fat!’
‘Portly,’ Sir John answered, opening his eyes and licking his lips. ‘I am portly, Athelstan.’ He tapped his red, fleshy nose. ‘Remember, Brother, the Lord Coroner may doze but he never sleeps. What is it you want to know?’
‘Sturmey… you knew something from his past?’
‘God knows! I can’t place it,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ve got to visit his shop again.’
‘I thought Gaunt’s men had sealed it?’
‘Yes, they have, but I’ve received permission from the Regent to remove the seals as long as My Lord Clifford is present.’
‘I was hoping to return to Southwark.’
‘Well, you can’t. There’s God’s work to be done here. Come on, Brother.’
Athelstan followed Cranston out, noting how the Coroner deliberately knocked against the hard-drinking relic-seller.
‘I hate such bastards!’ he whispered outside the tavern. ‘If I had my way I’d clear the lot from the city. They sell enough wood from the true cross to build a fleet of ships!’
Athelstan, seeing the fat Coroner was becoming evil-tempered, linked his arm through his and gently diverted the conversation to a more even keel by asking when he thought the Lady Maude would return. They soon found Lord Clifford’s house, a handsome, three-storied building in Parchment Lane, but the young nobleman was not at home.
‘He’s gone to see the physician,’ a liveried servant explained as he ushered them into the small, comfortable solar. ‘However, he is expecting you, Sir John.’
Athelstan courteously declined the offer of refreshment but Cranston needed no second urging. He sat back in a quilted chair, sipping the claret and openly admiring the luxury of the room. Athelstan, quietly praying Sir John would not drink too much, also looked at the pieces of armour tastefully arranged around the walls. A pair of crossed gauntlets, a shield and two halberds, and a number of intricate, beautifully carved arbalests and crossbows.
‘A wealthy man,’ Athelstan observed.
‘Of course,’ Sir John replied. ‘I served with his father. He took a group of bowmen to France. A fierce soldier, God rest him, and now his son aims high.’
Athelstan glanced at the thick, woollen rugs on the shining oak floor, the silverware on the polished table glinting in the sunlight pouring through a painted glass window. Athelstan wondered why men like Lord Adam, who had so much, always wanted more. His meditations were rudely interrupted by Clifford himself bursting into the room. He tossed his cloak at a servant and strode across to shake their hands warmly. Athelstan saw the bruises and marks on the young man’s face and noticed how stiffly he moved his shoulders.
‘You were injured sorely?’ the friar asked as
the greetings were finished.
Clifford grinned then grimaced. ‘Some cuts and bruises to my face. The worst is a dagger wound in my shoulder.’
‘The work of Ira Dei?’
‘Undoubtedly. I was beaten unconscious before the watch rescued me. The bastards even left a note pinned to my cloak.’
‘What did it say?’
‘“Do not provoke the Anger of God.”’ Clifford moved his shoulder gingerly. ‘I couldn’t give a fig. It will take more than those ruffians,’ he remarked drily, ‘to hinder me.’
He offered more refreshment but Athelstan said the day was passing.
‘Sir John,’ he explained, ‘wishes to visit Sturmey’s shop, remove the Regent’s seals and search the place.’
Clifford agreed and they went out into the bustling market place, Clifford chatting to them about Gaunt’s determination to restore his alliance with the Guildmasters.
‘Keep your voices down and your hands on your wallets,’ Cranston intervened. He smiled at Athelstan. ‘I think all Southwark’s here.’
The friar glanced around. The stalls were busy, the noise deafening with the apprentices’ raucous cries of ‘St Thomas’ onions!’ ‘Fresh bread!’ ‘Hot pies!’ ‘Pins and needles for a mistress!’ ‘A cap for you, sir!’ All of London, the silk-clad nobles and serge-clothed peasants, swirled around the stalls and Athelstan glimpsed the sharp-faced foists, pickpockets and cut-purses at work. He’d walked so many times through the city with Cranston, he’d acquired the Coroner’s skill in detecting how these sneak thieves worked, constantly moving round the market place looking for a victim. These petty law-breakers were now busy, seemingly oblivious to the punishments being carried out around the stocks and whipping posts of Cheapside: market beadles chained men and women, crude placards slung round their necks describing their litany of crimes, be it cutting buttons from precious robes to bone-pickers and rag-gatherers who were not above helping themselves to any items which fell from a stall.
A pardoner stood beneath the market cross, greasy scrolls in his hand, offering remission for sins in return for donations to the Pope’s coffers. Hawkers sold battered spoons, rusting tin cups and other paltry articles. The whores paraded themselves, keeping a wary eye for the ward constables; tipplers offered fresh water whilst beating off dogs lapping in their buckets or ragged-arsed urchins begging for a free drink. The execution cart forced its way through, preceded by a dark-cowled monk, muttering the prayers for the dying. Three condemned felons sat on their cheap arrow-chest coffins shouting farewells at the sparse, ragged crowd of friends and acquaintances. These accompanied the condemned felons to the gallows to hang on their feet and so ensure a speedy death. Now and again Cranston would be recognized with ‘Hellos’ from the worthy city burgesses or black looks and a stream of obscenities from those who had felt the Coroner’s fat hand on their collar.