by Paul Doherty
'There are four,' Sir Richard explained, 'one for the front, one for the back and one for each side of the cart. These will be fastened on and above them a platform. On that will be set the tableau. Everything has to be correct,' he commented. 'We do not wish to bring any disgrace or dishonour on the guild from our cart collapsing as it rolls through the streets of Cheapside.'
No expense had been spared. Athelstan particularly examined each of the screens showing the four last things; Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell. He admired the sheer complexity of the scenes as well as the genius of the craftsmen, in particular in their depiction of Hell. There was a representation of the devil carrying off the wicked to Hades. Each of the damned souls was guarded by a group of hideous demons. In the centre of the piece was a carving of a shoemaker resisting four shaggy devils who were dragging him from the embraces of what at first Athelstan thought was a young lady but, on looking closer, realised that with his tail and close-cropped hair, it was a depiction of a male prostitute. The profession of the Devil's captive, a shoemaker, was made apparent by the bag of tools clutched in one hand and the unfinished shoe in the other.
'Who carved this?' Athelstan asked Sir Richard.
'Andrew Bulkeley.'
'Where is he?'
Sir Richard turned and called the man's name and a small, bald-headed man wandered over. His vast form, more corpulent than that of Cranston, was swathed in a dirty white apron. He looked like one of the carefree devils he had carved, with his fat, cheery face, snub nose and large blue eyes which seemed to dance with wicked merriment.
'Master Bulkeley.' Athelstan smiled and shook the proffered hand. 'Your carvings are exquisite.'
'Thank you, Brother.' The voice betrayed a soft burr of warmer, fresher climes.
Athelstan pointed to the depiction of Hell. 'This particular carving, it's your work?'
'Yes, Brother.'
'And the idea is yours?'
'Oh, no, Brother. Sir Thomas himself laid down what we should do and how we should carve it.'
'But why the shoemaker and why the male prostitute?'
The craftsman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
'I don't really know. I have done such scenes many times. It's always the same. Someone being dragged from the warm embraces of a group of young ladies. But this time, I think Sir Thomas had some secret joke. He insisted that it be a shoemaker and the prostitute be male. That's all I know. He paid the money, I did what he asked. Have you seen the others?'
'Yes, thank you,' Athelstan said, and looked across at Cranston.
'Master Allingham came out to look at these carvings?' Cranston asked.
'Yes.'
'Do you know why?'
'No.'
'Any carving in particular?'
The craftsman shrugged.
'He'd look at them all, usually when we were not there, but he constantly asked why Sir Thomas had chosen certain themes. I gave him the same answer I gave you.'
Athelstan turned to the merchant. 'Was your brother fascinated by shoemakers?'
'I told you,' Sir Richard replied, exasperated, 'he liked riddles. Perhaps a shoemaker had offended him. I don't know!'
Athelstan touched Sir John gently on the elbow. 'I have seen enough. Perhaps we should go?'
The coroner looked puzzled but quietly agreed. They walked back through the kitchen and down the hallway to the front entrance of the house. They were about to leave when Sir Richard called out: 'Brother Athelstan! Sir John!'
They both spun round.
'You keep coming back here, yet you have not found any evidence linking the deaths, or the reasons for them. Is that not so?'
The merchant had regained some of his arrogance and Cranston could not stop himself.
'Yes, that's so, Sir Richard. So far we have found nothing conclusive. But, I can tell you something fresh and you may tell the others.'
'Yes, Sir John?'
'Whatever the evidence, whatever you may think, Stephen Allingham was murdered. You should all take care!'
Before the startled merchant could think of a reply, Cranston had taken Athelstan by the elbow and steered him out into the sun-baked street.
'Last time we were here,' Athelstan quipped, 'you warned me, Sir John, not to open my mouth and say things I was not bidden to. Yet you have done so today. There is no evidence that Allingham was murdered.'
'Oh, I know that,' Sir John grunted. 'And so do you.' He stopped and tapped the friar gently on the temple. 'But up there, Athelstan, and here in your heart, what do you really think?'
Athelstan stared at the hubbub around them, the people oblivious to his dark thoughts of murder, fighting their way through the stalls, gossiping, talking, buying and selling, engaged in everyday matters.
'I think you are right, Sir John. Allingham's murder was well planned, and the murderer is in that house.' He pulled his cowl up against the hot midday sun. 'Shall we collect our horses?'
Sir John looked away sheepishly. 'Sir John,' Athelstan repeated, the horses, shall we collect them?'
Cranston let out a sigh, shook his head and gazed appealingly at Athelstan.
'I have bad news, Brother. We are summoned to Westminster. Chief Justice Fortescue believes that we have spent enough public money and time in the pursuit of what he calls will-o'-the-wisps. He wants us to account for our stewardship. But before I clap eyes on his miserable face, I intend to down as many cups of sack as I can! You are with me?'
For the first time ever Athelstan fully agreed with Sir John's desire for refreshment. They walked quickly through Cheapside down to Fleet Street and into the Saracen's Head, a cool, dark place off the main thoroughfare. Athelstan was pleased to see that it was empty and insisted that this time he should be host. He ordered the taverner to bring two black-jacks of brimming ale and, since it was Friday, not meat but a dish of lampreys and fresh white bread for himself and Sir John. Cranston took to the food like a duck to water, smacking his lips, draining the black-jack, and shouting for the taverner's pot boy to come and fill it again. Once the first pangs of hunger had been satisfied, Cranston interrogated the friar.
'Come, Brother, what do you think? Is there a solution? You are the philosopher, Athelstan, though didn't one of your famous theologians say "From nothing comes nothing – Nihil ex nihiloV '
'There must be an answer,' Athelstan said, reclining against the cool stone at his back. 'When I studied Logic, we learnt one central truth. If the problem exists there must be a solution, if there's no solution there's no problem. Consequently, if there is a problem there must be a solution.'
Cranston belched and blinked at Athelstan. 'Where did you learn that?' he taunted.
'Logic will resolve this problem,' Athelstan persisted. 'That and evidence. The problem, Sir John, is that we have no evidence. We can build no premise without it. We are like two men on the edge of a cliff. A chasm separates us from the other side and now we are looking round for the bridge.' Athelstan paused before continuing, 'Our bridge will be evidence, the resolving of Sir Thomas's riddles about the biblical verses and the shoemaker.'
Cranston shook his head. 'We should have talked to Allingham.'
'We did try, Sir John, but he obstinately refused to confide in us though I agree that he knew something. I think he was either going to flee or perhaps blackmail the murderers, without telling us. He made one mistake. He underestimated the sheer malice of his opponents.'
'What makes you say that?'
Athelstan bit his lip, cradling the black-jack in his hands, enjoying its coolness.
'They relish what they are doing. They plot, they devise stratagems, they cause as much confusion as they can. They not only pursue a certain quarry, the mysteries and riddles of Sir Thomas, I think they enjoy the killing. They have insufferable arrogance. Satan has set up camp in their souls. In a word, Sir John, they enjoy what they do as much as you do a goblet of claret or a game of hazard or teasing me. To them murder is now part of their lives, a piece in the f
abric of their souls. They will continue to murder for profit, to protect themselves but also because they want to. All the more to see us floundering around in the dark. The more we flounder, the more enjoyment we give them.'
Sir John shivered and looked around the tavern. He felt uneasy for the first time ever, a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of personal danger. Had they been followed? He looked quickly across at Athelstan. The friar was right. Whoever had committed these murders planned them well. If Lady Isabella was not the woman who went to the apothecary's shop, then who was? And the harlot who had lured Vechey to his doom? And the secret poisoner of Sir Thomas and Master Allingham? Cranston suddenly blinked.
'You keep saying "they",' he said. 'Why?'
'There must be more than one. Either that or it's someone very clever. I did think that someone outside that house was using assassins, professional killers, but that would be too dangerous. You see, the more people you hire to carry out a plot, the greater the danger of betrayal; either through a mistake, or a bribe, or simply by one of your minions being caught red-handed.'
'And you have no suspects?'
'No. It could be Sir Richard, it could be Lady Isabella, Buckingham, Father Crispin, even Dame Ermengilde. Who knows? One of the murdered men may have been an assassin.'
Sir John drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table.
'You know, Athelstan, if it wasn't for you and your bloody logic, I'd put the entire mystery down to witchcraft. People moving about in the dead of night, poisons being administered in a locked room. How on earth can we resolve it?'
'As I said, Sir John, logic and a little evidence, some speculation, and perhaps some help from Mistress Fortune. In the end we will grasp the truth. I don't particularly mourn the four who died. What bothers me, what's making me sour and evil-tempered, is that the murderers are here, laughing at us, watching us fumble. They shall pay for that enjoyment. We can all murder, Sir John.' He rose, dusting the crumbs from his habit. 'Cain is in each of us. We lose our temper, feel cornered and frightened, it can be the work of an instant. But to savour murder – that's not the prompting of Cain, that's Satan!'
Cranston, his mouth full of hot food, simply mumbled his reply. Athelstan felt the thick ale seep into his stomach, making him relaxed, even sleepy.
'Come on, Sir John. Chief Justice Fortescue awaits us and, as you know, justice waits for no man!'
Sir John glared, stuffed the rest of the food in his mouth and drained his tankard in one final gulp.
They hurried out into Fleet Street, Sir John wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, hitching his sword belt, shouting that he would revisit the tavern at his earliest convenience. They were halfway down Fleet Street when suddenly the Coroner's mood changed. He stopped abruptly and gazed round, staring back at the throng they had pushed through.
'What's wrong, Sir John?'
The coroner chewed his lip. 'We are being followed, Brother Athelstan, and I don't like that.'
He looked round and went over to a tinker's stall. Athelstan saw money change hands and Cranston came back with a thick broomstick.
'Here, Athelstan!'
The friar looked in surprise at the long, smoothly planed ash pole.
'I have no need of a staff, Sir John.'
Cranston grinned, his hands falling to the dagger and great broad sword he carried.
'You may have, Athelstan. Remember what your psalmist says: "The devil goes around like a lion seeking whom he would devour." I believe a lion or a devil, or both, are trailing us now!'
CHAPTER 8
As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The gatekeeper, recognising Cranston, let them in without a word. They hurried through the tranquil, fragrant-smelling garden, past the Inner and Middle Temples, and down Temple Stairs where they hired a wherry to take them to Westminster. Cranston, despite his bulk, jumped into the boat, pulling a surprised Athelstan along with him. He tripped on his staff and nearly pitched head first into the water. The boatman cursed, telling them to sit down and keep still, and then, puffing and sweating, he pulled his craft out midstream through the flocks of swans who arched their wings in protest as if they owned the river.
They followed the Thames as it curved down past the Savoy Palace, Durham and York House, past the high- pooped ships scarred from long voyages which were crowding in for repairs. At Charing Cross the boatman began to pull in as the deep bend in the river became more pronounced. They passed Scotland Yard; Westminster Abbey came into sight; the tower of St Margaret's and the roofs, turrets and gables, shop-dwellings, houses and taverns, which made up the small city of Westminster.
The boatman pulled in, allowing Athelstan and Cranston to disembark at the Garden Stairs and go through the courts, corridors and passageways which linked the different buildings of Westminster Palace. The place was thronged; gaolers with their prisoners, attorneys, lawyers and clients, as well as vendors of paper, ink and food. The ne'er-do-wells and the many sightseers mixed with the army of law clerks carrying rolls of parchment up from the cellar known as Hell where, Sir John explained, the legal records were kept. The smell was terrible, despite the fresh breezes wafting in from the river. Some of the lawyers and justices, resplendent in their silken robes, held nosegays to their faces to fend off the odour.
Cranston led Athelstan into the Great Hall, pointing out the painted walls though some of the frescoes were beginning to flake. The famous ceiling, where the wooden angels flew face down through the dusty air above the crowd, was so high it could scarcely be seen in the gloom. Cranston stopped a beadle in his blue cloak, the shield of office on his breast and long staff tapping the paving stones proclaiming his sense of importance. Yes, the fellow assured them, with a nod of his head to the far end of the hall, the Court of King's Bench was now in session and Chief Justice Fortescue attendant upon it.
The beady, little eyes softened as Cranston displayed his warrant, a silver coin lying on top of it. However, the court had finished its morning session. Perhaps Chief Justice Fortescue was in his chamber?
The beadle led them through the gloomy rooms off the main hall where the Court of Common Pleas, Court of Chancery and Court of Requests sat, and down a warren of lime-washed corridors until he stopped in front of a door and rapped noisily with his wand.
'Come in!' Chief Justice Fortescue, his scarlet, fur- trimmed robe tossed over a chair, was sitting behind a table. The angry look on the judge's sallow face showed that either his attendance in court that morning or Cranston's arrival had put him in an ill humour.
'Ah!' Fortescue dropped the manuscript he was reading on to the table. 'Our zealous city coroner and his clerk. Please sit down.' He gestured to a well-cushioned window seat.
Cranston glared back at him and waddled over. Athelstan sat next to the coroner and wondered what was to come. The Chief Justice threw them both another ill-favoured glance.
'What progress has been made?'
In short, clipped tones Cranston told him exactly what had happened, and their suspicions. How the four deaths were linked. How Brampton and Vechey had probably not committed suicide but been murdered and that Allingham's supposed death from natural causes was probably the murderer striking again.
'You have no idea who it is?'
'No, My Lord.'
'Or why?'
'No, My Lord.'
'You found no great mystery that Sir Thomas Springall was hiding? Nothing which could endanger either the crown or the safety of the realm?'
'Nothing,' Cranston retorted. 'Why should there be?'
Fortescue dropped his glance, fiddling with the great amethyst ring on one of his fingers.
'Sir John, you hold your office from the crown. You could be removed.'
Cranston's face sagged and Athelstan felt a tremor run through the great, corpulent body. He spoke up.
'My Lord Chief Jus
tice?'
Fortescue looked surprised, as if he had expected Athelstan to keep his mouth shut for the entire interview.
'Yes, Brother? You have something to add, perhaps? Something Sir John does not know.'
'No, I have nothing to add,' replied Athelstan. 'Except that Sir John and I have been most zealous in this matter. We could ask further questions – such as, My Lord what you yourself were doing at the banquet on the night Sir Thomas died? You said to us that you left early in the evening, but according to other witnesses you left just an hour before midnight. It would help us, My Lord,' he said, ignoring the look of deep annoyance on the Chief Justice's face. 'If everyone spoke the truth we might avoid future dangers.'
'Is that why you carry the staff, Brother?' The Chief Justice retorted, totally ignoring Athelstan's jibe. 'You fear something, don't you? What?'
'I fear nothing, My Lord, except perhaps that those who do not wish us to find the truth may intervene in a way we least expect. And that, of course, would help no one.'
'Meaning?'
'I mean, My Lord,' continued Athelstan, warming to his task, 'Sir John is a well-known and well-beloved coroner in the city. If he was attacked in public, people would be scandalised. The king's chief peace officer in the capital prevented from walking the streets! And if he was removed from office, questions would be asked. People would look very carefully at what matters Sir John was involved in when he was removed. There would be questions. There are aldermen who sit in the Commons, in St Stephen's Chapel, just a stone's throw away, only too willing to use any ammunition against the regent.' He spread his hands. 'Now, My Lord, I ask you to think again before you threaten Sir John. Remember, this task was given to us by you. If you wish, we can let the matter drop and others, perhaps more fortunate, can dig amongst the scandals, the lies and the deceit and possibly search out the truth.'