by Paul Doherty
‘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.
At last they turned up Lawrence Lane. Sturmey’s shop was all boarded up but the whey-faced maid and chattering apprentice let them in.
‘His son has not come south yet,’ the young boy told them. ‘But the sooner he does, the sooner I can move on to another master.’
Cranston patted him on the head and slipped a penny into his hand. Clifford drew his dagger, sliced through the Regent’s seal and, taking the keys the Corporation had seized, opened the workshop. Inside, ably assisted by the young apprentice, they began to sift through the bits of discarded keys. Athelstan went through the dead locksmith’s ledger but, after an hour, they could find nothing of interest.
Clifford, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, stamped his foot in annoyance.
‘Sturmey must have made a second set of keys. But how and where is a mystery, Sir John.’
Cranston was staring at the young, angelic face of the apprentice. A vague memory stirred in his mind.
‘How long did you serve Master Sturmey?’ he asked.
‘It’s three years, sir, since my mother drew up indentures with him and I have another three years left.’
Cranston nodded his head sagely. ‘And your master always worked here?’
‘Oh, yes, here or in the garden.’
‘And he had no visitors?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Like this young noble lord here?’
The lad stared at Clifford and shook his head.
‘No, no, it was always the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff.’
Athelstan walked out of the workshop and down the passageway. He smiled at the young maid in the scullery and went through the back door into the garden. A neatly kept place with a small rose patch, a green garth, and the rest flowers or herbs: iris, lily, cowslip and cornflower growing around a small pond. The air was sweet with fragrance from the herb banks: camomile, fennel, lavender, even some hyssop and marjoram. Athelstan noticed a small brick house at the end of the garden and followed the path down. He was surprised to see the sturdy door heavily barred and padlocked so returned to the house and asked the young boy for the key. The apprentice shook his head.
‘Master Sturmey kept that separate,’ he declared. ‘We was never allowed in there.’
Now curious, Cranston and Clifford followed Athelstan back into the garden. The Coroner took a hammer and chisel from one of the work benches and soon made short work of the lock. Inside, the stone shed was musty, rather airless. Cranston knocked open the shutters and stared round. There was a bench and some chests. Cranston grinned and pointed to the small forge near the fire-hearth.
‘This is where he made the keys,’ Cranston declared, and using the mallet and chisel, soon opened the chests. Inside were all the implements a locksmith would need; strips of lead and steel, casting-irons and bits of keys. Cranston rummaged amongst the contents of the chest and brought out a mould which had been deliberately shattered. He handed this to Clifford.
‘If you take that to the Lord Regent, as cats love milk, I am sure you will find Sturmey used this and others to fashion a second set of keys.’
‘For whom?’ Clifford asked.
‘Ah, that’s the mystery.’
A small book, deep in the shadows of the chest, caught Cranston’s eye. He pulled this out whilst Clifford walked back into the garden to study the fragments of the mould more closely. Cranston flicked through the pages. At first he thought it was a small Book of Hours but then he looked at the illustrations, cleverly drawn, and slipped it up his sleeve. He now knew Master Sturmey’s dark secret.
Clifford was excited by Cranston’s find and could hardly wait to hurry off, leaving Cranston and Athelstan to thank the apprentice and maid. Once outside the house, Cranston showed Athelstan the book. He turned over the finely grained parchment pages and whistled under his breath as he studied the paintings some clever artist had depicted there. Boys and young men, as naked as they were born, in a variety of poses. Some fought with swords; one group lounged on cloth-of-gold couches; two practised spear-throwing. Other pictures were more daring – young men washing each other or exchanging embraces and kisses.
‘Master Sturmey did have his secrets,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Such a book could condemn a man to be burnt alive.’
Cranston tapped the side of his nose.
‘I knew I had it. Come on, Athelstan!’
He strode back into Cheapside, the friar having to trot to keep up with the Coroner’s surprising spurt of speed. Leif the beggar, however, stopped them only a few yards from the Coroner’s house.
‘Be on your guard, Sir John!’ he whispered dramatically. ‘Be on your guard!’
‘What are you talking about, you silly bugger?’
‘The Lady Maude’s back.’
Cranston’s jaw sagged. ‘She’s come back early,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my God, she’ll see those bloody dogs!’
‘She’s in a strange mood,’ Leif declared sombrely, trying hard to hide his glee.
‘Domina Maude is always in a strange mood,’ Cranston growled. He stared longingly across Cheapside at The Holy Lamb.
‘Oh, no, Sir John!’ Leif warned, now thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘The Lady Maude was most insistent. I was to stand guard on The Holy Lamb and tell you to go home immediately.’
CHAPTER 11
Athelstan felt sorry, for all the life seemed to have gone out of old Cranston. He just stood scratching his bald pate like a little boy caught stealing apples.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll be with you. Lady Maude will scarcely lay a hand on Holy Mother Church.’
‘Domina Maude would challenge God himself if she thought the cause was right!’
Cranston blinked, drew in his breath, pushed Leif aside and walked like a condemned felon into his house. In the doorway he stopped for one last generous swig then, raising his fingers to his lips, tiptoed down the passageway and peered into the kitchen.
‘Be still!’ The Lady Maude stood by the table. Gog and Magog sat like two carved statues before her. Domina Maud was in full spate, giving the dogs a pithy lecture about the rules of the house. Athelstan, peering over Cranston’s shoulder, could see that both wolf hounds were as terrified of Domina Maude as their newfound master was. Behind the dogs Boscombe stood fixed like a candlestick, now and again nodding his head in approval of every word the Lady Maude uttered. Cranston coughed and walked into the kitchen. Lady Maude turned. She was only just over five foot high.
Athelstan had never before met a woman who could seem to be twice her height.
‘Sir John,’ she cried sweetly. ‘I arrived home early.’
Cranston gingerly walked forward, his beaver hat clenched in his hands.
‘Lady wife,’ he stammered, ‘you are most welcome. And the poppets?’
‘Upstairs with their nurse, sleeping soundly. And no, Sir John,’ as Cranston turned, ‘you will leave them at peace. I decided to return,’ she walked forward, ‘because I missed you, Sir John.’ She smiled. ‘And good news! My brother Ralph, his wife and children might be joining us after Michaelmas.’
Cranston daren’t let his fixed smile slip.
‘Oh, rat’s arse!’ he breathed.
Lady Maude came closer. She stood on tip-toe and kissed her husband on either cheek before turning to clasp Athelstan’s hand. The friar saw the merriment dancing in the little woman’s eyes.
‘Sir John has been behaving himself, Father?’
‘A man of righteousness, Lady Maude.’
Her smile widened at the gentle sarcasm in Athelstan’s voice. Cranston stood stock-still, staring at Gog and Magog then at Boscombe. The dogs ignored him, their eyes on Lady Maude, whilst Boscombe gazed glassily back.
‘You have met our visitors, Lady Maude?’
‘Visitors!’ his wife cried. ‘Sir John, they are part of our family. Master Boscombe is a rare jewel.’
‘And the dogs?’
‘They now know their place, as should everyone in this house.’
Cranston stiffened even further at the hint of warning in his wife’s words. Maude suddenly gripped Sir John’s hand.
‘You are a kind and generous man,’ she’ whispered. ‘I would have been angry if you had done any other. How could a man like Boscombe be turned into the streets and two of God’s beautiful creatures be cruelly destroyed? I do not like my Lord Regent, and Boscombe has told me about the business at the Guildhall.’
Cranston shot a glance at him. The servant had been sworn not to utter one word about the attack in the alleyway. Boscombe, still glassy-eyed, shook his head imperceptibly. Cranston relaxed and, seeing how the wind blew, took off his cloak, threw it over the table and embraced his wife in a bear-like hug.
This was the signal for all chaos to break out. The dogs started howling, Boscombe became solicitous. The Lady Maude insisted on Cranston sitting in his high-backed chair, Athelstan opposite him, whilst she served ‘Her Lord and Master’ with suitable refreshment.
At last the confusion died down. Sir John and Athelstan exchanged news and gossip with Lady Maude. A perspiring maid brought down the two poppets to bawl lustily at their father, who dangled them on his knees, turning both even more red-faced with fury. Athelstan gazed at the strapping babies, then admiringly at Lady Maude: he secretly wondered how such a delicate little thing could have given birth to what he privately considered to be the burliest babies he had ever seen. They looked like peas out of the same pod, even more so now, with their fat cheeks and balding heads.
Gog and Magog came over to sniff, nudge and lick – until even Cranston, who revelled in such loving chaos, declared enough was enough and beat a retreat to his Chancery. Once he and Athelstan were inside what Cranston termed his ‘sanctuary’, the Coroner leaned back against the door and mopped his sweating brow.
‘God save us!’ he whispered. ‘Thank God the Domina chose to be merciful. Believe me, Brother, old Jack Cranston is afeared of nothing except Domina Maude’s fury.’
Not to mention Ferox and Bonaventure, Athelstan silently added, but kept his own counsel.
‘Now,’ Cranston declared, ‘let’s look amongst my records.’ He threw back the lid of a huge, iron-bound coffer and dug like a great dog, sending pieces of parchment flying over his shoulder. Cranston muttered to himself, cursing as he unrolled one scroll after another only to toss it aside.
‘At last!’ he crowed in triumph, squatting on the floor with his back to the wall. He read the scroll, greedily studying its contents, now and again crying out and slapping his thigh.
‘Dirty little secrets!’ He tossed the parchment down and rubbed his hands. ‘And old Jack knows them.’ He got up, threw the parchment at Athelstan and went to the top of the stairs to bellow at Boscombe.
‘Go up to the Guildhall,’ he ordered. ‘Tell My Lord Mayor and the Guildmasters that the Lord Coroner wishes to have words with them immediately about Master Sturmey’s secrets.’ He grinned at the whey-faced servant. ‘Don’t look so bloody frightened! You just tell them what I said and watch their faces. I’ll be in the council chamber within the hour.’
Cranston returned to restore order to his room whilst Athelstan sat on a stool, reading the parchment.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, yes.’ Cranston grinned evilly down at him.
‘Where there’s wealth, there’s sin. And they were all involved one way or the other.’
Athelstan read on. The parchment was two foot long, the writing small and cramped: it encapsulated memoranda, reports, messages and accounts. Athelstan had to take it over to the window to study it more closely.
‘Did you notice another name, Sir John?’
‘Who?’
‘A Master Nicholas Hussey, a chorister at St Paul’s.’
Cranston went over and studied the line just above Athelstan’s finger.
‘Devil’s bollocks!’ he breathed. ‘Brother, you are right.’
Athelstan read on. Boscombe returned, grinning from ear to ear, to say the Guildmasters and the Mayor would see Sir John immediately. Cranston, snorting like a bull, seized his cloak and almost ran downstairs, shouting his farewells to the Lady Maude. He walked up Cheapside with a wicked smile on his face. Athelstan hurried behind, still trying to finish reading the report, but at last he gave up and put the scroll into his leather writing bag.
‘I am going to enjoy this,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Just watch their faces, Athelstan.’
The Mayor and Guildmasters were waiting in the council chamber. Athelstan noticed how the servants were dismissed and no refreshments were offered as Cranston and he were summarily invited to sit at the great oval table. Goodman looked even more pop-eyed and anxious. Sudbury and Bremmer were visibly sweating. Marshall scratched his bald head and wouldn’t meet their eyes whilst Denny had dropped any foppish manners and stared fixedly at Sir John like some terrified rabbit confronted by a stoat.
Goodman cleared his throat. ‘Sir John, you wished to see us?’
‘Too bloody straight I do!’ Cranston leaned his great arms on the table. ‘Let’s not beat about the bu
sh. Master Sturmey the locksmith was hired to build a special chest to hold the gold bars. It was furnished with six different locks. Each of you held a key but the gold has been taken, Sturmey’s dead, and before you ask, yes, he was murdered because someone forced him to make a second set of keys.’ Cranston wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Now you may ask why? What would force a reputable merchant like Sturmey to become involved in robbery and treason? The lure of gold? No, Sturmey wasn’t like that. Advancement? No, sirs. He was the victim of blackmail.’
The Mayor and Guildmasters stared at Cranston like a line of felons before a hanging judge.
‘Fifteen years ago,’ he began, ‘I was a junior Coroner in Cordwainer and Farringdon. Surely, Sir Christopher,’ Cranston smiled at the Mayor, ‘you recall my days in office, for you too were a law officer? There was a scandal, was there not? Certain allegations laid before the King’s Council about powerful merchants being involved in the carnal seduction of choir boys and pages at St Paul’s Cathedral? Surely you all remember it well?’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘Two merchants were hanged, drawn and quartered for these filthy practices caused the death of one young boy. Now,’ Cranston leaned back, holding his hands across his stomach, ‘the investigation led to a number of well-heeled, powerful burgesses being questioned and this list included the late Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the late Sir Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall and James Denny.’
‘We were innocent!’ Bremmer snapped. ‘Prattling gossip from malicious tongues!’
‘I never said any different,’ Cranston replied. ‘Except there’s one other name – Peter Sturmey, locksmith. Anyway, the investigation was eventually brought to an end, otherwise every gallows in the city would have blossomed with its rotting fruit. Now, during this investigation, Sturmey, against whom no charges were brought, revealed the existence of a male brothel in an alleyway off Billingsgate. Well, sirs, I ask you to reflect on this. First, the names I have just listed are all involved in this present business. Second, Sturmey, also involved, has been found murdered, floating off the quayside near Billingsgate.’