by Paul Doherty
‘And the phial found in Brampton’s coffer was the same potion?’
‘Yes. A deadly mixture.’
‘Where can it be bought?’
The physician’s eyes slid away. ‘If you have enough money, Sir John, and know the right person, anything or anyone can be bought in this city.’ De Troyes stood up. ‘Do you have any more questions?’
Cranston belched, Athelstan shook his head and the physician swept out of the room without a backward glance.
They found Sir Richard’s group still waiting in the solar. Athelstan gathered his writing tray, paper and quills, putting them carefully back into the leather bag. He had written very little, but would make a thorough report later. He hurried back to where Sir John, legs apart and swaying slightly, stood leering lecherously at Lady Isabella, who stared back frostily.
‘I think,’ Sir Richard said quietly, ‘that Sir John needs a good night’s sleep. Perhaps tomorrow, Brother?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow, Sir Richard,’ Athelstan echoed, and slipping his arm through Cranston’s turned him gently and walked him out of the hall. Sir John suddenly spun round and looked back at the company, his heavy-lidded eyes half closed. Athelstan followed suit and glimpsed Sir Richard’s hand fall away from Lady Isabella’s shoulder. Something in the merchant’s face made Athelstan wonder if they were more than just close kin. Was there adultery here as well as murder?
‘Oh, Sir Richard!’ Cranston called.
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘The Sons of Dives - who or what are they?’
Athelstan saw the group suddenly tense, their faces drained of that pompous, amused look as if they regarded Cranston as the royal jester rather than the king’s coroner.
‘I asked a question, Sir Richard,’ Cranston slurred. ‘The Sons of Dives? Who are they?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Sir John. The ill effects of the wine?’
‘The wine does not affect me as much as you think, Sir Richard,’ Cranston snapped back. ‘I will ask the question again.’ He bowed towards Lady Isabella. ‘Good night.’
And, spinning on his heel, Cranston lurched with as much dignity as he could muster through the door, Athelstan following behind.
Once clear of the house, Cranston waddled as sure as a duck to water towards the welcoming, half-open door of an ale-house across Cheapside. Athelstan stopped and looked up at the starlit sky.
‘Oh, good God!’ he groaned. ‘Surely not more refreshment, Sir John?’
Nevertheless, he hurried after; the water had apparently revived the good coroner and Athelstan wanted to clear his own mind and define the problems nagging at him. The alehouse was almost deserted. Sir John seized a table near the wine butts.
‘Two cups of sack!’ he roared. ‘And some—?’ He glared at Athelstan.
‘Watered wine,’ the friar added meekly.
The sack disappeared down Sir John’s cavernous throat. More was ordered, and the coroner clapped his podgy hands.
‘An excellent evening’s work!’ he boomed. He nodded in the direction of the Springall mansion. ‘A coven of high-stepping hypocrites.’ He turned to Athelstan, bleary-eyed. ‘What do you think, Monk?’
‘Friar!’ Athelstan corrected him despairingly.
‘Who gives a sod?’ Cranston snapped. ‘First, I wonder why our good Lord Fortescue was there? I think he left a little later than he claims.’ Cranston belched. ‘Secondly, Brampton. They say he was rifling through his master’s papers, and they have evidence of it, so it is easy to imagine the quarrel between him and Sir Thomas. Springall would feel betrayed, Brampton furious that he had been caught as well as fearful of dismissal.’ Cranston drummed his stubby fingers on the wine-stained table top. ‘But if Brampton was innocent,’ he slurred, ‘why was he made to appear guilty? There’s no answer to that.’
‘And if he was guilty,’ Athelstan added, ‘what was he looking for? What great secret did Sir Thomas Springall possess?’
Athelstan gazed across the tap room, watching two drunken gamblers shove and push each other over a game of dice.
‘Even so,’ he murmured, ‘why should Brampton kill his master and take his own life? Revenge followed by remorse?’
A loud snore greeted his question. Cranston had now fallen back against the wall, his eyes closed, a beatific smile on his fat, good-natured face.
‘Was Sir Thomas murdered because of the secret?’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Or was his wife an adulteress, playing the two-backed beast with her husband’s brother?’
Some men kill for gold, he thought, others for lust. And Dame Ermengilde? Did she play a part in this charade, trying to advance the interests of her favourite son, Sir Richard? And the other two, Vechey and Allingham? Strange creatures, battening like fleas on the skill and acumen of Sir Thomas. And, of course, young Buckingham. Athelstan shuddered. He had met men like Buckingham, with their fluttering eye-lashes and graceful, dainty gestures; men who preferred to be women but hid their natures under the cloak of darkness lest they be discovered and boiled alive at Smithfield. Finally, the good priest Crispin. Was his leg as malformed as he pretended? When he first met the priest in the solar Athelstan had noticed how ungainly he walked, but when later he had joined them in Springall’s chamber, Athelstan had observed how the priest had changed into Spanish riding boots, the heel of one slightly raised to lessen his deformity. In these he moved quietly and quickly.
Sir John suddenly groaned and sat up.
‘Oh, God, Athelstan,’ he moaned, ‘I feel sick!’
The coroner rose and staggered to the door.
CHAPTER 3
Outside the alehouse Sir John paused to vomit, afterwards loudly protesting he was all right. Athelstan linked his arm through that of the coroner and they carefully made their way down Cheapside. It was raining and had become messy underfoot. They were stopped by the Watch, a collection of arrogant servants and retainers from the households of some of the great aldermen. They would have arrested them both, delighted to pick on a friar. Athelstan, however, informed them his companion was no less a personage than Sir John Cranston, who was now ill, so they stepped aside, doing their best to hide their smirks. As Athelstan turned off Cheapside into Poultry, he could still hear their loud guffaws of laughter.
The coroner’s house was a pleasant, two-storeyed affair in an alleyway off the Poultry. Athelstan hammered on the door until Sir John’s wife appeared - a small, birdlike woman much younger than Cranston, who greeted her husband as if he was Hector back from the wars.
‘The weight of office!’ she shrilled. ‘It’s the weight of office which makes him drink.’
And, grabbing Sir John roughly by the hand, she unceremoniously pushed him upstairs.
Athelstan stood in the hallway looking carefully around for this was the first time he had been to Cranston’s house and met his wife. The room beyond the hall was cosy and comfortable with clean rushes on the floor and a large, high-backed chair before the fire. Athelstan caught a fragrant aroma from the kitchen, the supper Sir John had missed. The friar realised how hungry he was.
Cranston’s wife Maude rejoined him, still behaving as if Athelstan had brought her husband home from a heroic field of battle rather than half drunk, his doublet stained with vomit.
‘Brother,’ she said, taking the friar by the hand, her bright blue eyes full of life, ‘this is the first time I have met you. Please, you must stay.’
Athelstan needed no second bidding and sank gratefully into a chair, accepting the meat pastry, mince tart and cup of cold wine that Lady Maude pushed before him. After that, she showed him up into a chamber at the top of the house. Athelstan said his prayers, the Dies Requiem for Springall, Brampton, his own brother and others, made the sign of the cross on himself and thanked God for a wholesome day.
He slept like a babe and woke just after dawn. He felt guilty at not returning to his own church but hoped that his few parishioners would understand. Had Simon the tiler fixed the roof? he wondered. Would
Bonaventure be fed? And surely Wat the dung-collector would make sure the door was locked and Godric safe? And Benedicta the widow who attended every morning Mass, whose husband had been killed in the king’s wars beyond the seas . . .? Athelstan sat on his bed and crossed himself. Sometimes he would catch Benedicta looking at him, her lovely face pale as ivory, her dark eyes smiling.
‘No sin!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘No sin!’ Christ himself had his woman friends. He gazed at the floor. For the first time ever he realised how he missed the woman when he did not see her. Every morning at Mass he sought her smiling eyes as if she alone understood his loneliness and felt for him. Athelstan shook himself, dressed, and went along to the kitchen to beg from a startled maid a bowl of hot water, a clean napkin and some salt with which to scrub his teeth. After his ablutions, finding the house still quiet, he left and went back down Cheapside to the church of St Mary Le Bow. The bells were clanging in the high tower which soared up to a steel blue sky. Athelstan saw the night watchman douse the light, the beacon which was lit every evening to guide travellers through the streets of London.
Inside the dawn Mass was just ending, the priest offering Christ to God in the presence of three old women, a beggar and a blind man with his dog. They all squatted on the paving-stone before the rood screen. Athelstan waited near the baptismal font. When the Mass was finished he followed the priest into the vestry. Father Matthew was a genial fellow and cheerfully granted Athelstan’s request, giving him vestments and vessels so he could celebrate his own Mass in one of the small chantry chapels built off the main aisle.
After Mass and the chanting of the Divine Office, Athelstan thanked the priest but refused his kind offer of a meal and wandered back into Cheapside. The broad thoroughfare was now coming to life. The cookshops were open, the awnings of the stalls pulled down, and already the apprentices were darting in and out, seeking custom for their masters. The friar walked back up to the Poultry and knocked on the coroner’s door. Cranston greeted him, standing like vice reformed, sober, dour, full of his own authority as if he wished to erase the memory of the night before.
‘Come in, Brother!’ He looked out of the corner of his eye as he beckoned Athelstan into the parlour. ‘I am grateful for what you did last night when I was inconvenienced.’
Athelstan hid his smile as Cranston waved him to a stool, sitting opposite in a great high-backed chair. In the kitchen Maude was singing softly as she baked bread, its sweet, fresh scent filling the house.
Strange, Athelstan thought, that a man like Sir John, steeped in violent bloody death, should live in such homely surroundings.
Cranston stretched and crossed his legs.
‘Well, Brother, shall we record a clear case of suicide?’
‘I would like to agree with your verdict,’ Athelstan replied, ‘but something eludes me. Something I cannot place, something small, like looking at a tapestry with a loose thread.’
‘God’s teeth!’ Cranston roared as he rose and went to fetch the boots standing in the corner. He pulled them on and looked sourly across at the friar.
‘I know you, Brother, and your nose for mischief. If you feel there is something wrong, there is. Let’s be careful, however. Springall belonged to the court faction in the city, and if we put a foot wrong, well . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked sharply.
‘What I say,’ Cranston caustically retorted. ‘I stay out of the muddy pools of politics. That gives me the right to insult fools like Fortescue. But if I offend the court, its opponents think I am a friend. If I am partial to them, I am an enemy.’ He buttoned up his doublet. ‘God knows when order will be restored. The king is young, a mere boy. Gaunt is so ambitious. You know, through his wife he has a claim to the throne of Castille; through his grandmother to the throne of France. And between him and the throne of England - one small boy!’ Cranston closed the parlour door so his wife could not hear. ‘There may be violence. For myself I do not care, but I do not want armed retainers terrifying my household by arresting me in the dead of night.’ He sighed, and picking up his cloak, swung it about him. ‘However, I trust your judgement, Athelstan. Something’s wrong, though God knows what!’
Athelstan looked away. He had spoken largely without thinking. He thought back to the visit to the Springall house yesterday. Yes, there was something wrong. Oh, everything was neat and orderly. Springall had been murdered and his murderer had committed suicide so everything was neat and tidied away. But it was all too clear, too precise, and death wasn’t like that. It was violent, cumbersome, messy. It came trailing its blood-spattered tail everywhere.
‘You know . . .’ he began.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’
‘Oh, I’m just thinking about yesterday in the Springall mansion. A strange coven. The deaths were so orderly.’ He looked up at Cranston. ‘You felt that, Sir John, didn’t you? Everything precise, signed, sealed, filed away, as if we were watching a well-arranged masque. What do you say?’
Cranston moved back to his chair and sat down.
‘The same,’ he replied, ‘I know I drank too much, I always do. But I agree, I sensed something in that house: an evil, an aura, a dankness, despite the wealth. Something which clutched at my soul. Someone is hiding something. Of course,’ he smiled, ‘you know they are the Sons of Dives? They must be. Some sort of coven or a secret society, and I believe they are all party to it. Did you see their faces when I asked the question?’ Cranston threw back his great head and bellowed with laughter. ‘Oh, yes, and that Dame Ermengilde - I have heard of her. A nasty piece of work, vicious and venomous as a viper! Well,’ he smacked his knee, ‘we shall see.’ He went off into the kitchen. Athelstan heard Lady Maude squeal with pleasure. The coroner came back, grinned at Athelstan, belched loudly, and without further ado they went back into the street.
They were halfway up Cheapside when a small voice called out: ‘Sir John! Sir John!’
They stopped. A little boy ran up, face dirty, clothes dishevelled, his breath coming in short gasps so he could hardly speak. Sir John stood back and Athelstan smiled. Cranston always seemed to have a fear of small boys. Perhaps a memory from childhood when a fat Cranston must have been mercilessly teased by others. Athelstan knelt before the child, taking his thin, bony hand.
‘What is it, lad?’ he asked gently. ‘What do you wish?’
‘I bring a message from the Sheriff,’ the boy gasped. ‘Master Vechey . . .’ The child closed his eyes to remember. ‘Master Vechey has been found hanged under London Bridge. The Sheriff says it’s by his own hand. The body has been cut down and lies in the gatehouse there. The Sheriff sends his com—’
‘Compliments,’ Athelstan interrupted.
‘Yes.’ The boy opened his eyes. ‘Compliments, and wishes Sir John to go there immediately and examine the corpse.’
Cranston, standing behind Athelstan, whistled softly.
‘So, we were right, Brother,’ he said, tossing a coin to the boy who scampered away. ‘There is evil afoot. One murder can be explained, one suicide can be accounted for, but another suicide?’ His fat face beamed. ‘Ah, no, Sir Richard may be pompous, Lady Isabella frosty, Dame Ermengilde may strike her cane on the floor in temper, but Vechey’s death cannot be dismissed. There is evil here, and you and I, Athelstan, will stay like good dogs following the trail until we sight our quarry. Come! The living may not want to talk to us but the dead await!’
And, without even a reference to refreshment, Cranston waddled off down Cheapside with Athelstan striding behind him. They pushed their way through the morning crowd: monks, friars, hucksters and pedlars, ignoring the shouts and screams of the city as they turned into Fish Hill Street which led down on to London Bridge. They stopped at the Three Tuns tavern to ensure their horses had been well stabled. Cranston paid the bill. Philomel, happy to see his master again, nuzzled and nudged him. The road down to the bridge was packed so they decided to leave their horses rather than ride.
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br /> At the entrance, just near the gatehouse door, Cranston stopped and knocked hard at an iron-studded door. At first there was no reply so, picking up a loose brick, Cranston hammered again. At last the door was opened. A small, hairy-faced little creature appeared, a veritable mannikin who glared up at Sir John.
‘What do you want?’ he roared. ‘Bugger off! The gatehouse is closed on the king’s orders until the arrival of the coroner.’
‘I am the coroner!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’
‘Robert Burdon,’ the mannikin retorted. He rearranged his cloak and stuck his thumb into the broad leather belt at his waist like a wrestler waiting for his opponent to attack. Sir John ignored him and pushed forward into the dank entrance of the chamber.
‘We have come to view Master Vechey’s body.’
The mannikin ran in front of Cranston, jumping up and down.
‘My name is Robert Burdon!’ he shrieked. ‘I am constable of this gate tower. I hold my office direct from the king!’
‘I don’t give a fig,’ Cranston replied, ‘if you hold it direct from the Holy Father! Where’s Vechey’s corpse?’
He looked into the small chamber near the stairs where the mannikin probably ate, lived and slept. A small baby crawled out on its hands and knees, its face covered in grime. The mannikin picked it up, shoved it back in the chamber and slammed the door behind him.
‘The corpse is upstairs,’ he said pompously. ‘What do you expect? I can’t keep it down here with my wife and children. The cadaver’s ripe.’ He indicated with his thumb. ‘It’s on the roof. Up you come!’ And, nimble as a monkey, he bounded up the stairs ahead of Cranston and Athelstan. He pushed open the door at the top and led them out on to the roof, a broad expanse bounded by a high crenellated wall. The wind from the river whipped their faces. Cranston and Athelstan covered their face and nose at the terrible stench which blew across.