by Paul Doherty
‘And the riddles? The shoemaker?’
Both Sir Richard and Lady Isabella shook their heads.
‘We don’t know!’ they murmured in unison.
‘And the scriptural quotations from Genesis and the Book of the Apocalypse, you have no clue to their meaning?’
Again a chorus of denials. Athelstan returned to the table, rolled up the piece of parchment and put away his quills and inkhorn.
‘Sir John, for the moment leave matters be. Sir Richard and Lady Isabella now know that perhaps we are not as stupid or as feckless as sometimes we may appear. You may rest assured, Sir Richard, that in the end we will discover the truth and the murderer, whoever he or she may be, will hang at the Elms for all London to see!’
Cranston pursed his lips and nodded as if Athelstan had said all there was to say. They bade both the merchant and his paramour adieu.
As they left the Springall mansion and waited in Cheapside for an ostler to bring their horses round from the stables, Athelstan sensed Cranston was furious with him but the coroner waited until they had mounted and moved away from the house before stopping and giving full vent to his fury
‘Brother Athelstan,’ he said testily, ‘I would remind you that I am the king’s coroner and those two,’ he gestured in the direction of the Springall house, ‘Sir Richard and that expensive paramour of his, are guilty of murder!’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan began, ‘I apologise.’
‘You apologise!’ Cranston mimicked. He leaned forward and grasped the horn of Athelstan’s saddle. ‘You apologise! If you had kept your mouth shut, Friar, we might perhaps have gained the truth. But, oh no! We established that Lady Isabella went to the apothecary’s. We established that she and Sir Richard are lovers, adulterers, fornicators, and in only a matter of time we could have had a confession that they were guilty of Sir Thomas’s death as well as the others!’
‘I don’t accept that, Sir John. There is no real proof of murder. Oh, they are guilty of adultery.’ Athelstan felt his own anger rise. ‘If that was the case, Sir John, we would hang half of Cheapside for adultery and still not discover who the real murderer is.’
‘Now, look.’ Sir John leaned closer, his face choleric. ‘In future, Brother, I would be grateful if you would observe the courtesies and, before making any pronouncements, consult with me. As I said, I am the coroner!’
‘Let me remind you, Sir John,’ Athelstan retorted, leaning back in his saddle, ‘that I am a clerk, a priest, and not your messenger boy, your little lap dog! In these matters I will say what I believe is best and if you find it so difficult to work with me, then write to my father prior. This is one burden I would be relieved of!’ The friar’s voice rose so loud that passersby stopped and looked curiously at him. ‘Do you think I look forward to this, Sir John? Going around listening to the fat and the rich of the land confessing their secret sins, and secretly mocking us every time we reach a stone wall and can go no further? Do you?’
Athelstan turned his horse. ‘I suggest we both go back to our respective homes and reflect on what has happened. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after we may continue our investigations?’
‘You will go home when I say!’ Sir John shouted.
‘I will go when I wish!’ Athelstan retorted.
And, without waiting for any reply, he urged Philomel down Cheapside, leaving the fuming coroner behind.
CHAPTER 7
By the time he reached St Erconwald’s, Athelstan regretted his hasty words. Sir John was correct. He had pronounced on Lady Isabella and Sir Richard’s guilt or innocence without any reference to the coroner. There might have been further questions Cranston would have liked to put. He wished he had taken Sir John aside, made his peace and offered some refreshment, some claret in one of the Cheapside taverns. After all there were other strands to the case, loose ends which needed to be tied up. Who was the red-haired whore who had lured Vechey to his death? Had it been Lady Isabella? But many whores wore red wigs.
After he had stabled Philomel, Athelstan remembered the verses from Scripture and studied the great leather-bound Bible that he kept chained in his house’s one and only cupboard. Genesis 3, Verse 1: ‘The serpent was the most subtle of all wild beasts in that garden God had made.’ Athelstan translated as he read aloud: ‘Did God really say you were not to eat any of this tree in the garden?’ And the other text, the Book of the Apocalypse 6, Verse 8: ‘I heard the voice,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘of the fourth animal shout “Come!” and immediately another horse appeared, deathly pale, and its rider was called Death and all Hell followed at its heels.’
What could they possibly mean? Somehow Athelstan knew these texts were the key to the mystery. And Sir John? Athelstan wondered whether he should eat a hasty evening meal and go back across the city and make his peace. But he felt tired, he’d had enough, such matters would wait.
He went out and unlocked the church and checked that all was well. He took a pitcher of water for Philomel and a dish of creamy milk for Bonaventure. He’d bought the latter just after he had crossed London Bridge. Still feeling perturbed, he went back into his house, lay on his pallet bed and stared up at the flaking ceiling. He tried to compose himself, first with a psalm, ‘Exsurge Domine, Exsurge et vindica causam meam - Rise, oh Lord, rise and judge my cause.’
Athelstan let his mind drift, back to Cranston and the startled, frightened face of Lady Isabella. Athelstan shook his head free of such images. He wondered what the evening sky would be like and if Father Prior would send him a copy of the writings of Richard of Wallingford. Once Abbot of St Albans, Richard had invented the most wondrous instrument for measuring and fixing the stars. Athelstan had talked to another friar who had seen Wallingford’s ingenious clock, the wheels within it fixed as if by magic, which not only measured the hours but indicated signs, the phases of the moon, the position of the sun, the planets and the heavens. Athelstan licked his lips. He would give a fortune for one of those. Everything he owned just to have it in his hands for a few hours. Perhaps Father Prior would help? He’d already asked for a copy of the calendars of the Carmelite, Nicholas of Lyn.
The ceiling reminded him about the church, the roof had been mended but really it was little more than a pig sty. He heard voices outside his door, rose in just his robe, peered out of the window and groaned quietly. Of course, he had forgotten, the meeting with his parishioners! They were to assemble in the nave and discuss the pageant for Corpus Christi.
Athelstan’s premonitions about the occasion proved correct. The meeting was not a happy one. Foremost among his parishioners were Watkin the dung-collector and his wife, a woman built like a battering ram, hard-faced, with iron grey hair hanging down to her shoulders. Cecily the courtesan made constant barbed remarks, hinting she knew more about Watkin than his wife did. Ranulf the ratcatcher, Simon the tiler, and a host of others thronged the nave, sitting facing each other on the church’s two and only benches with Athelstan sitting between them on the sanctuary chair.
The occasion was marred by bickering. Nothing was resolved and Athelstan felt he had failed to take a decisive role. The meeting ended with all his parishioners glaring up at him accusingly. He apologised, said he felt tired, and promised they would meet again when some decisions could be made. They all trooped out, mumbling and muttering, except Benedicta. She remained sitting on the end of one bench, her cloak wrapped about her.
Athelstan went to close the door behind his parishioners. When he returned he thought Benedicta was crying, her shoulders were shaking so. But when she looked up, he realised she was laughing, the tears streaming down her face.
‘You find our parish meetings amusing, Benedicta?’
‘Yes.’ He noticed how low and cultured her voice was.
‘Yes, Father, I do. I mean —’ She spread her hands and giggled again.
Athelstan just glared at her but still she could not control her mirth. Her shoulders shook with laughter, her alabaster cheeks flushed with warmth. Athelstan co
uld not prevent his smile.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘Cecily the courtesan’s ambition to act the role of the Virgin Mary! And the face of Watkin’s wife!’ She laughed so infectiously that Athelstan joined in and, for the first time since he had arrived at St Erconwald’s, the nave of his church rang with laughter. At last Benedicta composed herself.
‘Not seemly,’ she observed, her eyes dancing with merriment, ‘for a widow and her parish priest to be laughing so loudly in church at the expense of his parishioners! But I must say, never in my short life have I witnessed anything so funny. You must regard us as a cross to bear.’
‘No,’ Athelstan replied and sat down beside her. ‘No cross.’
‘Then what is it, Father? Why are you so sad?’
Athelstan stared across at the blue, red and gold painting now being formed on the wall. What is my cross? he thought. A large burden, a veritable mortal sin of the flesh, with balding head, shrewd brown eyes, and a face as red as a bloody rag. Sir John Cranston, lord of the stomach, master of the sturdy legs and an arse so huge that Athelstan secretly called it ‘Horsecrusher’. But how could he explain Cranston to Benedicta?
‘No crosses, Benedicta. Nothing, perhaps, except loneliness.’
He suddenly realised how close he was to her. She stared calmly back, her jet black hair escaping from underneath the wimple. Her face was so smooth. He was fascinated by her generous mouth and her eyes, beautiful and dark as the night. He coughed abruptly and got up.
‘You stayed back, Benedicta! Do you wish to talk to me?’
‘No.’ She, too, rose as if sensing the sudden chill between them. ‘But you should know that Hob has died. I visited his house before I came here and saw his widow.’
‘God save him!’ whispered Athelstan. ‘God save us all, Benedicta! God save us all!’
The next day Athelstan refused to think about Sir John and the terrible murders in the Springall household. Instead, he busied himself about his parish duties. The new poor box was replaced and padlocked near the baptismal font. He tried to settle matters between Cecily and Watkin the dung-collector’s wife and achieved some accord: Cecily would be the Madonna provided Watkin’s wife could be the Virgin’s cousin, Saint Elizabeth. Watkin would have pride of place as St George while Ranulf the rat-catcher eagerly agreed to put on a costume and act the role of the dragon.
There were other more serious matters. Hob the grave-digger was buried late in the afternoon and Athelstan organised a collection, giving what he could to the poor widow and promising her more as soon as circumstances allowed. He slept well that night, getting up early to climb the wet, mildewed stairs to the top of the church tower where he saw the stars clear in the skies, studying their alignment before they faded with the dawn.
Later in the morning he was down in the church preparing the corpse of Meg of Four Lanes for burial. Meg of the flowing, black hair, white face and nose hooked like an eagle’s beak. In life she had been no beauty, in death she looked ugly, her greasy locks falling in wisps to her dirty shoulders. Her face was mere bone over which the skin had been stretched tight and transparent like a piece of cloth. Her pale sea green eyes were now dull and sunken deep in their sockets.
Her mouth sagged open and her body, dirty white like the underbelly of a landed fish, was covered in marks and bruises. The corpse had been brought in just after the morning mass by members of the parish. Athelstan had borrowed a gown from an old lady who lived in one of the tenements behind the church and dressed Meg’s corpse with as much dignity as circumstances would allow. The parish constable, a mournful little man, had informed him that Meg had been murdered.
‘A tragic end,’ he wailed, to a sad life!’
Athelstan had questioned him further. Apparently some villain, hot with his own juices, had bought Meg’s body and used her carnally before plunging a knife between her ribs. Just after dawn that day her corpse, cold and hard, had been found in a rat-infested spinney. No one would come forward to claim the body and Athelstan knew the parish watch would bury it like the decaying corpse of a dog. However, the morning Mass had been well attended and the members of the parish had decided otherwise. Tab the tinker, who had come in to be shriven, had agreed to fashion a coffin of sorts out of thin planks of wood. He had built this out on the steps of the church and placed it on trestles before the rood screen. Athelstan blessed Meg, sprinkling the open coffin with holy water and praying that the sweet Christ would have mercy on her soul. Then with Tab’s help he nailed down the lid, reciting the prayers for the dead, and entered her name amongst other deceased of the parish to be remembered at the weekly Requiem Mass.
After that Athelstan gave Tab and his two apprentices some pennies to take the coffin from the church and out to the old cemetery. Athelstan walked behind, chanting verses from the psalms. Meg’s coffin was lowered into a shallow grave packed in the dry, hard ground. Athelstan, distracted, vowed to remember to place a cross there and as soon as possible sing a Mass for her soul and that of poor Hob. He walked back to the church feeling guilty. He had spent time watching the stars whilst people like Meg of Four Lanes died horrible deaths, their bodies afterwards lowered into obscure graves. Athelstan felt angry and went to kneel before the statue of the Virgin, praying for Meg and the evil bastard who had sent her soul unshriven out into the darkness. He got up and was about to return to his house to wash the dirt from Meg’s grave from his hands when Cranston swaggered in, throwing the door open as if he was announcing the Second Coming.
‘It’s murder, Athelstan!’ he bawled. ‘Bloody murder! Foul homicide!’
Athelstan knew Cranston loved to startle him, delighting in dramatic exits and entrances, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Cranston stood there, legs apart, hands on hips. The friar sat down on the sanctuary steps and stared into his fat, cheery face.
‘What are you talking about, Sir John?’ he said crossly.
The grinning tub of lard just stood there, smiling. ‘The Springalls!’ he bawled at last. ‘It’s happened again.
This time poor Allingham’s been found dead in his chamber, with not a mark on his body. Chief Justice Fortescue is hopping like a cat. By the way, where’s yours?’
‘Bonaventure probably left when he heard you coming!’
Athelstan muttered. ‘Why, what’s wrong with the Chief Justice? What’s he got to do with Bonaventure?
‘Fortescue is hopping like a cat on hot bricks, demanding something should be done, but he has no more idea than I what can be done. Anyway, we’re off, Athelstan, back to the Springall house!’
‘Sir John! I am busy with matters here. Two deaths, two burials.’
The coroner walked towards him, a wicked grin on his satyr-like face.
‘Now, now, Athelstan. You know better than that.’
Of course, the friar did. He knew he had no choice in the matter but cursed and muttered as he filled his saddle bags, harnessed Philomel and joined Cranston who sat slouched on his horse on the track outside the church. They stopped for Athelstan to leave messages with Tab the tinker, now drinking away the profits of Meg’s funeral at the nearest tavern, and began the slow journey down to London Bridge and across to Cheapside. Cranston was full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan tried to apologise for his part in the quarrel at their last parting but the coroner just waved his words aside.
‘Not your fault, Brother!’ he boomed. ‘Not yours! The humours, the heat of the day. We all quarrel. It happens in the best of families.’
So, with Athelstan praying and cursing, and Cranston farting and swaying in his saddle, they cleared London Bridge and pressed on to Fish Street Hill. Of course, when the wine ran out, Cranston’s mood darkened. He announced that he didn’t give a rat’s fart for mumbling monks.
‘Orders were orders!’ he roared, looking darkly at the friar, before going on to regale both him and the horses with an account of the meal his poor wife was preparing for the c
oming Sunday.
‘A veritable banquet!’ Cranston announced. ‘Boar’s head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts, junkets of apple-flavoured cream . . .’
Athelstan listened with half an ear. Allingham was dead. He remembered the merchant, long, lanky, and lugubrious of countenance. How unsettled and agitated he had been when they last had visited the Springall house. He glared darkly at Cranston and hoped the coroner was not too deeply in his cups.
On their arrival at the house in Cheapside Athelstan was astonished to find how calm and collected Sir Richard and Lady Isabella were. The friar suddenly realised that Cranston’s claim that Allingham was murdered was really a piece of pure guesswork on his part. Sir Richard greeted them courteously, Lady Isabella beside him. She was dressed in dark blue velvet, a high white lace wimple on her head. She recounted how they had gone up to Master Allingham’s chamber and, finding the door locked, had ordered the workmen from the yard below to force the chamber.
‘Allingham was found dead on the bed due to a stroke or apoplexy,’ Sir Richard commented. ‘We do not know which. We sent for Father Crispin.’ He pointed to where the priest sat on a chair just within the hall door. ‘He examined Allingham, held a piece of glass to his lips, but there was no sign of the breath of life. So he did what he has become accustomed to doing - gave the last rites. You wish to see the corpse?’
Athelstan turned and looked at Cranston, who just shrugged
‘So you think that Allingham’s death was by natural causes?’