The House of Shadows (22 page)

They left the ale house and, avoiding the crowd, went down Dean’s Lane, past Athelstan’s mother house of Blackfriars to East Watergate. The day was clouding over, the crowds intent on finishing trading and escaping the biting cold. The quayside was fairly deserted as it was too early for the fishing folk to prepare for the night’s work. The barges had finished bringing their produce and now stood moored, waiting for the evening. Bailiffs and beadles patrolled the quayside, vigilant against any trader trying to sell or buy without the blessing of the Corporation or the guilds.

They hired a barge, Athelstan was disappointed that he couldn’t find Moleskin, and went upriver, fighting the choppy current. A mist was creeping in. Athelstan huddled in the stern, his cowl pulled tightly about him, whilst Cranston, ever curious, kept up a constant commentary on which barges belonged to which noblemen, as well as those dignitaries of the city travelling to and from the Tower or Westminster.

‘Thank God we don’t have to go under London Bridge,’ Cranston remarked. ‘The river is running heavy and fast, and in this mist I can hardly make out the top of the bridge.’

Athelstan half listened as he closed his eyes and fingered his Ave beads. He was always wary of the river; a good portion of St Erconwald’s cemetery was reserved for the corpses of poor souls who had drowned on the Southwark side . . .

‘That’s it!’

‘What?’ Cranston asked.

‘Nothing, Sir John. It’s just that . . . I wonder if the river was searched for the corpses of Culpepper and Mortimer, not to mention those bargemen. I mean properly searched by the Fisher of Men.’

‘Was he here then?’ Cranston asked.

He’d met the person Athelstan was referring to, a sinister, skull-faced man hired to search the river for the bodies of the drowned.

‘I think he was,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but we’ll see.’

They landed near the Bishop of Winchester inn, a little further down from the infamous bath houses which Athelstan knew were a mask for prostitution and other secret sins. Once he was on the quayside he looked around for Moleskin, only to be informed by the boy guarding his barge that the boatman could be found in the cookshop next to the Piebald tavern, where he had business with Master Merrylegs, the owner. On the way to the Night in Jerusalem, Athelstan and Cranston stopped there. Moleskin was sitting in the far corner deep in conversation with Merrylegs, who supplemented his income with the sale of goods stolen by Athelstan’s parishioners from the stalls in Cheapside. Once Cranston’s huge form was seen bearing towards them, Merrylegs and Moleskin hastily drew apart, sweeping whatever was on the table before them into a leather bag.

‘Oh! God bless you, Brother Athelstan.’ Moleskin tried to hide his guilt behind a smile whilst Merrylegs hurried away. ‘And you, Sir John, do you want some ale?’

‘I would love to know what you have in that bag,’ the coroner replied, ‘but instead I’ll give you a task. You recall the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’

‘Of course, your grace,’ Moleskin hastily replied. ‘All the river people knew about it.’

‘The boatmen, they left widows, families?’

‘Just widows.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘And one of them has died too, drowned washing clothes! Silly woman, she always insisted on drinking ale.’ He wagged a finger in the coroner’s face. ‘Ale and the river don’t mix.’

‘And the other widow?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, that’s fat Margot. She’s left Southwark, sells fish in Billingsgate.’

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan declared, ‘after Mass, bring fat Margot to see me.’

Moleskin agreed. Athelstan and Cranston continued their journey. When they arrived at the Night in Jerusalem, Master Rolles was acting all busy in the tap room. He was surly in his greeting, muttering under his breath at how busy he was.

‘I have gathered the rest,’ he declared, wiping his hands. ‘They’re in the solar. Sir John, what is this all about?’

The taverner’s black eyes were almost hidden by creases of fat; his annoyance, however, was obvious, in his petulant whine and the way he kept looking longingly towards the kitchen, where cooks and scullions were busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment.

‘Why, Master Rolles, it’s murder!’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ the taverner muttered.

‘Mine host,’ Cranston slapped him hard on the shoulder, ‘four corpses have been found in your tavern, whilst the Misericord is dead.’

Master Rolles gaped.

‘Dead?’ he spluttered. ‘But he was taken safe to Newgate.’

‘He was safe,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but now he is dead! Poisoned in his cell.’

Rolles immediately ushered them into the solar. The knights were there, surly-eyed and bitter-mouthed, openly seething at Cranston’s peremptory summons, as was Mother Veritable, who made her annoyance obvious by turning away, more interested in what was happening in the garden beyond.

Cranston sat at the top of the table, Athelstan beside him.

‘You seem impatient with us,’ the coroner began, ‘so I’ll be blunt. I’m in no mood for niceties. Where were you all this afternoon?’

He paused while Athelstan undid his writing satchel and laid out a piece of vellum on the table along with his writing instruments.

‘Well?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Where were you all?’

‘We were all here,’ Sir Maurice Clinton broke in. I can vouch for that, as can Master Rolles.’ The knight gestured at the taverner. ‘I can also vouch for him.’

‘And you, Mother Veritable?’ Cranston asked sweetly.

‘Why, Sir Jack,’ her voice was rich with sarcasm, ‘I have been here since noon at Master Rolles’ request. We were discussing the burial of poor Beatrice and Clarice.’

‘And none of you left?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The gentlemen,’ Master Rolles declared, ‘rose late, broke their fast, and either stayed in their chambers, sat in the garden or, after noon, dined here. Ask any of the maids or scullions. You had best tell them, Sir John, what has really happened.’

‘The Misericord is dead,’ Cranston declared. ‘He was kept safe in a cell at Newgate, but someone passed him a pie claiming it was a gift from me. The pie was poisoned . . .’

Athelstan watched their faces for any reaction. The knights seemed unconcerned, whilst Mother Veritable just shrugged, a bitter twist to her mouth.

‘Look around you, Sir John,’ Sir Maurice urged. ‘Who is missing?’

‘The Judas Man.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him since this morning. And where is Brother Malachi?’

‘Why should we be interrogated,’ Sir Reginald Branson coughed, ‘because a rogue, undoubtedly bound for the hangman, had his pie laced with poison?’

His words provoked laughter, which Cranston stilled by banging on the table.

‘The Judas Man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘is his horse still in the stable?’

‘Yes,’ Rolles replied, ‘I saw it there myself. If you want, I’ll check his chamber.’

They all waited as the taverner left the solar and, complaining loudly, stamped up the stairs. He returned a short while later.

‘The door was off the latch,’ he declared, retaking his seat, ‘but the chamber is empty. All his goods, saddlebags,’ he spread his hands, ‘gone.’

‘But not his horse?’

‘No, Brother, neither his horse nor the harness. Perhaps the Judas Man has hired another chamber?’

‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Sir Thomas Davenport grumbled. ‘Master Cranston, if we want to, we should be able to leave here.’

‘Sir John, to you,’ Cranston snapped, ‘and I assure you, sir, that if you leave Southwark, I’ll have you arrested and dragged back at my horse’s tail.’

‘Enough!’ Athelstan’s raised voice created a surprised silence. ‘Why this hostility?’ the Dominican continued. ‘Five people have been foully murdered, their souls sent to God before their time. Beneath such murders the events of twenty years ago, the Lombard treasure being stolen, and again five souls disappeared. God knows if they were murdered or not.’

‘Brother, that’s a closed book,’ Sir Maurice countered. ‘The truth couldn’t be established then.’

‘Surely you know the proverb, Sir Maurice: truth is the daughter of time. If we resolve the mystery of twenty years ago, we shall be able to establish the truth now.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘So, none of you left the tavern this afternoon and, therefore, were probably not involved in the murder of the Misericord.’

‘Probably?’ Mother Veritable spat out.

‘Well, mistress, you may not have left the tavern, but a man you hated lies murdered.’

Mother Veritable sneered, tapping her fingers on the table.

‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘the Lombard treasure was stolen. Master Rolles owned this tavern and the Knights of the Golden Falcon were staying here.’

They all agreed.

‘On that particular night you gathered here. The only two persons missing were Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer.’

‘Brother Malachi wasn’t here.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘He had been absent all day visiting Charterhouse and Clerkenwell. He didn’t return until afterwards, when the news of the robbery was all over the city.’

‘Very good.’ Athelstan folded back the full sleeves of his gown. ‘Whilst you stayed here, Richard Culpepper fell smitten with the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. That is correct?’

Sir Maurice agreed; Mother Veritable echoed the word ‘smitten’ under her breath.

‘Mistress, you find this funny?’

‘Yes, I do, Brother,’ came the cool reply. ‘Everybody was smitten with Guinevere, whilst she was smitten with anyone who had gold and silver.’

‘Guinevere hinted,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that there was to be a change in her life. Do any of you know what she was referring to?’

‘She was a whore!’ Davenport shouted. ‘We can’t be held responsible for what went on in her pretty empty noddle.’

‘So none of you were smitten with her?’

‘Well of course not!’ Branson spoke up, his face all aflush. ‘Culpepper was our comrade; each to their own, I say.’

‘Did Culpepper or Mortimer,’ Athelstan continued, ‘tell you why they had been chosen to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it to the flagship?’

‘No.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘We only found that out later. Apparently, as I’ve said, Lord Belvers chose them especially, though rumour claimed His Grace the Regent was responsible.’

‘Why?’

‘They’d both fought in John of Gaunt’s retinue. He was, I suppose, their liege lord.’

‘Both of them?’ Cranston queried. ‘Culpepper is a Kentish name, but Mortimer, that’s a name from South Wales, isn’t it?’

‘True, Sir John. Mortimer was Culpepper’s friend and comrade – a mercenary who often frequented our company, a good swordsman and a master bowman. Culpepper and Mortimer were like two peas in a pod. During the days before the great robbery they were often absent; they acted rather mysteriously, not telling us where they were going or what they were doing.’

‘And you never questioned them?’

‘Well, of course, Brother, we were curious, but those were very busy days: the fleet preparing to sail, men seeking out friends and comrades, and, of course, there was always the attraction of Guinevere the Golden.’

‘So,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘you know nothing about the Lombard treasure or your two comrades being chosen to accept it; you spent that night here in the tavern, you have no knowledge of why Guinevere hinted that she should soon have a change in station, and you have no knowledge of what happened to the treasure, Culpepper and Mortimer?’

‘I speak for us all,’ Sir Maurice abruptly declared. ‘We would also like to know why we are being kept here, and why,’ he added, glaring bitterly at Cranston, ‘two of our comrades, Sir Laurence and Sir Stephen, have been slain, yet their assassin has not been caught.’

‘We are searching for the assassin,’ Cranston stood, pushing back the chair, ‘and until we find that person, everyone in this room, not to mention the Judas Man and Brother Malachi, is regarded as a suspect.’

Athelstan repacked his writing satchel, aware of the ominous silence. Once outside, Cranston put a finger to his lips. He crossed the stable yard and entered the street.

‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, adjusting the strap of his writing satchel over his shoulder, ‘that Culpepper or Mortimer, or indeed both of them, could still be alive, and be responsible for these murders? Where is the Judas Man, and Brother Malachi? They have questions to answer.’

‘Oh, I forgot to ask them that.’

Cranston told Athelstan to wait, and strode back into the tavern. The friar waited impatiently, watching two boys play with an inflated pig’s bladder, only to be distracted by two little girls chasing a rat they had disturbed in a rubbish heap. The sun had disappeared. Athelstan felt cold and hungry, and leaned against the gate post.

‘It’s time to pray,’ he whispered. ‘To eat and sleep.’

‘Well,’ Cranston came striding back through the gate, ‘I asked my question and nobody could help.’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘Did any of them hire the Judas Man? They could tell me nothing, not even his true name. I wonder,’ Cranston tapped his boot on the cobbles, ‘I wonder if the Judas Man was hired, or does he have something to do with those events twenty years ago? I have checked the stables. His horse and harness are still there. I’ll get my searchers out. If necessary I’ll arrest him.’

‘Very good, Sir John.’

‘You look tired,’ Cranston said kindly. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your prayers, monk, I’ll see what the Lady Maud has been doing.’

Cranston walked off down the street.

‘Sir John?’

‘Yes, Brother?’ Cranston turned.

‘I’m a friar.’

‘And a very good one too. Good day to you, Brother.’

Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Some of the parish children were playing in the cemetery. He walked up the steps to the church and into the gloomy nave. He lit some tapers at the Lady Altar and, picking one up, walked round the sanctuary. He visited the chantry chapel and noticed the tapers lying on the floor. The missal was gone, and his curiosity deepened when he found it lying down the nave near a pillar. He hurried across to his house. Nothing seemed amiss, but as soon as he turned the key in the lock, he realised something was wrong, though the kitchen was swept and clean, and the fire built high.