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‘Two shillings, payable now!’ Cranston repeated.
The man dug into his purse and slapped the coins into the coroner’s hand. Sir John released him and the fellow slumped down on all fours, retching and coughing.
‘Was that necessary, Sir John?’ Athelstan whispered.
‘Yes, Brother, it was!’ Cranston snapped. ‘This city is ruled by fear. If a trader can mock me, in a week every bastard in London will follow suit.’
Cranston scowled as two beadles, summoned by the commotion, approached. The self-important looks on their smug faces faded as they recognised Sir John.
‘My Lord Coroner!’ one of them gasped. ‘What is it you want?’
Cranston pointed to the beggar’s corpse. ‘Have that removed!’ he bellowed. ‘You know your job. God knows how long the poor bastard has been lying there. Now move it before I kick both your arses!’
The beadles backed off, bowing and scraping as if the coroner was the Regent himself. Cranston turned and flicked his fingers at the urchin. The boy, arms and legs as thin as sticks, his eyes dark and round in a long, white face, came over, his thumb stuck in his mouth.
‘Here, lad!’ Cranston pushed the two shillings into an emaciated hand. ‘Now, go to Greyfriars. You know it? Between Newgate and St Martin’s Lane. Ask for Brother Ambrose. Tell him Sir John sent you.’
The boy, the money clenched tightly in his fist, stared back, spat neatly between Cranston’s boots and scampered off.
The coroner watched him go. ‘The preacher Ball is correct,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon this city will burn with the fires of revolt if the rich do not get off their fat arses and do more to help!’ He turned, his face now grave and serious. ‘Believe me, Brother, God’s angel stands at the threshold, the flailing rod of divine retribution in his hand. When that day comes,’ Cranston rasped, ‘there will be more violent deaths than there are people in this marketplace!’
Athelstan nodded in agreement and stared around. Oh, the marketplace was full of wealthy traders, merchants draped in furs, the wealthy artisans in jackets of rabbit and moleskin. Most looked well fed, plump even, but in the alleyways off the markets, Athelstan saw the poor; not like those in his parish but the landless men driven from their farms, flocking into the city to look for work though none was to be had. The Guilds controlled everything and soon these vagrants would be turned out, forced across London Bridge to swell the slums and violent underworld of Southwark.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ he murmured.
They pushed on up the Mercery, standing aside as a group of debtors from the Marshalsea, linked by chains, moved through the crowd, begging for alms both for themselves and other inmates. They found the Three Cranes tavern at the corner of an alleyway just opposite St Mary Le Bow. Benedicta was waiting for them, seated before a roaring fire; beside her on the ground, crouched like a little dog, sat Orme, one of Watkin the dung-collector’s sons. Athelstan slipped him a pe
‘Well, Benedicta, you left my church in good order?’
The widow smiled and unloosed the clasp of her cloak. Athelstan suddenly wondered what she would look like in a bright dress of scarlet taffeta rather man the dark browns, greens and blues she always wore.
‘All is well?’ he repeated hastily.
Benedicta gri
‘My Lady,’ Cranston retorted, ‘I would feel better — ’ he raised his voice to a bellow ‘- I would feel better if I got some custom, and the attention due to a King’s officer!’
The landlord kept chatting so Cranston strode across, roaring for a cup of sack and wine for his companions.
‘What’s wrong with Sir John?’ Benedicta whispered.
‘I don’t know. I think the Lady Maude has upset him. She is being mysterious and secretive.’
‘Strange,’ Benedicta mused. ‘I meant to tell you, Brother, Lady Maude was seen in Southwark over a week ago. She is so memorable, so petite and sweet-faced.’ Benedicta screwed up her eyes. ‘Yes, I am sure they told me she was coming out of Doctor Vincentius’ house.’
‘Is he a ladies’ man?’ Athelstan asked hastily, and wished he could have bitten his tongue out the moment he spoke. Benedicta stared coolly back.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ she replied, ‘can you show me a man who isn’t?’
Cranston’s return saved Athelstan from further embarrassment. The coroner swept his beaver hat from his head, scratched his balding pate, winked lecherously at Benedicta and turned to watch a now frightened taverner bring across a deep pewter bowl of sack and cups of wine for his companions.
‘You are not eating, Sir John?’
‘No,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I don’t feel hungry and I suspect the i
Benedicta laughed merrily. ‘Sir John, you must calm yourself!’
‘No,’ Cranston replied, lifting the goblet. ‘I’ll find serenity at the bottom of this cup.’
Benedicta watched in disbelief as Cranston drained his drink in one large gulp and boomed for more, smacking his lips, gently burping and belching. Benedicta bit her lower lip to stifle her laughter.
‘Well, Brother.’ Cranston patted his broad girth. ‘With apologies to the Lady Benedicta, what do you make of Mowbray’s death?’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Or Sir Ralph’s?’
Athelstan leaned against the table and ran his finger round the rim of the wine goblet. ‘First, we have found that Sir Ralph was probably murdered by someone who entered the Tower by crossing an ice-bound moat. Secondly, Mowbray was lured to his death by the tocsin sounding. Thirdly, both murders are certainly linked with Sir Ralph’s dreadful betrayal of Bartholomew Burghgesh in Cyprus so many years ago.’ Athelstan smiled at Benedicta’s quizzical face. ‘You are puzzled, My Lady. Well, so are we. First, how can someone enter the Tower, murder Sir Ralph, then leave the fortress without being noticed? Secondly, why did Sir Ralph just lie there and allow his throat to be cut so savagely that his head was almost hacked from his body? You saw the corpse, Sir John, and the chamber? There was no sign of any struggle nor did the guards hear anything. Thirdly, who rang the tocsin bell and, at the same time, so subtly arranged for Mowbray to fall from the parapet?’
The coroner’s face grew longer at Athelstan’s every word.
‘And the list of suspects,’ the friar continued remorselessly, ‘still stands. We may have met the murderer, yet it may equally be someone in the Tower or the city about whom we know nothing.’
‘I do not know the full story,’ Benedicta interrupted, ‘but there is rejoicing in Southwark at Sir Ralph’s death.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Pike the ditcher says it is the work of the Great Community. The secret peasant leaders wish to weaken the city before they organise their great revolt.’
‘Nonsense!’ Cranston slurred, now on his third cup of sack. ‘Pike the ditcher, with all due respect, My Lady Benedicta, should keep his mouth shut and his neck safe! Sir Ralph was not murdered by any peasant.’
Athelstan sipped from his wine cup and made a face at the sourness of the drink. ‘One person we have not met, My Lord Coroner, is the merchant Adam Horne. Benedicta, before we go on to meet Simon in the Fleet prison, there are certain enquiries to make. You will accompany us?’
Benedicta agreed, so they rose and left, Cranston bawling abuse at the hapless taverner. Outside it was growing dark, only a red glow showed where the sun had set. Cranston steadied himself carefully on the icy cobbles and stared at the sky.