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Cranston chewed his lip as he banged on the door again. Yet it was not just his work which bothered him, there was something else: his beloved wife Maude was not being honest with him and Cranston suspected she was hiding a dreadful secret. Sir John was infatuated with his wife and could not resist the pleasures of the bed chamber, yet recently, last night included, he had snuggled up next to her only to have his advances rejected. She had whimpered her protests softly in the darkness, would not tell him the reason and refused to be comforted. Now, in the early hours, this idiot Venables had brought him out into the cold in order to force entry into this mysterious house. Cranston hammered on the door again but there was no reply, only the muttered oaths and shuffling feet of his companions.
‘So!’ Cranston turned to the alderman. ‘Tell me again what the problem is.’
Venables knew Sir John and stared anxiously at the bewhiskered red face, the icy-blue eyes and furrowed brow under the great, woollen beaver hat. Sir John was a good man, Venables reflected, but when he lost his temper he could be the devil incarnate. Venables pointed to the broken ale-stake jutting out just above the door.
‘The facts are these, Sir John. The householder here is Simon de Wyxford. This is his ale-house. He had no family, only a servant, Roger Droxford. Eight days ago master and servant had a violent quarrel which continued all day. On December the sixth the servant, Roger, opened the alehouse as usual, set out the benches and sold wine, but nothing was seen of Simon. The next day neighbours asked Roger where his master was. He replied that Simon had gone to Westminster to recover some debts.’ Venables blew out his cheeks and turned to one of the shadowed figures beside him.
‘Tell Sir John the rest’
‘Four days ago…’ began the neighbour, a small man swathed in robes.
Cranston could see only a pair of timid eyes and a dripping nose above the muffler.
‘Speak up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Remove the muffler from your mouth.’
‘Four days ago,’ the fellow continued, obeying Sir John with alacrity, ‘Roger was seen leaving here, a bundle of possessions slung across his back. We thought he was fleeing but he went to one of our neighbours, Hammo the cook, telling him he was going to seek out Simon, his master, and gave Hammo the key should de Wyxford suddenly return. Last night,’ he continued, clearing his throat, ‘Francis Boggett, a taverner, came here to recover a debt Master Simon owed him.’
‘Come on! Come on!’ Cranston interrupted.
‘Boggett entered the house,’ the alderman intervened smoothly, ‘to find no trace of Simon or his servant, so he seized three tuns of wine as recompense for his debt.’
‘How did he get in?’ Cranston snapped.
‘Hammo the cook gave him the key.’
Sir John pursed his lips. ‘Boggett is to be fined fivepence for trespass and the cook twopence as his accomplice.’ He glared at the alderman. ‘You have the key on you?’
Venables nodded. Cranston snapped his fingers and the alderman handed it over. The coroner drew himself up to his full height.
‘As coroner of this city,’ he grandly a
There was further confusion as Venables asked for a tinder from one of his companions. Sir John unlocked the door and entered the cold darkness of the tavern. The place smelt dirty and musty. They crashed against barrels, stools and tables until Venables struck a tinder and lit two cresset torches, one of which he handed to Cranston. They went from room to room and then upstairs where they found the two chambers ransacked, coffers and chests with their lids broken or thrown aside, but no trace of any body.
‘You know what we are looking for?’ Cranston murmured.
Venables nodded. ‘But so far nothing, Sir John.’
‘There is a cellar?’
The alderman led Cranston downstairs. They searched the darkened taproom until they found a trap door which Venables pulled back. Both men descended gingerly by wooden ladders. The cellar was a long, oblong box with a trap door at the far end for the carts to unload their barrels through. Cranston told Venables to stand still and walked carefully through the cellar, his great bulk made grotesque by the dim light of the flickering torches. At the far end he stopped, lowered the torch and looked behind three great wine tuns. The light made the spiders’ webs which clung to the barrels shimmer like cloth of gold. Cranston leaned over and felt the sticky mess he had spotted. He brought his hand up into the light and looked at the blood which coated his fingers like paste. He forced his arm back further behind the barrels, and scrabbled around.
‘Sir John!’ the alderman called out. ‘All is well?’
‘As well as can be expected, Master Venables. I have found the taverner, or at least part of him!’ Cranston picked up the decapitated head from behind the barrels and held it aloft as if he was the Tower headsman. The alderman took one look at the blue-white face, the half-closed eyes, sagging blood-stained mouth and the jagged remains of the neck, and sat down heavily on a stone plinth, retching violently. Cranston put down the head and walked back, wiping his fingers on the mildewed wall. As he passed, he patted Venables gently on the shoulder.
‘Have some claret, my good alderman, it steadies the stomach and fortifies the heart.’ He stopped and took a step back. ‘After that, swear out warrants for the arrest of Roger Droxford. Declare him a wolfshead, and place…’ Cranston screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, place ten pounds’ reward on his head, dead or alive. Have this house sealed, and in the event of no will or self-proclaimed heir appearing, the city council might find itself a little richer.’
He climbed the ladder and the taproom steps and emerged on to the bitterly cold street.
‘We’ve found the taverner,’ he a
Then, hand on his long Welsh dagger, Sir John trudged back along the ice-packed ru
He slithered on the icy cobbles and leaned against the wooden frame of a house, gri
‘Athelstan should be here helping,’ he murmured. ‘If not with headless corpses, then at least by keeping me steady on the ice.’
He walked on up Cheapside. A dark shape slid from the shadows to meet him. Cranston half drew his dagger.
‘Sir John, for the love of Christ!’
Cranston peered closer at the raw-boned face of the one-legged beggar who always sold trinkets from his rickety stall on the corner of Milk Street.
‘Not in bed, Leif? Looking for a lady, are we?’
‘Sir John, I’ve been robbed!’
‘See the sheriff!’
‘Sir John, I have no money and no food.’
‘Then stay in bed!’
Leif steadied himself against the wall. ‘I paid no rent so I lost my garret,’ he wailed.
‘Well, go and beg at St Bartholomew’s!’ Cranston barked back, and trudged on. He heard Leif hopping behind him.
‘Sir John, help me.’
‘Bugger off, Leif.’
‘Thank you, Sir John,’ the beggar answered as coins tinkled to the ground. Leif knew enough about the fat coroner to understand Sir John hated to be seen giving charity.
Cranston stopped before his own house and looked up at the candlelit windows. Leif nearly crashed into him and Cranston shrugged him off. What is the matter with Maude? he wondered. He had always considered marriage similar to dipping one’s hand into a bag of eels — it depended on luck what you drew out. Yet he had been so fortunate. He adored Maude from the mousey hair of her head to the soles of her tiny feet.