The Anger of God

‘I agree,’ the red-haired Sudbury declared, his face even more flushed from the claret he was gulping. ‘Your Grace, this is a disaster. For all our sakes, the chest must be examined.’

Gaunt looked at Clifford who nodded perceptibly. The Regent removed a silver chain from round his own neck. The key which swung from it glinted in the candlelight.

‘It’s best if we do,’ he agreed.

Clifford called the guards and, led by four serjeants-at-arms bearing torches, Gaunt and his now subdued guests, Cranston and Athelstan included, marched along the vaulted passageways, up the wide wooden stairs and into the small Guildhall chapel. They stood for a while just within the door, peering through the darkness, smelling the fragrance of incense; the guards lit flambeaux, as well as the candles they found on the high altar. The chapel, a small jewel with polished marble pillars, mosaic floor and painted walls, flared into life. The marble altar at the far end was covered by pure white cloths. They walked towards it. Gaunt deftly pulled the cloths aside. Beneath the altar, supported on four pillars, sat a long wooden chest reinforced with iron bands. Even in the poor light, Athelstan could see the six locks along one side.

‘Pull it out!’ Gaunt ordered.

Two soldiers brought it forward so that it stood before the altar. Even this action caused consternation for the chest seemed surprisingly light. Gaunt shouted for silence as he, followed by Clifford, who held Fitzroy’s, inserted and turned their keys. The Guildmasters followed suit, the clasps were lowered and the chest opened. Athelstan and Cranston peered over the shoulders of the others.

‘Nothing!’ Marshall breathed.

Cranston, quicker than the rest, pushed forward and plucked up the piece of yellow parchment lying on the bottom.

‘“These taxes have been collected”,’ he read aloud, ‘“by the Great Community of the Realm.” Signed, Ira Dei.’

‘This is intolerable!’ De

But the Regent, his face white as a ghost, sat slumped in the sanctuary chair, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Cranston, who had known John of Gaunt since he was a boy, had never seen him look so frightened or bewildered.

‘This is the devil’s work,’ Gaunt muttered.

His words were ignored as the other Guildmasters shouted and cursed. Clifford stood, mouth agape, staring down at the empty chest. Cranston shook him roughly by the shoulder.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed. ‘Clear the chapel. This does no one any good.’

Clifford broke out of his reverie and clapped his hands loudly. ‘My Lord of Gaunt must ponder this matter!’ he shouted above the hubbub.

‘What matter?’ Sudbury screamed back. ‘My Lord of Gaunt stretches out his hand and we clasp it. He talks of amity between himself and the city — now two of our company are dead. The gold we deposited here has been stolen and the miscreant, Ira Dei, not only murders and robs but makes a mockery of us all. What shall we report to our Guilds, eh? How do we tell our brethren that thousands of pounds sterling are now missing?’

‘My Lord of Gaunt will act,’ Cranston replied. ‘He is Regent, acting for the Crown. Is any man here going to commit treason and claim my Lord of Gaunt is responsible for this?’ He stared at Goodman the Mayor, leaning against the altar, a look of stupefaction on his face.

‘The chapel is to be cleared. My Lord Mayor, you should stay.’

At last Cranston’s authority prevailed and the Guildmasters, muttering amongst themselves and throwing black glances over their shoulders, trooped out of the chapel. Gaunt waited until the door closed behind them then lifted his face from his hands.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I thank you for that.’ He got to his feet. ‘But what shall we do? The Guildmasters are right. Each has lost a thousand pounds sterling. Mountjoy and Fitzroy are dead, and Ira Dei dances round me as if I was some bloody maypole.’ He gestured with his hand. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, Goodman and Lord Adam Clifford likewise. Gaunt covered his face with his hands then rubbed his eyes and looked at Cranston.

‘What do you propose, My Lord Coroner?’

Cranston shook his head. Athelstan caught a spark of anger in the Regent’s eyes. Sir John would have to move quickly or he might well become the scapegoat for the rage boiling in the Regent’s heart.

‘Your Grace.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. He tried to shake off his own tiredness, curbing his desire to flee back to his own quiet church in Southwark.

‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘two men have been foully murdered, but all assassins make mistakes and we have yet to reflect upon the events of this calamitous day. However, the removal of the gold from a chest which could only be opened by six separate keys is most mysterious. I have a number of questions. First, who made the chest?’

‘Peter Sturmey,’ Clifford replied, ‘a trusted locksmith whose services are retained by the Crown. I doubt very much whether he would act the traitor in this. His own son is an Exchequer official who was recently in an affray at Colchester whilst trying to collect taxes.’

Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Then what about the chest itself? My Lord Regent, perhaps we might examine it?’

Gaunt grunted his assent and Athelstan, assisted by Cranston and Clifford, with Goodman looking on, turned the chest over, knocking at the wooden panelling, examining the locks.

Cranston shook his head. ‘Good and true,’ he breathed, getting to his feet. ‘The chest has no secret compartments.’ He studied the clasp and locks. ‘None of these has been tampered with.’

Athelstan flicked the dust from his robes. ‘Therefore, my third question. Could there have been a master key?’

‘Impossible!’ Clifford snapped. ‘Each lock is unique.’ He drew out two of the keys which the Guildmasters had left, I am no locksmith, Brother, but study these carefully. Look!’ He held both of them up against the candlelight. ‘See the curves and notches of each key? They are quite separate and distinct. Indeed, my Lord of Gaunt insisted that they be so.’

Athelstan rubbed his mouth to hide his dismay.

‘Your fourth question begs itself,’ Clifford added. ‘Did Sturmey make a duplicate of each key? But that,’ he continued hurriedly, seeing the Regent shake his head, ‘would make Sturmey a traitor who cheerfully handed over his keys to another for the locks to be opened.’

‘Devil’s tits!’ Cranston murmured. ‘How could it be done? Was the chapel guarded?’

Goodman shrugged. ‘No, why should it be? The chest was heavy with gold, and with six locks…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Who pla

Clifford pulled a face and looked at Goodman. ‘The idea of the chest and the gold being deposited there,’ he replied, ‘came from my Lord of Gaunt, though it was myself and Sir Gerard Mountjoy who chose Sturmey.’ He smiled. ‘The Guildmasters insisted on that.’

‘Because they didn’t trust me!’ Gaunt snapped. ‘I had nothing to do with the construction of the chest or the fashioning of its locks or the making of its keys. Both I and the Guildmasters decided we should best leave that to our worthy city officials here. They brought the chest and the keys direct from Sturmey’s shop this morning.’

‘And, before you ask,’ Lord Adam intervened, ‘never once did any of them hold all six keys together. My Lord Mayor bought three, Mountjoy the rest. The transaction was witnessed by both Fitzroy and Sudbury and the chest was carried by city bailiffs.’

Cranston looked, narrow-eyed, into the darkness, a gesture the Coroner always used when he was deep in thought.

‘Sir John Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’

Cranston smacked his lips, a sure sign that, even at this very late hour, he was begi