The Anger of God

‘Yes, it is. What are you going to say, Sir John, that my husband took too much? He insisted on pouring it himself. No one else was allowed to touch it.’

Cranston nodded. ‘And would you agree, in the presence of witnesses, that this is the jug that was left in your husband’s chamber when I sealed it, and that in your husband’s death throes he knocked it over?’

‘Yes, yes!’

Cranston turned at a sound near the door and summoned over the old manservant.

‘Just in time, me lad!’ he boomed. ‘I could do with another witness. Tell me, Mistress.’ He turned back to the woman. ‘Have you ever tasted foxglove?’

‘Of course not! Sir John, you have been drinking!’

‘Yes. Yes, I have. I even drank from this jug.’

Athelstan gazed quickly at AIbric, who might be a coward but, by the look on his face, had already guessed the direction of Cranston’s interrogation. It seemed only to increase his terror.

‘Well,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘foxglove is fairly tasteless. And that’s how you murdered your husband. He kept the main supply of the potion in a stoppered flask in the buttery. What he didn’t know is that, perhaps a month before his death, you poured the potion away and replaced it with nothing more harmful than water.’

‘Don’t be stupid, my husband would have noticed!’

Cranston smiled. ‘Where is that flask?’

‘I’ve thrown it away!’ Rosamund stammered.

‘Well, well,’ Cranston snapped. ‘Why should you do that?’

‘It wasn’t needed!’

‘Rubbish. You wished to hide the evidence! It would never have occurred to him. After all,’ Cranston continued, ‘we see what we expect to see. I understand from my medical friends that foxglove in its liquid form is both clear and tasteless. Perhaps you added something to thicken it a little? What do we have, woman, eh? A man with a weak heart, worried sick about his faithless wife, being deprived for weeks of a life-giving medicine. Oh, yes, Sir Oliver, God rest him, died of a heart seizure — but one brought about by you. Now, Brother Athelstan here is a theologian.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Albric who sat slumped in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. ‘Athelstan will tell you that there are two types of sin. The first is an act, the second an omission. Albric, do you know what omission means?’

The young fop shook his head.

‘It means, you treacherous little turd, that you commit evil by not doing something. You can kill a man by throwing him into the river. You can also kill him by refusing to help him out.’

‘What proof do you have?’ Rosamund demanded.

‘Enough to hang you,’ Cranston answered sharply, coming forward. ‘You see, as your husband died, in the middle of his seizure, his hand flailed out and he knocked over the medicine jar, allowing the liquid to spill out. Now, this house is plagued by rats, hungry and inquisitive.’ Cranston was so furious he found it hard to speak.

‘What My Lord Coroner is saying,’ Athelstan intervened quietly, ‘is that if a rat would gnaw a dead man’s body, it would certainly drink any liquid left lying about. I have looked at that table,’ he lied. ‘As has the professional rat-catcher here. There are signs of rats on that table. Their tracks, as well as their dung, are all over the chamber.’ He glanced quickly at Ranulf who nodded wisely. ‘More importantly,’ he continued, ‘as my good friend here will swear, any rat who drank foxglove would soon die but we discovered no dead rat in that chamber.’ Athelstan schooled his features. He was bluffing and no Justice would convict anyone on the evidence they had produced. His heart skipped a beat as he heard Albric moan. The young man uncrossed his arms and made to rise.

‘This is nonsense!’ Rosamund snapped, a gleam of triumph in her eyes. ‘First the rat could slink away to die anywhere and we have found dead rats in the house, haven’t we, Albric?’ The young man, white-faced, just nodded.

‘That’s impossible!’ Ranulf, entering the spirit of the occasion, now spoke up. ‘Foxglove would kill a rat immediately. I would swear to that. Indeed, I could show you.’

Albric sat down again and stared fearfully at Athelstan.

‘You also mentioned treason.’ Rosamund rushed her words to hide any confusion.

‘Yes, I did,’ Cranston replied softly. ‘Last night I was attacked by footpads. I beat them off and took one prisoner,’ he lied. ‘He confessed how you hired them to kill me.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘He named you.’

‘Oh, this is ridiculous!’ she sneered. ‘Are you also accusing me of hiring three footpads?’

Cranston smiled. ‘How do you know there were three?’

The sneer died on Rosamund’s face.

‘They also named you.’ Cranston nodded at Albric.

‘That’s not true!’ the young man snapped and glared furiously at Rosamund. ‘You said it would be safe!’

‘Oh, shut up, you fool!’ She sat down, covering her face with her hands.

Athelstan relaxed, aware that he had been digging the nails of his fingers into the palms of his hand. He went to stand over the young man.

‘Confess,’ he said quietly. ‘Turn King’s evidence and who knows what the Coroner will do for you?’

Athelstan crouched and patted the young man’s hand then stood up as Albric stared at the floor.

‘I’ll confess,’ he muttered.

Rosamund pushed her tearful, hate-filled face at Athelstan. ‘Shut up, you bloody priest! You ragged-arsed half-man! I did it for you!’ she hissed at Albric. ‘I did it for you!’

He shook his head. ‘We’re finished,’ he whispered.

Cranston turned and beckoned Robert over. ‘Quickly, go down the street. At The Moon and the Cage tavern you’ll find four serjeants. You are to bring them here immediately!’

The steward scurried off. Athelstan and Cranston walked to the front door and waited until the four city serjeants came. Cranston whispered instructions to them then he and his companions left even as Rosamund’s rage turned to hysteria. She screamed her fury at Cranston and Athelstan as the serjeants began to load her and Albric with the chains they had brought.

Outside in the street Cranston stood still, his eyes full of tears. ‘I can’t say anything,’ he said. He shook Athelstan’s hand very formally and then Ranulf’s. He wiped a tear away. ‘Come on. I did not go to Oliver’s requiem mass but let me buy you the funeral toast.’ He pointed down to Ferox, now dozing quietly in his cage. ‘And our little friend here can go home drunk.’

CHAPTER 10

An hour later, a rather drunk Ranulf with an even tipsier ferret staggered out of The Moon and the Cage tavern, muttering that he had to get back to Southwark. Cranston watched the rat-catcher disappear out of the door of the tavern and grew expansive.

‘A fine man, Brother. I’ve always called your parishioners a gang of si

‘We are all si

‘Which brings us,’ Cranston trumpeted, keeping a wary eye on the relic-seller feasting on his ill-gotten gains in the far corner of the taproom, ‘back to the deaths at the Guildhall, eh?’

Athelstan quickly told him about his meeting with Pike the ditcher. Cranston heard him out, smacking his lips and sniffing at the savoury smells from the tavern kitchen.

‘Pike should watch himself,’ he growled. ‘A man who stands with a foot on either side of a flame ends up getting his balls burnt. Oh, by the way, talking of danger, has the Lady Benedicta collected that minx of a girl?’

‘By now, Sir John, she should be safely at the Minoresses.’

‘A bad business that,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Do you know, Brother, there was something evil in that house?’

‘Well, it’s finished,’ Athelstan declared half-heartedly. He agreed with Cranston’s conclusion but still felt guilty about what had happened. ‘However, this business at the Guildhall.’ He ran a finger round the rim of his cup. ‘You realize, Sir John, those murders are not like the ones we usually investigate? You knew Sir Oliver had been murdered. Someone in that house had killed him. The same is true of the other crimes we have resolved, be it the business at the Springall manor or the murder of Sir Ralph Whitton at the Tower last Christmas.’