‘Not what they deserve,’ Cranston growled ‘The carts full of their so-called relics will be taken down to London Bridge to be burnt by the public hangman. After that our two beauties will be whipped to Aldgate, cut loose and banned from the city, under pain of forfeiture of a limb for the first offence, their lives for the second.’ Cranston gazed over the crowd, now yelling abuse as the carts disappeared up the Mercery. ‘It’s a lesson for the others which by tomorrow they will undoubtedly have forgotten.’
They continued across Cheapside, the little armourer drawing Cranston back into an acrimonious debate over the superiority of certain weapons At the Guildhall they had to cool their heels for a while before a tipstaff took them up to the council chamber where Gaunt, flanked by Clifford and Hussey, sat with the Guildmasters. The Regent dispensed with ceremony. Not even inviting them to sit, whilst he looked disdainfully at the little armourer. Simon was so overcome in the presence of such august personages he couldn’t stop bobbing and bowing, until Cranston hissed at him to stay still and stand by the door.
‘You have something to report, My Lord Coroner?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
Gaunt played with the leather tassels on his expensively quilted jacket. Athelstan could see that the Regent had been looking forward to a morning’s hunting in the fields and marshes north of Clerkenwell, Hussey was his usual diplomatic self, pleasant-faced but quiet. Clifford rubbed his wounded shoulder thoughtfully, whilst the Guildmasters were like a pack of hunting dogs: Goodman the Mayor tapping his fingers loudly on the table. Sudbury and the rest were arrogant and resentful at being summoned from a morning’s trade.
‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘We are busy men, Sir John!’
‘As am I, My Lord Mayor.’
‘You have come earlier than we thought,’ Sudbury snarled. ‘Do you have our gold?’
Cranston shook his head.
‘Have you arrested Ira Dei?’
‘No.’
Gaunt leaned forward and smiled falsely.
‘So why in God’s name are we here, Sir John?’
‘Perhaps to arrest a murderer, Your Grace. All entrances to the Guildhall must be secured.’
Gaunt stared back, a spark of interest in his eyes as he realized this was to be no ordinary meeting.
‘You have discovered something, haven’t you?’ he said softly. ‘You and your little friar.’
The atmosphere in the chamber changed dramatically. They’d dismissed us as failures, Athelstan thought to himself. These arrogant hawks thought a fat Coroner and his dusty friar too dim-witted to search out the truth. He breathed deeply to control his anger. Gaunt sat back and spread his hands.
‘Sir John, in this matter we are your prisoners.’ He glared over his shoulders and bellowed at a captain of the guard standing against the wall behind him: ‘Have the Guildhall secured! No one is to leave or enter until I say.’ He looked at Cranston, ‘What else do you need, My Lord Coroner?’
Athelstan spoke instead. ‘I want the banqueting table laid out, as it was the night Fitzroy died.’
Gaunt nodded. ‘And what else?’
‘I want cushions and bolsters where Sir Gerard Mountjoy the Sheriff was sitting. The garden must be cleared.’
Gaunt smiled. ‘And finally?’
‘Until I and Sir John have finished, Your Grace, I would be grateful if you would all stay here.’
A hubbub of protest broke out but Gaunt slammed the table top for silence, his face flushed.
‘A few days ago,’ he roared,’ I came to this Guildhall to seal a pact of friendship between myself and the city. The deaths of Fitzroy, Mountjoy and Sturmey put an end to that. Sirs, you will wait until this business is finished.’ He jabbed a finger at Cranston. ‘And, My Lord Coroner, God help you if you are wasting my time!’
The servants were summoned. Gaunt gave his instructions. Athelstan led Cranston and the trembling armourer out of the chamber, down the stairs and into the small pentice which connected the kitchens to the Guildhall. Athelstan tried to curb his excitement as he peered through the gaps in the paling, watching the servants place the cushions and bolsters as he had ordered. From where he stood he could see through the gaps that they were piled high on the very spot Sir Gerard had been murdered. He waited until the servants had gone back to the Guildhall then smiled at the armourer.
‘Well, Simon, now’s your opportunities to prove our theory correct.’
The armourer placed his sack on the ground, taking out an arbalest or crossbow. The gulley where the bolt would be slipped had been specially widened. He then took a long dagger, identical to the one found in Mountjoy’s chest. He placed this carefully in the deepened groove and slowly winched back the powerful cord.
‘Very good,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Now, Simon, try and shoot the dagger from the arbalest into the centre of the top cushion, the green-fringed one.’
Cursing and muttering, Simon lifted the crossbow and released the dagger. It sped like a stone from a sling but the aim was wrong and the dagger struck the wooden fence, narrowly missing the cushions. Cranston, huffing and puffing, went to fetch it, bringing it back and telling Simon to steady himself or they would all spend the next week in Newgate. Again he put the crossbow to the ground and winched back the powerful cord. The long dagger was inserted into the groove. He took careful aim and this time the dagger speed well and true, sinking deeply into the cushion, pinning it securely to the wooden fence behind. Cranston crowed in triumph and clapped his hands like a child.
‘It works!’ he said, ‘It works!’
He hurried back into the Guildhall, reappearing a few minutes later with Gaunt and the rest of his companions from the council chamber. Athelstan and the armourer, his crossbow back in the sack, stood by the wicket gate staring at the cushion.
‘What’s this nonsense?’ Goodman shouted.
‘You have brought us down here, Cranston to see a dagger driven into a cushion?’
Gaunt, however, pushed the gate open and walked in, putting his hand on the dagger and prising it gently loose I a small puff of dust and goose feathers.
‘You didn’t stab it, did you, Cranston?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ he replied. ‘The dagger was shot from a crossbow through the gaps in that fence.’
‘Can it be done?’ Denny exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes it can be done!’ Sudbury smiled sweetly at the Mayor, ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Christopher? You are a member of the Bowyers Guild.’
The mayor looked pale and rather shaken by Cranston’s announcement.
‘Well?’ Gaunt glared at him.
‘Your Grace, it’s easily done,’ the man mumbled. He waved a hand. ‘This dagger is like the one which killed the sheriff, it has no hilt or cross guard; it can be shot from a crossbow if its groove has been deepened and widened. After all, it’s just an elongated bow and thus the dagger becomes an arrow.’
‘You see,’ Simon the armourer interrupted, but suddenly covered his mouth with his hand as he realized where he was. ‘Do it, Simon!’ Cranston urged gently. ‘Fire the dagger again!’ He hurried away. They saw him behind the pentice the cord twanged and again the dagger smacked into the cushions. You see,’ Cranston extended his hands. ‘Imagine, good sirs, Sir Gerard Mountjoy sitting in the afternoon sunshine enjoying his wine and the company of his bounds in his own private garden.’ He looked at Denny. ‘You saw him there. The Guildhall is quiet, everyone dozing or resting in the afternoon heat, but our assassin slips along the covered way. Beneath his cloak he has a crossbow, an arbalest, or some other type of bow specially bought for one purpose. The gap in the fencing there is wide enough. The assassin takes aim, Sir Gerard is killed immediately, the dagger piercing his heart — whilst the assassin has not had to enter the garden or pass the dogs. He slips away.’
‘I suspect,’ Cranston continued, ‘the assassin had practiced beforehand and so the murder was carried out in a matter of seconds. The dogs hardly knew what had happened whilst Sir Gerard died almost instantly,’ He nodded as Athelstan grasped his sleeve and whispered in his ear.
‘And Fitzroy?’ Gaunt asked.
Cranston waited until Athelstan had disappeared through the Guildhall door.
‘Oh, Fitzroy’s murder was much more clever. We must return to the room where he died. However, the assassin who killed Mountjoy used the same method to murder Sturmey. That pathetic locksmith, for reasons I shall explain later, was lured down to the quayside at Billingsgate. He was waiting for someone. He walked up and down,
