‘Hemlock, henbane, belladonna are the most powerful potions and, at the same time, the easiest to disguise.’
‘Well, it’s not in the wine.’ Cranston brought across both the half-filled flagon and the loving cup, still quite full.
Athelstan sniffed at these. ‘No trace, no odour,’ he murmured. He knelt back down and smelt the dead man’s mouth. He caught a highly bitter, rather sour tang.
‘Any food?’ He glanced up.
‘Only these.’ Cranston brought across the small silver dish of sweetmeats. He pulled back the linen covering. ‘One is half eaten.’
Athelstan picked this up and examined it. ‘Nothing but sweetness. I wonder?’ He stared down at the corpse. ‘Was it really poison or just a seizure?’ He crouched and swiftly went through Kilverby’s pockets and belt purse but found nothing untoward. He rose and went round that chamber, a jewel of a chancery with its broad oaken desk, side tables, high-backed quilted chair and stools. Shelves fastened against the walls alongside cunningly crafted pigeon-hole boxes were used to store manuscripts and rolls of vellum. Fossers, chests and coffers stood neatly stacked. Cranston seemed more concerned with these, trying lids and locks. Athelstan crouched before the hearth. The fire was nothing more than white ash but the chafing dishes and small heating pans, perforated to emit spiced smoke, were still warm. Wrinkling his nose, Athelstan uncovered the chamber pot kept in the corner; it contained nothing but urine, no trace that Sir Robert had vomited or been caught by some stomach seizure. Athelstan put this back, washed his hands at the small lavarium and sat down on the chancery chair. The desk in front of him was littered with blank scraps of vellum. The writing tray, a pallet of exquisitely carved silver, contained three luxuriously plumed quill pens, all used. Nearby ranged pots of red, green and black inks, pumice stones, a parchment knife, a sander and scraps of sealing wax.
‘Sir John?’ Lady Helen, eager to exert her authority, reappeared in the doorway.
‘Not yet, my Lady.’ Cranston pointed at the sheeted corpse. ‘Though your husband’s corpse can be taken away, perhaps to your own bed chamber?’
A short while later Crispin and a few servants entered. Cranston supervised the removal of the corpse whilst Athelstan studied the tapestry hanging above the wainscoting. A vision of hell rich with gory scenes of the avaricious swallowing fiery coins, vomiting them up, then being forced to re-devour them under the supervision of a wrathful goblin. A synod of demons watched this torture. They all sat in council around Hell’s dread Emperor enthroned under a purple-black awning. On either side of him clustered night-hags and hell-hounds.
‘Wait!’ the coroner ordered. ‘Don’t move the corpse yet.’
Athelstan broke from his reverie.
‘Lady Helen, Mistress Alesia?’ Cranston called.
Both women, Adam Lestral slipping in behind, entered the chamber.
‘My ladies,’ Cranston made a bow, ‘once again, my condolences. However, His Grace the Regent is not only concerned about the mysterious death of Sir Robert but the safety and security of the Passio Christi.’
‘He kept it here.’ Alesia declared. ‘Always in this chamber. The room is so secure. You’ve seen the door?’ She gestured at the small oriel windows filled with painted glass. ‘Those are too small for entry, and there are no secret entrances or closets.’
‘And which coffer or casket holds the bloodstone?’
‘This one.’ Crispin crossed and picked up a small iron-bound casket with a barrel-shaped lid, three stout locks ranged along its lip.
‘And the keys?’
‘Three separate locks each with its own unique key,’ Crispin muttered.
‘And?’ the coroner demanded.
‘Only Sir Robert kept them.’
‘I know where.’ Athelstan smiled, recalling the jingling as he examined the dead man’s belly. Athelstan crossed to the stretcher, each of its poles held by a servant. He ran a finger round the dead man’s neck and pulled free the chain, undid the clasp and gently drew it away.
‘That should be done. .’ Lady Helen gasped.
‘This shall be done by the King’s coroner,’ Cranston snapped, and took the keys. After a great deal of trial and error, he inserted each into its appropriate lock. Whilst the coroner was busy, Athelstan studied Kilverby’s household gathered in the doorway then gazed round that opulent chamber. He was certain of this: under the cope of night, murder had slipped like some silent fury into this locked chamber and snatched Kilverby’s soul. The Apostate Angel hovered in that wealthy house, brushing them all with his wings. Murder had certainly unfurled its dark banners but how had this bloody mayhem been so cunningly executed? He half expected Cranston’s cry of surprise, echoed by the others, as the coffer lid snapped back.
‘Empty!’ Cranston whirled round. ‘The Passio Christi has gone!’
‘Impossible!’ Crispin blurted out. ‘It was there yesterday, I and others were present when Sir Robert showed it to the two monks from St Fulcher’s. We were there later in the solar when he put it back. I. .’
Athelstan glanced at the others. Alesia stood, her mouth gaping. Helen, face in her hands, peered through her fingers. Kinsman Adam just stared at the open coffer and the empty dark blue samite which once held the bloodstone.
‘His Grace will not be pleased,’ Cranston muttered. ‘He’ll claim treason and vow that someone will hang for this.’
‘We have not taken it,’ Alesia cried.
‘Taken what?’ a voice shouted from the stairwell. Theobald de Troyes, the local physician, shoved his way in coughing and spluttering as he apologized for his tardiness. Unaware of the confusion in the chamber, Theobald pulled back the shroud and stared down at the cadaver.
‘He’s dead!’ he bellowed. ‘And that will cost you five shillings.’ He turned to go but Cranston caught at his costly, ermine-trimmed robe and dragged him back.
‘Master Theobald,’ he said mockingly, ‘good day!’
‘And good day to you, Sir John. I. .’
‘I am not in the best of tempers,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You. .’ he jabbed a finger at the terrified-looking Crispin, ‘take the corpse to your mistress’s bed chamber. You, master physician, examine it most carefully then come back here and you,’ he gestured at the others, ‘wait for me in the solar.’
Once they’d all gone, Cranston slumped down on the stool cradling the empty casket.
‘Well, Friar?’
‘This chamber was certainly locked and bolted.’ Athelstan gestured round. ‘No secret passageways, no window to be forced yet, some stealthy night-shape, some shadow-stalker gained entry. If our evidence holds true, this assassin poisoned Sir Robert, forced that casket, stole the Passio Christi, relocked the coffer and put the keys around Sir Robert’s neck. Sir John, what exactly is this bloodstone?’
‘In a while, in a while.’ Cranston’s blue eyes were now hard as glass. ‘This surely is only the beginning of our troubles. Look, Friar,’ the coroner put the coffer down between his feet. ‘Sir Robert Kilverby is — was, a merchant with fingers and toes in every pie in the kitchen. He traded in everything, silk, spices and salt. His stalls and shops displayed dazzling armour, precious silver belts, pouches and scabbards. He brought in leather goods from Cordova, linens from Genoa, scarlet silks from Lucca and Florence. He was both banker and money changer. He gave generously to the old King and his sons so they could go on chevauchee across the Narrow Seas to plunder the French. .’
‘I know of Sir Robert,’ Athelstan intervened. He picked up the quill pens and examined them carefully. He sniffed at all three plume tails and cautiously licked them with his tongue, running each of the quill pens through his fingers.
‘Monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I thought these might be tainted but they’re not. Anyway, the Passio Christi?’
‘The Passion of Christ.’ Cranston glanced at the wine jug and smacked his lips.
‘I wouldn’t, Sir John.’
‘True.’ Cranston sighed. ‘Well, the Passio Christi or the Passion of Christ is a precious bloodstone. When Christ died on the Cross, drops of his blood and sweat trickled down to miraculously form a precious ruby. Joseph of
