The Straw Men

servants moved about. The same is true here.’ Athelstan grasped the end of the table. ‘This is the entrance — guards stood there. Musicians were busy in the recess, people were coming and going.’ He shook his head. ‘So where did our assassin lurk and successfully and secretly loose two crossbow bolts?’ His question was greeted with silence. The friar shrugged. ‘Sir John, my apologies but my sermon may have proved too long. I am even sorrier that all it did was pose questions.’

The coroner grinned, picked up his cloak and bowed at the assembled company. ‘Gentlemen, Mistress’ Rachael and Judith, I thank you for your attention.’ And the coroner, taking a sip from his wine skin, headed for the door. Athelstan swiftly sketched a blessing and hurried after him.

‘Sir John?’ Once they were outside Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve. ‘I apologize, but this mystery hounds me. .’

‘No need to apologize.’ Cranston clutched Athelstan’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I am baffled, you are baffled, we are baffled. All that you said in there is what I was trying to express.’ He let go of the friar’s hand. ‘Anyway, what brought you up? I thought you were busy with Warde’s manuscripts. Did you find anything which might explain the massacre of him and his family?’

‘No,’ Athelstan replied evasively. ‘Perhaps the Upright Men were involved? But come, Sir John, while we are braving the cold, let us visit Eli’s chamber.’ They trudged through the snow. The guard inside the Salt Tower allowed them up to the death chamber. Carpenters had been very busy. The door had been rehung on new freshly oiled leather hinges with gleaming bolts and a new lock. Cranston remarked on the speed and skill of the repairs as Athelstan began to search around. There was very little. Eli’s possessions had been removed. The chamber was cold, empty and bleak. Athelstan returned to the door. He closed it over, drew the bolts and turned the well- greased lock. He then crossed the chamber to examine the window shutters but swiftly deduced that these had not been opened since late summer or early autumn: the bar was secure and covered in dust. Athelstan, puzzled, stood chewing his lip. This chamber has no secret entrance, so how had Eli been killed? He returned to the door and examined the eyelet. The slit looked unchanged, about six inches long and the same in breadth; the small wooden shutter had been replaced and now slid easily backwards and forwards. Athelstan pulled this open and stared into the darkened stairwell.

‘An assassin with a small hand arbalest could loose a bolt quite easily through that slit,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘Except. .’

‘Except what, my dear friar?’

‘Except when Eli was murdered that shutter was firmly stuck.’ Athelstan stamped his feet against the gathering cold. ‘And even if it hadn’t been, Eli would have surely been cautious. I mean, that’s the whole purpose of an eyelet, isn’t it, to determine friend or foe? Eli was young, alert and vigorous; even if that shutter could slide back, problems remain. Let us analyse it,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘causa disputandi — for the sake of argument. Let us suppose that the shutter could be moved. Now, logically the assassin standing outside would have knocked, perhaps even called out, yes?’

Cranston nodded.

‘Eli must have asked who it was? Satisfied with the answer, Eli pulled back the shutter. He would certainly flinch at an arbalest being pushed up to the slit and move very swiftly out of danger. Yet in the end all this is fiction,’ Athelstan closed the door, ‘that couldn’t have happened, as the shutter was held fast, stuck.’ Athelstan laughed sharply. ‘Even if it hadn’t been, and Eli was satisfied with his visitor, why not just open the door? Why bother peering through the eyelet in the first place?’

‘Brother, one question?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘Can we resolve these mysteries?’

‘At first sight, Sir John, no, though logic dictates, and God demands we do so.’

The mournful tolling of the Newgate bell was answered by that of the nearby church of St Sepulchre; the bells boomed out across the sleet-swept, blood-strewn concourse in front of the soaring iron-bound gates of London’s greatest and grimmest prison. Despite the harsh winter’s day, fleshers, butchers and their minions were busy hacking and hewing the carcasses of cattle, pigs and birds of every kind. Apprentice boys raced about with tubs and buckets crammed with steaming entrails, giblets and offal. The morning air was rich with the raw stench of slaughter, heavy with the tang of salt and brine. Scavengers, human, animal and bird, flocked to fight over globules of flesh and the occasional chunk of meat. Around these surged a crowd, leather boots, wooden sandals and, in some cases, bare feet squelching in the gory mess of blood, snow and filthy mud. Citizens hoped to buy a bargain though at the same time the great gates of Newgate were kept under close watch. When these abruptly swung open, people surged forward to greet the death carts which came rumbling out, escorted by men-at-arms wearing the city livery. Cranston and Athelstan, who’d been sheltering in the porch of the aptly named tavern The Roast Pig, stepped out and waited. Duke Ezra had insisted that the pardon for the three plungers be served here.

‘So everyone can see his power,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A better mummer than any of the Straw Men, Ezra loves a spectacle. We have to do what he says — the Herald of Hades will be watching, hah!’ Cranston pointed at the black-garbed executioner, his face concealed by a red mesh mask, sitting by the driver of the first cart. ‘Your friend the anchorite, the Hangman of Rochester.’ Cranston marched across. The line of carts now stood still as the undersheriffs in fur-lined cloaks organized their posse or comitatus to divide; three carts for the Elms of Smithfields, three for the gallows at the Forks by Tyburn stream. Cranston took off his beaver hat and pulled down his muffler so he would be recognized, then handed one of the undersheriffs the three pardons. Athelstan could only stand and pray for all he saw and heard was most pitiful. Some prisoners lolled half drunk in the carts, others protested and yelled their innocence, a few sobbed bitterly as family and friends gathered to make their final farewells. The reeking stench of unwashed bodies clothed in filthy rags all coated in Newgate slime was nauseous. Athelstan, whispering his Aves, moved to where the hangman sat.

‘Good morning, Giles.’ Athelstan deliberately used the anchorite’s real name. ‘God have mercy on you.’

‘Soon done, soon finished,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I’ll visit Tyburn first then a city courier will escort me across to Smithfield.’

‘You’ll go back to your cell at Saint Erconwald’s?’

‘And to my painting, Brother.’

‘You and Huddle?’

‘Father,’ the anchorite leaned down, eyes gleaming through his mask, ‘we could transform your church. I mean. .’ He broke off as cheers and cries broke out. Athelstan glanced down the line of carts. The three plungers had been taken off the death tumbrils. Manacles and chains removed, they grasped their pardons and danced like fleas on a hotplate. Athelstan realized why Duke Ezra had insisted it be so — a public demonstration of his influence and protection for those he called ‘his beloveds’. The three plungers were suddenly enveloped by a small mob who hurried them away lest any official might change his mind.

‘You must go,’ Athelstan grasped the hangman’s black gauntleted hand, ‘to make sure their deaths are swift and painless. God have mercy on them all.’

‘In the twinkling of an eye,’ the hangman replied, ‘from this vale of tears to Heaven’s gate before they realize.’

The mounted men-at-arms now imposed order, beating away the crowds and ordering the carts to go their appointed route. Cranston seized Athelstan’s wrist and pulled him aside. They walked briskly. Cranston pushed his way through the crowds, stepping around puddles and pits of refuse, knocking away the grasping hands of apprentices and beggars who importuned for trade or alms.

‘God knows,’ Cranston growled, ‘when the Herald will make his appearance, but it’s the Holy Lamb for us, Friar, a tankard of ale and the juiciest, freshest mince beef pie.’

They reached the tavern and revelled in the sweet warmth of the tap room, the fragrance from herb-strewn pine logs mingling with the savoury tang of hams, cheeses and vegetables hanging in snow-white nets from the black beams. The ruddy-cheeked Minehost ushered them to Sir John’s favourite window seat. They’d hardly sat down when Athelstan heard his name called and a lean, hatchet-faced man dressed in black robes like those of a Benedictine monk stepped out from the shadows of the inglenook. Athelstan stared at that sharp face, the foxlike eyes, the cropped auburn hair, the lips twisted ready to mock, talon-like fingers splayed as he stretched out a hand to clasp that of Athelstan.

‘You forget so soon, Athelstan?’

The friar stared in disbelief. ‘Eudo!’ Athelstan clasped the newcomer’s hand. ‘Eudo Camois, or Brother Luke