‘Watch out, watch out! Fat Jack’s about!’
Cranston growled deep in his throat but chose to ignore such taunts. The King’s justice was also very apparent along these grim streets. Cranston and Athelstan had to stand aside as a moveable gallows, a scaffold on a huge platform fixed on wheels, was pulled by oxen down one broad lane. Bailiffs guarded each side of the cart. On each branch of the four-legged gibbet hung a corpse, pitched and tarred. A placard nailed to the back of the cart proclaimed that the dead men were river thieves, hanged on the quayside just after dawn. After these came four women, wearing striped hoods, who had been caught playing naughty. They would be taken down to the stocks until their menfolk collected them and gave guarantees of future good behaviour. This macabre procession was followed by the bell man, dressed in the colours of the city livery. Every so often he would pause, ring his bell and proclaim how Miles Sallet, a cobbler, was to forfeit twenty-two pairs of shoes of good calfskin leather for knocking down a City beadle, and refusing to pay the fine.
Eventually Cranston led Athelstan off this broad thoroughfare and down Darkhouse alleyway. At the bottom of this, across a strip of common land, rose a fine but rather decayed mansion, its tiled roof, lead piping and red bricks peeping above a high grey curtain wall. Cranston marched up to the gate-house and pulled at the bell rope, hidden by a screen which looked curiously like a penis. He pulled at the cord again. Athelstan read the proclamation nailed to a piece of wood hanging from one of the gate pillars which declared that the ‘Garden of Delights’ beyond offered grapes, apples, pears, cherries, quinces, peaches, mulberries and apricots. Above the notice was a painting of a pale swan nesting, its long neck turned.
‘To the uninitiated, Brother,’ Cranston laughed, ‘that appears to be what any coster would sell from his stall. Take my word for it, you’ve never seen the type of gooseberries this house grows.’
Cranston hammered on the gate. The small grille opened, and eyes peered out.
‘Piss off,’ a voice snarled.
‘Is that you, Owlpen? Open up. It’s Jack Cranston. Either open up or I’ll return with warrants.’
The gate swung open and a little man with rounded eyes in a rounded face, two tufts of hair sticking up like the ears of an eagle owl, peered fearfully up at the coroner.
‘Oh! Sir John.’
‘Never mind that,’ Cranston snapped.
He pushed Owlpen aside and walked up the pebble-dash path. The garden on either side was cordoned off by a latticework fence. They went up some steps, through a half-open door and down a twisting passageway. The walls were lime-washed, the paving stones scrubbed clean. Owlpen tried to catch up but Cranston knew where he was going. He turned right and entered a small solar with two large windows overlooking a lovely garden. Athelstan glimpsed a lawn and raised herb patches as well as a small dovecote at the far end. The solar itself was more like a nun’s cell, plain with white plastered walls, dark furniture, no tapestries or pictures except for a great Crucifix above the mantled hearth. A woman sat beside the crackling fire, deep in a throne-like chair, feet resting on a small stool. She was busy with a piece of needlework, and hardly raised her head when Cranston doffed his beaver hat and gave a most mocking bow.
‘I thought you’d come, Cranston, like a fly from the dung heap.’
The woman looked up. In the poor light from both window and fire, Athelstan could not determine her age. She had a pale, hard face, quite beautiful, if it wasn’t for her glittering eyes and the slight twist to her mouth. She was dressed in a dark blue kirtle, with front lacing, a low girdle, and over this a velvet cloak lined with embroidered silk. Her dark hair was hidden by a headdress of fine gauffered linen cut in semicircles to hang down on either side of her face. Around her neck hung a gold chain with a jewelled cross, with a matching ring on the little finger of each hand.
Cranston didn’t reply to her insult. Instead he just stood over her, like some sombre shadow.
‘Roheisa,’ he whispered, ‘don’t make me act the bully boy.’
‘Mother Veritable to you, Sir Jack.’
She put down the embroidery on a side table, picked up a hand bell and rang it vigorously. A maid came in. Mother Veritable asked for two stools to be brought. Ignoring Cranston, she looked Athelstan over from head to toe.
‘A Dominican,’ she sneered. ‘Ah well, it takes all types. In this house, the cut of a man’s cloth means nothing. Why do you stand there, little priest? I’ve heard of you, with your sharp wits,’ she laughed, ‘and your snouting nose.’
‘God bless you, Mother Veritable.’ Athelstan sketched the sign of the Cross; she just made a dismissive gesture with her hand.
Owlpen and the maid returned with stools. Cranston and Athelstan made themselves as comfortable as they could.
‘I won’t offer you refreshment.’ Mother Veritable kicked the foot rest away. ‘You’ll take nothing in this house, will you, Cranston?’
‘I’ll take the truth.’
Mother Veritable sighed and raised her eyes heavenwards.
‘Here we go, my Lord Coroner, back into the world of men, eh? Two of my girls were killed last night, Beatrice and Clarice.’
‘Guinevere’s golden daughters.’
‘I remember Guinevere.’ Mother Veritable’s eyes looked sad, her face lost some of its hardness. ‘As I said, Sir Jack, the world of men, sharp and cruel. I loved Guinevere. Oh! She had a
