‘Ah!’ Cranston sighed. ‘And so it’s not beyond imagining that, on the night of the Great Ratting, one, or two, or all of those stalwart knights asked for Beatrice and Clarice?’
‘But why meet them in the hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Mother Veritable knows the answer to that, don’t you?’ Cranston rose and stood over the brothel mistress. ‘Whoever hired them wouldn’t dare take them up to their chamber; they didn’t want such stories going back to Kent. Who knows, perhaps in the hay barn itself, some other tavern, or even your cemetery, Brother Athelstan.’
Cranston leaned down and pressed Mother Veritable’s shoulder.
‘Which of the knights favoured both girls together? Don’t glare at me! Which of the knights?’
Cranston plucked up the piece of embroidery and held it out as if he was about to drop it in the fire. ‘Two young women were brutally slain!’
‘They all did,’ Mother Veritable conceded.
‘And what did the girls report? Come on,’ Cranston growled. ‘You collect tales about your customers.’
‘They are as old as you, Sir Jack, so they have their difficulties, particularly the small, fat one, Sir Stephen Chandler.’
‘You know he’s dead?’ Athelstan asked.
Mother Veritable made a rude sound with her lips.
‘So, another man has died, Brother. I don’t care! Yes, they’ve all come here. They always asked for Guinevere’s daughters. They liked that. They saw the girls as a link with the past.’
‘And something else?’ Cranston taunted. ‘If Guinevere was so smitten by Culpepper, unobtainable to them, they might think that the daughters were sufficient compensation.’
‘You know the ways of men, Lord Coroner, better than I do. Now, you must be finished.’
‘This custom,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘of Master Rolles sending for girls?’
‘It’s very profitable to us both.’
‘And they always come back with silver?’
‘Usually they do. Sometimes there are disappointments, a rare occasion.’
‘And the Benedictine?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Malachi?’
Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘I know nothing of him.’
A short while later Cranston and Athelstan left the house and went up Darkhouse Lane, now well named as the day drew on and a faint river mist began to boil up the alleyways and runnels. Candles glowed in windows and, already, lanterns were slung on doorposts outside houses. The main thorough-fare, however, was still busy. The crowds, in their motley-coloured garb, were eager to buy; trading was drawing to an end, so meat, fish and vegetables were reduced in price. The bailiffs were also busy, parading a set of steps through the streets, proclaiming how a washerwoman, busy with her clothes on the Thames, had slipped off these steps and drowned. The bailiffs declared the steps had been estimated at a third of a mark and, because of the accident, the wood would be sold and the profits go to the Crown. Behind them came a wax chandler sitting backwards on a horse, a leaking pitcher on his head, the dirty water trickling out, the penalty for drawing off water from a public conduit. The bailiffs were accompanied by a set of bagpipe players, their noise deadening all sound. Two madmen, attracted by the noise, cavorted wildly, dirty rags streaming in the stiff breeze from the river.
‘Where are we going, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Where do you think?’
Cranston turned to the right and Athelstan groaned as he realised they were going back to the Night in Jerusalem, though he quietly conceded that such a visit was necessary; those gentlemen of Kent were not as innocent and high-minded as they appeared.
They reached the stable yard, Cranston striding across, bellowing for the taverner. Athelstan stared around the open cobbled expanse. The tavern must have been a lordly mansion, with stables, outhouses, granges and barns. These had now been converted for the use of travellers. The hay barn, its doors now concealed by a huge high-sided cart, stood at the far side. Athelstan realised it could be approached from the main doorway of the tavern as well as through the side door and kitchen door, not to mention the various windows. At night the yard would be pitch dark, perhaps lit by a cresset torch, or a brazier, but he could imagine someone slipping through the blackness, crossbow in hand, dagger thrust into his belt, sliding like the Angel of Death through that half-open door and into the hay barn. Inside, a capped lantern would provide the assassin with sufficient light. Beatrice and Clarice would be tired. They would have drunk deep… How long would it take to release the cord of the crossbow to send the bolt whirring through the air? At such closeness death would be immediate. The other girl would be confused, the assassin could stride across thrusting the dagger deep. Athelstan pulled his hood up and stared down at the mud-strewn cobbles, shining in the light drizzle which had begun to fall. The murderous act would take no more than a few seconds, faster than a priest pattering through his psalter.
‘Well, Athelstan.’
Cranston stood in the tavern doorway, beckoning him over. Athelstan hurried across, grateful for the sweet warmth of the inn. Rolles was busy in the kitchen, but the coroner was most insistent on meeting the knights, and a short while later, Cranston sat at the head of the long walnut table in the solar, Master Rolles, Brother Malachi and the four knights ranged down either side. Athelstan sat at the far end. He brought his writing tray out, uncapped the ink horn and had a sharp quill ready.
‘I must protest.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘My Lord Coroner, we intended to visit Trinity, guests of the Aldermen at the Guildhall.’
‘I couldn’t care if the Lord God Almighty was your host,’ Cranston snapped. ‘I have more questions for you.’
Davenport pulled a sullen face. Sir Reginald Branson, with his long grey hair tied in a queue, made to leave, scraping back his chair, his black and white cloak draped
