‘I wonder,’ Cranston reflected, ‘if God’s good angel will reveal the truth to me?’
He sat back in his seat cradling the tankard and recalled the events of the previous evening. He had left Athelstan and returned to the Night in Jerusalem for a cup of warm posset, where he had engaged Tobias the cask man in conversation. Tobias had been full of horror at the hideous murder of Toadflax, Chandler and the two whores. Cranston sipped at the tankard, distracted by the cowl-cloaked individual who sat huddled in the inglenook. The coroner prided himself on knowing everyone who came into the Lamb of God, but he marked that one down as a stranger and returned to his reflections. Tobias had also been angry on behalf of Master Rolles.
‘He was in the kitchen all the time with me,’ the cask man had protested, ‘and I know who did it.’ He had tapped his nose knowingly.
Cranston had bought him a drink, and Tobias confessed how he had seen Chandler, plump as a plum, coming in from the yard.
‘More importantly,’ he whispered, ‘I glimpsed blood on his hands.’
Tobias then went on to explain how his curiosity was so provoked he visited the tavern washerwoman, responsible for the linen in the guest chambers. They had both sifted amongst the cloths and found napkins from the dead man’s chamber with stains which looked suspiciously like dried blood. The washer-woman was not certain; she pointed out how Chandler had tried to wash the napkins himself. Tobias immediately reported his findings to Master Rolles. The tavern keeper was gleeful, crowing like a cock on a dung hill, exclaiming that, according to an ancient law, he could not be fined the ‘murdrum’, an ancient tax levied on all hosteliers and taverners on whose premises a mysterious death occurred. Rolles, still happy with this news, had also joined Cranston, repeating what Tobias had said and triumphantly producing the stained napkins. Cranston examined them carefully and concluded that both Rolles and Tobias were correct. The stains did look suspiciously like dried blood. So had Chandler killed those two whores, hidden his crossbow and returned to his chamber to wash his hands? But why should a powerful landowner, who could more than pay for the likes of Beatrice and Clarice, murder them in such hideous circumstances? And Chandler’s own death? Was that revenge? Was Chandler feverish that morning because of what he had done? Had he taken that bath to wash away any evidence of his crime? Sir John absent-mindedly ordered another ale pot.
‘I’ll pay for that.’
The figure crouched in the inglenook rose and, taking off his cloak, walked across to join Sir John.
‘Well I never!’ Cranston’s hand went out to shake his visitor’s. ‘How did you know I would be here?’
Matthias of Evesham clasped the coroner’s hand and slid on to the bench next to him, turning slightly to face Cranston, his beringed fingers laced together like some benevolent priest waiting to hear confession. The ale-wife brought two further tankards. Matthias lifted his, toasted Cranston and sipped carefully. The coroner moved slightly away so he could study the newcomer more closely. Matthias of Evesham was newly appointed as Master of the Chancery of Secrets in the Office of the Night, which had its chambers in the Tower. With his round, cheerful face, sparkling blue eyes and pleasant, smiling mouth, he assumed all the appearance of a benevolent monk, an impression he deliberately fostered with his soft speech and ever-present good humour. The only obvious betrayal that he was no ascetic was his love of jewellery: the gold collar around his neck, the costly rings which bedecked every finger, not to mention the gold bracelet on his left wrist.
A man of secrets was Master Matthias, a scholar of logic and philosophy who had lectured in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge, even those of Paris, before entering the service of the Regent John of Gaunt. Many mistook him for a priest, but Master Matthias was married – a good match – with the Lady Alice, who owned a pleasant mansion between the Temple and Fleet Street. Married or not, he was still a man for the ladies, as well as a great ferreter of secrets. He organised Gaunt’s spies both at home and abroad and advised the Regent privately as well as at the Great Council meetings at Westminster.
‘You’re well, Sir John?’ Matthias broke the silence. ‘And the Lady Maud?’
‘I am fine,’ Cranston replied. ‘My lady wife is fine, my children are well, my dogs are well, my cat is well, the fish in my stew pond are well. You haven’t come sailing along the Thames to ask me that?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ Matthias laughed and put his tankard down. ‘You asked for a schedule of documents, for the searches made after the Lombard treasure was robbed some twenty years ago.’
‘A reasonable request,’ Cranston retorted. ‘I want to know what searches were made, what was discovered.’
‘Very little.’
‘So why not let me see the documents?’
‘They’ve been destroyed.’
Matthias looked so sorrowful Cranston burst out laughing.
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Matthias grinned, ‘but they were destroyed, because they furnished us with nothing.’
‘Us?’ Cranston asked.
Matthias ran a finger around the rim of his tankard. ‘Let me make it very clear, Sir John, nobody would love to find out more than my master, John of Gaunt, what happened to the treasure. I will answer any question you want and you’ll learn much more from me than anyone else.’
Cranston simply stared back.
‘Twenty years ago,’ Matthias began, ‘the Crusading army which left here negotiated a massive loan from the Lombard bankers, in return for which the bankers were promised certain trading concessions in both the Narrow Seas and the Middle Sea. They were also assured of a percentage of any plunder. The Lombards sent the treasure
