‘So,’ Athelstan declared, ‘either the girls went into the barn and someone barred the door from the outside, Sir Stephen goes across, removes the bar, enters the barn and kills them; or…’ Athelstan tapped the writing satchel next to his leg. ‘Or the killer, someone else, followed those girls into the barn, killed them and left, sealing them in. The lantern was still glowing?’
‘Oh yes, Brother, I saw it, fastened to one of the hooks. By then I was truly frightened. I did not want to be accused of their murder, so I fled. I had drunk too much that night, my wits were blunted. The following morning the Judas Man picked up my trail, so I fled to your church for sanctuary.’
‘And you don’t know what the girls had discovered about their mother?’
‘Brother, if I did I would tell you. Of course I wondered what their words meant.’
‘Did you discuss it with Edith?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, Brother. I never told her where the silver and gold I earned came from. Oh, I think she suspected. She did not like Mother Veritable and complained bitterly about how she looked at her. Edith said she would have nothing to do with her, the brothel or anyone who lived there. She would not even have her name mentioned unless it was necessary.’
‘This morning…’
Cranston took a generous mouthful of claret from the miraculous wine skin; he offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head, and then to the Misericord, who snatched it and drank quickly.
‘You were saying, Sir John, this morning?’
Cranston plucked the wine skin back.
‘This morning, I discovered that, when you were a lad and not yet old enough in mischief to compose poems mocking old men, you served as a tap boy in Master Rolles’ tavern?’
‘Oh yes. He and my father were kinsmen, but distantly related. Even then, Sir John, I had a nose for mischief, and what better place than Master Rolles’ tavern? I would serve as a tap boy, or in the kitchens. I loved to mix with the cunning men, the footpads, the charlatans, the quacks, and listen to their colourful tales of life on the highway, of whom they’d tricked and duped.’
‘So, you knew the Knights of the Golden Falcon before they became Crusaders?’
‘Oh yes, and Guinevere the Golden. Great days, Sir John! Master Rolles had recently purchased the tavern and was determined to make a name for himself. Those knights sheltered there when they were younger, more vigorous.’
‘Do you recall the evening the Lombard treasure was stolen?’
‘Of course, Sir John. The Fleet was preparing to sail. On that particular afternoon Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer were absent. I had seen them leave just before sunset. They wore quilted jerkins, sword belts fastened around their waists, they’d drunk and eaten sparsely. At the time I did not know what was happening. Around the same hour I’m sure I saw Guinevere, then she too disappeared. I never saw her again.’
‘Now listen.’ Athelstan held his hand up. ‘You do recall that evening, I’m sure you haven’t forgotten. Over the years you must have refreshed your memory. Yes?’
The Misericord nodded in agreement.
‘And the recent revelations, by Beatrice and Clarice…’
Athelstan paused at a hideous scream from the passageway outside.
‘You are not to be worried, Brother,’ the Misericord murmured. ‘That’s a prisoner who thinks he is the Holy Spirit – he throws himself against the wall.’
‘My question is this,’ Athelstan continued. ‘It is a most important one. Did you see Mother Veritable, Master Rolles or any, or all, of those knights leave the tavern the night the Lombard treasure was stolen?’
‘No, Brother. Ask Master Rolles. They had hired a private chamber. Mother Veritable entertained them. The revelry went on late into the night. They were much the worse for drink the next morning.’
‘And afterwards?’ Cranston asked.
The Misericord shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘In a matter of days, Sir John, the Fleet had left. The hunt was on for the Lombard treasure. The rest of the story you know. The brave knights went on Crusade, and years later, returned to England. That is all I know! Will I have my pardon?’
‘You’ll be shown clemency,’ Cranston got to his feet, ‘but it will take time.’
‘Will you bring me food and drink?’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Athelstan promised. ‘For the moment, you must be patient.’
They left the Netherworld, Athelstan insisting Cranston accompany him to the convent of the Minoresses, which lay on the other side of the City, near Aldgate.
‘I’m hungry,’ the coroner protested.
‘You are always hungry,’ Athelstan remarked. He thanked the keeper as they walked back into the prison yard. ‘Oh, I must see that bear.’
‘Of course, the founder of your order loved animals.’
‘Wrong order, Sir John, that was St Francis, although Dominicanis can be translated as “Hound of God”!’
In which case, Cranston reflected, as he watched Athelstan walk over to inspect the bear, apparently in a better mood judging from the rotten fruit strewn about it, ‘Yes, in which case,’ Cranston murmured to himself, ‘you belong to the right order, Athelstan, God’s hound and mine.’
Athelstan returned, satisfied that the bear was being looked after properly, at least for a while. They left the prison, forcing their way through the press and up past Cock Lane into Smithfield. Athelstan declared he preferred the fresh air beyond the City walls than the stink of Cheapside. Cranston could only agree. The day was still fine but beginning to cloud over, the breeze growing stronger, tugging at the coroner’s hat. They took the road which snaked between the great carved mass of the Priory of St Bartholomew and the high red-brick wall of the hospital of the same name. Here the beggars and the infirm swarmed around the gates soliciting alms, or waiting impatiently to be seen by one of the good brothers. A few of these, rogues from the City,
