‘Well, Athelstan, what do you make of all that? Do you think the Misericord is telling the truth?’
‘As much as he can, Sir John. He does deserve a pardon. I only hope the Judas Man does not take the law into his own hands. I’ve met his sort before; every grudge and grievance is personal, a source of animosity. He hates the Misericord, but whether it’s because the rogue showed him a clean pair of heels, or for some other matter, I can’t decide.’
‘And Chandler murdered those two girls?’
‘Did he, Sir John? One thing that intrigues me is the bar across the door to the hay barn. Whoever killed Beatrice and Clarice – why should they worry about locking the door? An assassin would flee. One thing is certain,’ he continued, ‘the Misericord may be a fugitive, a nimble-footed rogue but he would scarcely stand aside whilst two of his friends were murdered. As for their murderer? I don’t know.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘Mother Veritable is certainly a nightmare soul. She is wicked enough to have those girls killed as well as hunt down the Misericord.’
‘And the murders of Sir Stephen and Sir Laurence?’ Cranston asked.
‘Ah now, that is a mystery!’
‘Could the knights be responsible for all the deaths?’ The coroner tugged at Athelstan’s sleeve. ‘Could they have killed Culpepper and Mortimer, murdered Guinevere the Golden, stolen the Lombard treasure and hidden it away until their return?’
‘Sir John, continue.’
‘They arrive back in England, laden with plunder which only increases their ill-gotten gains. They become landowners, lords of the shire. Every year they meet in London to celebrate their success. Recently they discover that not only is one of their number being tricked by the Misericord and mocked by two whores, but those two prostitutes have also stumbled on what happened twenty years ago.’
‘And?’ Athelstan asked, turning his face against the breeze.
‘Well, they hire the Judas Man to track down the Misericord. They want to see him dance in the air at Smithfield. They persuade Chandler to hire those two girls, to wait in the hay barn on the night of the Great Ratting, where later he kills them. Or perhaps Sir Laurence Broomhill went out before him to commit the murderous deed?’
Athelstan changed his writing satchel from one hand to the other, carefully watching the path before him. The Moor was peppered with rabbit holes, a constant trap for the unwary.
‘Sir John, I accept there’s a certain logic behind what you say, but it’s a dangerous path to follow. According to your theory, the knights are all thieves and murderers, vulnerable to betrayal. However, it doesn’t explain how Sir Stephen was murdered, his wine so cunningly poisoned, or how Sir Laurence was enticed down to that cellar and into the hideous trap awaiting him. There are further problems. The Misericord has just informed us that the evening the Lombard treasure was robbed, all the knights, along with Master Rolles and Mother Veritable, were carousing in a chamber at the tavern, much the worse for drink. How did the murderers dispose of four bodies: Culpepper, Mortimer and the bargemen; five if we include Guinevere? Moreover, Culpepper and Mortimer were knights; they would not be easy victims.
‘Next we come to the Lombard treasure. It disappeared without trace. If Sir Maurice and the rest stole it, surely they’d try and sell it? And yet.’ Athelstan paused so abruptly Cranston bumped into him. ‘I’m sorry, Sir John. There was undoubtedly mischief planned that night, some subtle plot. Remember what Mother Veritable told us, how Guinevere had hinted and boasted that one day she would escape her life of drudgery? I wonder what did happen to her? Is it possible Culpepper and Mortimer are still alive, lurking somewhere in the City, hiding behind different names? Then there’s the business of the Regent. Why is he so interested in our investigation? Could the Judas Man be involved? Where was he twenty years ago? Is there any connection,’ while Athelstan chattered on, Cranston stopped to drink from the miraculous wine skin, ‘between a man who has no proper name and the conspiracy to steal the Lombard treasure?’
Athelstan paused whilst Cranston thrust back the stopper to his miraculous wine skin.
‘I’m certainly going to ask him the next time we meet,’ Cranston grumbled.
‘There’s one further problem, Sir John. If those knights stole that treasure but didn’t try and sell it, where did they hide it whilst they were in Outremer? They could hardly conceal it on a war cog or some military camp!’
Athelstan returned to his reflections as they passed St Mary of Bethlehem and continued down Portsoken, to the limestone buildings of the Minoresses. A porter let them through a postern gate and took them across neatly laid-out gardens and herbers into the guesthouse, a long, whitewashed chamber, starkly empty except for a table, a high-backed bench, two chairs and a stool. At the far end was the Franciscan cross of San Damiano, with its richly coloured texture and finely etched images, each of which told a story. Whilst they waited, Athelstan described it to Cranston, explaining how it was the cross St Francis had prayed before when he received his mission to rebuild Christ’s Church.
‘Brother Athelstan?’
Athelstan turned. Edith, accompanied by Sister Catherine, stood in the doorway.
‘Is everything well?’ She hastened towards him. ‘Is my brother safe?’
‘No, he is not.’ Brother Athelstan grasped
