For a while he stood listening. The silence was broken by the sound of voices of a woman and children approaching the church. Sweat-soaked, Malachi slid to the floor, trembling as the deep anger at what had happened overcame the fear seething within him.
‘Death comes in many forms, yet terrifying all the same.’
Cranston, standing by Athelstan, stared down at the Misericord, his corpse sprawled on the muck-strewn cell floor. In the flickering light of the lantern horn the cunning man’s face was truly ghastly, the eyes no longer merry but half shut in their glazed, sightless stare. The lips, once ever ready to laugh, were now a strange bluish colour, gaping to show the swollen tongue and the dribble of white saliva across the unshaven liverish skin. The cheeks looked puffy, as if swollen.
Athelstan had already performed the death rites; now he stood, as he always did on such occasions, fascinated by the dread of sudden death. He and Cranston had done their best to comfort Edith, taking her back up the very steep steps to her chamber on the third floor of the convent, and leaving her to the tender care of Sister Catherine before hurrying away. The keeper had left before them, riding back to the prison with Cranston’s order ringing in his ears that nothing was to be disturbed or touched before they arrived. Yet what was there to see? How could they explain this?
Athelstan picked up the half-eaten pie. Its crust was thick and golden, the mortrews within glistening and rich. Athelstan recognised one of the famous delicious Newgate pies from the cookshops which bought their meat direct from the nearby flesher stalls. A delicacy of the area, the hard-baked crust enclosed a savoury stew of crushed beef and vegetables. He also picked up the linen cloth in which it had been bound, now muddied and soiled. He wrapped the pie in this, lifted it to his nose and sniffed carefully. He caught the aroma of the savoury meat, but something else, very sweet, as if sugar had been added. Was it some form of arsenic? Or the crushed juice of some deadly herb? He placed the napkin and pie on a ledge.
‘Tell me,’ he turned to the keeper, ‘tell me again what happened.’
‘Well, you left.’ The keeper moved his bunch of keys from one hand to the other. ‘In fact, you had hardly gone when one of my bailiffs entered. He had been given a pie for the prisoner, allegedly bought by Sir John himself.’ The keeper pointed to the corpse. ‘What was I to do? A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be filched. Thank God it wasn’t.’ He squeezed his nose. ‘Usually such gifts are taken by the gaolers, but as you had just left, Sir John, and had a special interest in this prisoner, we handed it over.’
The keeper walked to the door and shouted a man’s name. A sound of running footsteps, and a small, thickset man, garbed in the soiled black and white livery of the prison, came into the cell. He stared mournfully at the corpse, wringing his hands.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ he swallowed hard, ‘I didn’t even know. I thought it was a gift from you. I brought it here still warm.’
‘Who gave it to you?’ Athelstan asked sharply.
‘Brother,’ the man sighed, ‘I don’t really know. I was on duty outside the gates, men and women pushing, beggars whining for alms, prisoners’ wives screeching. All I remember is a black hood, the head turned to one side. The pie was thrust into my hand with a penny.’
‘And the voice?’ Cranston asked.
‘I couldn’t recognise it again, Sir John. Just a few words, “A present from the Lord Coroner to the prisoner known as the Misericord.”’
The bailiff joined his hands together as if in prayer.
‘Sir John, that’s all I can tell you. For the life of me, even on oath, I would not be able to recognise or recall the look of that man or his voice.’
Athelstan dismissed him.
‘So, Master Keeper, you brought the pie to the prisoner?’
‘Yes, of course I did, Brother. I thought the same as the bailiff. A gift from the Lord Coroner is not to be interfered with.’
‘What was he doing when you entered the cell?’
The keeper pointed towards the rusting manacles hanging from a clasp in the far corner. ‘Like other prisoners, whiling his time away carving the wall. I’ve looked at it but can’t make sense of it.’
Athelstan picked up the lantern horn, gave it to Cranston and went across. The Misericord’s carvings were fresh, different from the rest. A Latin quotation, ‘Quern quaeritis?’, and beneath it the numbers ‘1, 1, 2, 3, 5’.
‘What does that mean?’ Cranston asked. ‘I understand the Latin – it’s a question, “Whom do you seek?” But what does it mean? And the significance of the numbers?’
‘God only knows,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘and the Misericord, but he too has gone to God. Remember, Sir John, the Misericord probably didn’t tell us everything. He must have been holding something back.’
Athelstan returned to the keeper.
‘So, then you left. What happened?’
‘I went back down the passageway. Suddenly I heard this gut-wrenching screaming. Now I’m used to that. What happens, Brother, is that when prisoners are brought here, they often don’t realise what is happening, then something occurs, and it can be something pleasant like food, a cup of wine or a visit, and they realise where they truly are and what has become of them.’ The keeper looped his clutch of keys back on his belt. ‘If I opened the door to every prisoner who screamed I would spend all day doing
