‘And you know nothing?’ Cranston showed surprise.
‘Sir John, the treasure was meant to be a great secret. I don’t know what happened to it or its guardians. But I tell you this, Edward Mortimer was one of John of Gaunt’s henchmen. Oh yes,’ he smiled at Cranston’s expression, ‘Mortimer sealed indentures with him, fought in his retinue in Gascony; that’s where he met Culpepper. And did you also know, Sir John, in the days preceding the Great Robbery, Culpepper and Mortimer were regular visitors to the Tower, met by no less a person than the Regent himself. Of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s nothing wrong in that. They had been given a secret mission. Sometimes a woman came with them.’
‘A woman with golden hair?’
‘No, Sir John. This woman was small and dark. She often stayed in the refectory, being served by the pantry man.’
‘Who was she?’
‘At first I thought she was Mortimer’s woman. In fact she was his sister Helena. Very close to her brother she was, owned a house in Poor Jewry.’
Cranston drained his tankard in one swallow and jumped up, ready to leave.
‘Now to where, Sir John?’
‘Helena Mortimer in Poor Jewry. Is she still alive?’
‘God knows, Sir John.’
‘Well, if she is, I’ll find her.’
Cranston thanked his old friend profusely, said he would ask Brother Athelstan to say a Mass for him and hurried off towards Aldgate. He threaded his way through the back streets of the City, the alleyways which ran alongside the City ditch from St Giles to St Mary Axe Street, and into Poor Jewry. This was a broad thoroughfare, the houses on either side old and high, built on stone bases, the tops leaning over so dramatically they created a tunnel with only a strip of sky between them. A respectable although shabby quarter of the City, with garish signs hanging from hooks above shop doorways; a street where one could buy expensive leather goods and silver trinkets. Most of the houses were no longer owned by a single occupant, but each floor was leased out by absent landlords. Cranston made enquiries in a small ale shop at the corner of an alleyway.
‘Helena Mortimer?’ the ale-wife replied. ‘What business do you have with her?’
She studied this large man with his beaver cap and fur-lined robe, who drank her ale, smacking his lips in appreciation. Cranston fished beneath his robe and brought out his seal of office.
‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’
The ale-wife became all flustered, snatched the tankard from his hand and almost hurried him out through the door, pointing him further down the street.
‘The second house past the shop. You’ll find the door open. Helena lives on the bottom floor.’
Cranston thanked her, and when he reached the place, almost collided with a small, swarthy woman, her black hair lined with grey, coming out of the door. She had a round, smiling face with smooth skin, and gracefully accepted, in a lilting voice, Cranston’s apologies.
‘Helena Mortimer?’
‘The same.’
The woman stepped back in alarm; Cranston produced his seal.
‘I must have words with you about your brother Edward.’
‘Have you found him?’
‘Not yet, mistress.’
Helena led him back into the house along a narrow, stone-flagged chamber carefully swept and washed. She unlocked a door and took him into a small chamber with a casement window which looked out on to a herber plot. The room was neatly furnished, coloured cloths hung against the white walls, the chairs and stools were of dark polished oak. She invited him to sit on one side of the mantle hearth while she took off her robe and perched herself on a high-legged stool, feet almost dangling. She reminded Cranston of a small, pretty bird, head to one side, eyes bright and watchful.
‘What made you think we’d found your brother?’
‘Just a moment, Sir John.’
Helena rose and, rubbing her hands, took a padded linen cloth and lifted across the small brazier to stand between them.
‘Oh, he must still be alive.’
She got up again and went to a coffer, and with a jingle of keys opened the lock and threw back the lid. She brought across a white woollen pouch tied at the neck and stamped with the red lion rampant of the Mortimer family.
‘Every quarter,’ she announced proudly, ‘at Easter, midsummer, Michaelmas and Christmas, I receive a pouch, like this,’ she leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘containing five pounds sterling.’
‘A generous amount.’
She was intrigued by Cranston’s disbelief.
‘Honestly, Sir John. Every quarter Master James Lundy, Goldsmith of Cheapside, sends one of his apprentices with such a pouch. It’s what Edward promised. You see,’ she chatted on, ‘we Mortimers are from Wales. We are related, very distantly, to the Mortimer family; our kinsman is the Earl of March. Well,’ she warmed to her story, ‘Edward and I were the youngest children of a third son…’
As she gabbled on about the family history, Cranston, totally bemused, continued to stare at her.
‘I see, I see,’ he interrupted kindly. ‘So you, and your brother, left Wales? He was a master swordsman and archer?’
‘He soon received preferment in the retinues of the great lords. He served Edward the Black Prince, Sir Walter Manny and John of Gaunt before moving to Kent, where I met Richard Culpepper. I truly loved Richard – no, not in the carnal sense, Sir John; he became like another brother. Edward and Richard
