‘Don’t lurk here!’
Cranston whirled round and quickly apologised to the fierce-eyed old lady who had appeared in the doorway resting on a cane. He remembered why he was here and continued his journey to West Cheap and the shop of the goldsmith Master James Lundy. Two beautiful blonde-haired girls were playing outside, well dressed in their smocks of fustian. They announced that they were Master James’ daughters and pointed through the doorway where their father was instructing apprentices who manned the stalls outside. Cranston walked in. James Lundy was small, his black hair swept back. He looked up as Cranston entered, and his gentle face creased into a smile.
‘Well I never, Sir John!’
They clasped hands and Lundy took him into the counting office at the back of the shop, a small, lime-washed chamber, its heavy oaken doors bound with steel and its only window a fortified hole. Chests and coffers, all neatly labelled, were grouped against the wall or on the heavy wooden shelves higher up. Lundy waved him to a stool.
‘Sir John, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Helena Mortimer.’ Cranston decided to ignore the niceties. ‘I respect you, Master James, but my business is urgent. Every quarter you send a pouch to her house in Poor Jewry.’
‘To be just as blunt, Sir John, I don’t know what’s in that pouch or why it is sent. I am a banker, a goldsmith. People trust me with their valuables and their secrets.’
‘How is the man dressed?’
Lundy smiled. ‘You’ve visited Mistress Helena, haven’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t know it’s a man. Sir John, he comes to my shop cowled and masked. He gives me the purse and coins for my trouble. I give him a receipt and he leaves.’
‘Aren’t you suspicious?’
‘What he does is not a crime. People make reparation, pay compensation; if they want to keep their faces and motives hidden, who am I to insist? That’s all I can say.’
Cranston thanked him and left, fully determined to pay a visit to the Lamb of God and then return to Southwark to question Brother Malachi.
Chapter 10
Athelstan had risen early and roused Malachi from the makeshift truckle bed he’d set up under the bed loft. They had both prepared for Mass, celebrating it just after dawn, before returning to the priest’s house. Malachi was profuse in his gratitude, fearful, as he said, about returning to the Night in Jerusalem. Athelstan kept insisting that he could stay at St Erconwald’s as long as he liked. He repeated his promise over bowls of steaming oatmeal laced with honey, followed by rather stale bread, salted bacon, and the dark brown ale Athelstan had warmed over the fire as Cranston had taught him. Malachi now felt more at ease since his assault and Athelstan easily understood the horror the Benedictine had been through. The fresh light of day illuminated the marks in the church where the assassin’s daggers had smashed into the walls. The Benedictine had recovered his poise and ate hungrily. He accepted Athelstan’s hospitality and said he would return to the Night in Jerusalem to collect his belongings, as well as buy provisions for the pantry and buttery.
‘I’ll send Crim down,’ Athelstan offered. ‘I’ll tell him to wait for you. He’s skilled with a wheelbarrow and you can pile your possessions on that.’
‘One final favour, Brother.’ Malachi put his horn spoon down. ‘I told you last night how I had come to St Erconwald’s to pray; I also came to see the ring I had given you, just once more, before it is sealed under the relic stone.’
‘Of course!’
Athelstan went across to the parish chest, unlocked it and took the ring from its small coffer. He handed it to Malachi, who took it over to the window and, still examining it, brought it back to Athelstan.
‘I’m glad we brought this ring here. It’s the least we could do for the trouble and inconvenience caused.’
Athelstan turned the ring over, looking at those strange crosses carved on the inside.
‘It’s rather small,’ the Dominican declared. ‘More like a woman’s ring. The good bishop must have worn it on his little finger, as we would a friendship ring.’
‘Athelstan,’ Malachi rose, ‘I must go.’
He collected his cloak and left. The Dominican heard him greet the parishioners already congregating outside for another meeting of the parish council. Athelstan put his face in his hands and groaned; as if he didn’t already face a sea of troubles. Bonaventure came through the half-open shutters, dropping softly to the floor. As usual, he went round the table and then sprawled in front of the fire. When Athelstan didn’t bring his bowl of milk, he lifted his head, staring fiercely with his one good eye.
‘Concedo, concedo,’ Athelstan said. ‘You remind me of Cranston when he is eager for claret!’
He gave the great tomcat his drink and sat hunched on the stool by the fire. Last night he and Malachi had chanted both vespers and compline, standing in that shadowy church, their voices ringing out, Exsurge Domine, Exsurge Domine. Athelstan recalled the words of that psalm: ‘Arise O Lord, Arise and Judge my Cause, for a band of wicked men have beset me and wish to take my soul as low as Hell.’ The problem was, Athelstan mused, who were the wicked men? Who had killed the Misericord and launched that vicious attack on a poor unarmed Benedictine monk? What did the Misericord mean by those strange markings on the wall? Or those two dead women, Beatrice and Clarice, by their veiled references to the Misericord’s sister Edith having upon
