‘I always love gardens,’ he began, ‘especially ones like this, laid out to catch the sun.’
‘Mother Veritable has a garden.’
Rosamund smiled at Sir John, who stood outside the arbour, glancing admiringly down at her. She crossed her legs, swinging a foot backwards and forwards, plucking at a red tendril of hair, turning her face, only too eager to flirt with this powerful Lord Coroner.
‘The ostler brought me out here. I am sitting in the very place Sir Thomas did before he went up to his chamber. Oh, Brother Athelstan, what a hideous sight. I’m only too pleased to be sitting here. Master Rolles’ garden is famous. They say, when he bought the tavern, he laid it out himself.’
‘You saw Davenport’s corpse?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh yes, like a lump of meat on a flesher’s stall, blood everywhere, and that pricket, sticking out like a demon’s knife.’
‘And there was no one in the room?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, besides the corpse.’
‘Of course not.’
Rosamund chatted on and, without being invited, smiling flirtatiously at Cranston, recited everything which had happened that day, from the moment she had been summoned by Mother Veritable, to finding the corpse of Sir Thomas. She then finished the bowl of grapes, drained the cup of posset and jumped to her feet.
‘I must go now,’ she said softly, her eyes never leaving Cranston. ‘I’ve been a good girl.’
Cranston opened his purse and thrust a silver piece into her hand. Standing on tiptoe, Rosamund kissed him on each cheek and, hips swaying, walked up the path back into the tavern. Cranston sat down next to Athelstan.
‘Beautiful garden,’ he agreed. ‘I wish I could have the same, but the dogs would eat the carp and the poppets would fall in the pond. What do you make of all this, Athelstan? Who could have killed Sir Thomas?’
‘Shifting mists. Shifting mists,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘Sometimes, Sir John, I get a glimpse of the truth. These murders, are they in a logical line – I’ve talked about this before – or are there two lines? Different assassins, working on their own evil affairs? I’m sure that those good knights, and Master Rolles, and everyone else in the tavern, can account for their movements. Brother Malachi was apparently back in St Erconwald’s. It’s the Judas Man who concerns me.’
He rose to his feet, followed by Cranston, and walked over to the carp pond, watching the great golden fish swimming lazily amongst the reeds. Athelstan tried to hide the flutter of excitement in his stomach. He had seen something today, small items glimpsed and then dismissed. He wished he could go back to St Erconwald’s, sit down and reflect on what he had learned. Lost in his thoughts, he re-entered the tavern. Rolles was in the tap room, supervising the slatterns and the cooks. Athelstan, uninvited, walked into the kitchen. Through the clouds of steam billowing across from the ovens and the two great blandreths hung above the fire, he studied the open windows and the side door.
‘Can I help you?’ Rolles, wiping bloodied fingers on his apron, stood in the doorway.
‘Yes, sir. Have you had sight of the Judas Man?’
‘Not a glimpse, but his horse and harness remain in the stables.’
‘I would like to see his chamber.’
Rolles shrugged and ordered a tap boy to take Athelstan up. Cranston decided he would stay and sample the tavern ale. The boy, armed with a bunch of keys, took him on to the second gallery and unlocked the door to the Judas Man’s chamber. The friar closed this and leaned against it, staring around. There was nothing much: a truckle bed, a few sticks of furniture, a lavarium; the chest at the foot of the bed was empty, as was a small coffer on the table. Athelstan noticed the fresh ink stains on the table and wondered what the Judas Man had been writing. He was about to leave when he changed his mind and began to search the room more thoroughly, lifting stools, moving the bench, pulling the bed away from the wall. He exclaimed in pleasure at a small screwed-up piece of parchment lying on the floor. He unrolled it and took it over to the small window to obtain a better view. On one side was a list of supplies, but on the other the Judas Man had written, time and again, ‘1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 4 not 5, 4 not 5…’ He had underscored these columns. What on earth did that mean? 4 not 5?
Athelstan heard voices from the yard below and, standing on tiptoe, stared out of the window. Henry Flaxwith, his two hounds of hell beside him, was arguing with an ostler. Athelstan folded the piece of paper up, slipped it into his wallet and went downstairs. Cranston was sitting in the tap room, Flaxwith whispering in his ear. The coroner beckoned the friar over.
‘I do not want to drink, Sir John.’
‘What a pity,’ Cranston smiled. ‘I think you are going to need one.’ He patted Flaxwith’s burly hand. ‘Henry’s been a good hound. He has been out along the river and visited the Fisher of Men.’ He lowered his voice and leaned closer. ‘He’s found the Judas Man, naked as he was born.’ Cranston tapped his chest. ‘Dead as a stone. A terrible wound to his chest. The Fisher of Men found his corpse trapped amongst weeds under London Bridge.’
‘You are sure?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Henry, how did you know?’
‘I have just come from there. I asked the Fisher of Men to view his corpses. I would recognise that man anyway, drenched with river water, his skin
