‘Who was there?’ Cranston asked.
‘According to my men, Mortimer and Culpepper, still waiting for their barge from Southwark. They handed the treasure over, Culpepper and Mortimer signed the indenture. My men withdrew and that was it.’
‘And there was nothing wrong?’
Gaunt pulled a face. ‘Mortimer was deeply uneasy, he kept looking back into the darkness. Culpepper too was suspicious and a little wary. Mortimer comforted him and teased him that he would soon lie with the love of his life amongst the dead.’
‘Amongst the dead?’ Athelstan exclaimed, and immediately thought of the cemetery of St Erconwald, the grass growing long and thick amongst the tombs and crosses.
‘My retainers left,’ Gaunt continued. ‘I thought all was safe. Just before dawn the Admiral sent a message that the treasure had not arrived. I immediately ordered both banks of the Thames to be scoured. I instructed every official in the kingdom to search for the treasure, and gave a description of it and its keepers to every reeve and harbour master.’
‘Nothing,’ Tonnelli almost shouted, ‘nothing at all in either this kingdom or any other; no sign of Culpepper and Mortimer.’
Cranston recalled Helena Mortimer’s gentle face, but held his peace. He glanced quickly at Athelstan. The friar was a closed book when it came to thoughts and emotions. Nevertheless, Cranston had studied Athelstan most closely, and something about the way he sat, tapping his foot against the tiled floor, the gentle shaking of his head, followed by an abrupt glance at Tonnelli, showed that the Dominican was not satisfied. The Regent was glib because he had been through this story time and again, but he was still cunning enough to sense Athelstan’s reservations.
‘What is wrong, Brother? You act as if something is amiss. Don’t you believe me?’
Gaunt pointed to a lectern on the far corner.
‘A book of the Gospels lies over there. I, Regent of England, uncle to the King, will take the most solemn oath. I loved Mortimer as a brother, I owed him my life, a blood debt. I have searched and I have scoured but I have found no trace of him.’
‘Do you suspect anyone?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I suspect everyone, Brother. Where are the corpses, where is the treasure?’
‘You think that Mortimer is dead?’
‘Yes, I do. I would take another oath, regretting I ever drew him into this business. I know as much now as I did the morning after the great robbery. Now, these murders in the Night in Jerusalem…’
Athelstan described what had happened; John of Gaunt sat shaking his head, keeping his face down, and the friar’s unease deepened. Gaunt wasn’t telling a lie, but was he withholding something? He looked guilty; why?
Athelstan asked the same question as he and Cranston, after being dismissed by the Regent, made their way up into Fleet Street and through Bowyers Row into the City. The day was now drawing on, lanterns and torches spluttered against the misty, murky nightfall; the market horn had sounded, a sign that the day’s trading was ending. The bells of the city tolled, booming across the rooftops, reminding the citizens of evening prayer. They went up past the soaring mass of St Paul’s. A group of the sheriff’s men had ringed the cathedral cemetery, shaking their fists and shouting curses at the wolfsheads who had taken sanctuary beyond the cemetery wall and so could not be touched. The criminals and felons answered with a hail of rocks and mud. One scoundrel recognised Cranston and started shouting a litany of abuse, brought to an abrupt end by the appearance of a funeral party. A Carmelite, face hidden in his cowl, chanted the prayers of the dead as he led the procession from the cathedral towards the main gate of the cemetery. He was followed by a cross bearer, and a little boy who carried a lantern in one hand and a bell in the other which he shook vigorously. The mourners carried the cathedral coffin chest covered by black and gold pall. On either side acolytes swung censers; their perfumed smoke billowing out did something to hide the pungent stench, whilst the lowing sound of the funeral bell stilled the clamour. Athelstan used the occasion to hurry Sir John on up into Cheapside.
‘Sir John, His Grace the Regent could tell us little.’ He smiled mischievously at the coroner. ‘His silence told us much more.’
‘Like what?’ Cranston glared across Cheapside at the stocks filled full of pilferers caught during the day’s trading.
‘I truly don’t know, Sir John. Gaunt regrets Mortimer’s death, and I agree with him: those two knights and the boatmen were foully murdered, though how and why?’ He caught the coroner’s arm. ‘Now I’ll stay here. You must visit that goldsmith, the one who helped Helena Mortimer; goldsmiths are very scrupulous, they keep excellent records. I want you to ask him two things.’
Athelstan tapped his wallet and remembered how the ring of St Erconwald was safely hidden away in the parish church.
‘Ask the goldsmith if he has the list of the Lombard treasure distributed by John of Gaunt and that Italian banker.’
‘Why? Don’t you think that they did?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John, I believe him. Ask him also if he has a second list, distributed by the Benedictine monk Malachi.’
Cranston made to protest.
‘Please, Sir John, it’s very important! If he doesn’t have it we will have to try elsewhere. I know, I know,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I already have a
