‘Father, on our souls,’ Watkin couldn’t take his eyes off those corpses, ‘we swear on our souls.’
‘If you were involved,’ Cranston barked, ‘once Holy Mother Church finished with you, the hangman will begin.’
‘Father?’ Huddle the painter, accompanied by Benedicta, pushed his way by Watkin and Pike to stare aghast at the carnage.
‘How?’ Benedicta whispered.
‘Never mind.’ Athelstan softened. He picked up a leather sack and thrust this at her with the keys to both church and house. ‘Benedicta, these are Humphrey Warde’s papers: some ledgers and a psalter. Put them in the parish chest, make sure they are safely secure. Please look after everything. I have to accompany Sir John.’
‘King’s business,’ the coroner lugubriously intervened. ‘Despite the late hour, I need Brother Athelstan and, when we are finished, I’m afraid it’s back to the Tower.’
‘Ensure all is safe,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Go to Father Walter at Saint Ethelburga’s, ask him as a favour to send his curate to celebrate the Jesus Mass for you tomorrow. Huddle?’ The painter stepped out of the shadows, his stained fingers clutching the skin of his face now whiter than the driven snow, his eyes two large pools of terror. He could not stop staring at the corpses.
‘Huddle,’ Athelstan gently shook the painter’s shoulder, ‘Huddle, what is it?’
‘So gruesome, Father, so savage, so much blood. I was… I was only talking to them, I…’ Huddle turned and fled into the street to retch and vomit noisily.
‘Take care of him,’ Athelstan urged Benedicta. ‘Tell him to look after our anchorite; they must continue with their paintings. Now,’ Athelstan forced a smile and sketched a blessing, ‘all of you must leave. Benedicta, do look in on baby Odo, take care of everything.’
Once the chamber was cleared and the shop door closed, Athelstan sat on a high stool and stared owl-eyed at Sir John. ‘So, I am to accompany you?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ the coroner replied evasively. ‘Yea, even into the Valley of the Death.’ Cranston eased himself into the chamber’s only chair. ‘The centre doesn’t hold,’ Cranston murmured as if to himself. ‘All things are falling apart. A violent storm is coming.’ He pointed at the corpses, ‘Do you believe they were spies?’
‘God forgive Gaunt,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But yes! Warde depicted himself as a spicer who had fallen on hard times, forced to leave his house and shop in Cheapside. Nonsense! That was a sham, a play, a little masque. Your enquiry, Sir John, proved that. The truth is that Warde supplied precious spices to the Royal households. He was Gaunt’s man and cheerfully indulged in this pretence – he came and took root here. A man needed by the community, everyone wants to do business with a spicer, especially in the depth of winter when our meat is old and heavily salted. Nutmeg, mace, cloves and cinnamon are in great demand. Warde and his children would have good custom, at least in theory. They would visit houses, get to know families. Katherine would mingle with other women. All the chatter and gossip of the community would flow around them. They would collect, sift this and pass it on. Precious information, be it who was close to the Upright Men, or even the time and date of meetings like that at the Roundhoop.’ Cranston made to object.
‘Clever and cunning, an entire family acting as a subtle shield for a spy. Sir John, I can guess your objections. According to Thibault’s plan, the Wardes should have settled in Saint Erconwald’s as comfortable as Bonaventure in my kitchen, yet they didn’t. From the very start they were marked down – distrusted, suspected. So, how did the likes of Watkin and Pike who, most of the time, do not know what day of the week it is, realize this was all a subterfuge?’
‘And the answer?’
‘You know it, Sir John. The Upright Men were informed about the Wardes by their spy in Gaunt’s retinue. And yet there is a further problem. If Warde was discovered so swiftly, distrusted so deeply, what real danger did he pose? How could this poor spicer find out about a secret meeting at the Roundhoop? If they were so blatantly Gaunt’s spies, why not just drive them out? Why this?’
‘Punishment? The ban?’
‘Oh, come, Sir John, you and I both know people are buying and selling information on all sides, all the time. What puzzles me,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘is the devastatingly harsh punishment. The Wardes were spies but, and this is the paradox, they also seem to have been protected while they were here. Why? By whom? Well, at least until now.’ Athelstan surveyed the herb and spice jars along the shelves. The spicer was an orderly man: everything was in its place and clearly tagged, except one jar just on the edge of the shelf, pushed the wrong way round while the cork stopper on the top was not fully secured. Athelstan took this down and turned it. ‘Dust of poppy seed,’ he read the tag. ‘An opiate. Why is it out of place, put back wrongly, hurriedly? Did the killer help himself? Was Warde preparing something for him when the assassin struck? Did the murderer ask for an opiate as a pretence? Did he need it? This is where I found Warde. Was our spicer enticed into his shop and silently slain?’ Athelstan held up the jar. ‘As you know, I have been through the house. Apart from this jar, Sir John, there is no real
