battered, leather bag tied at the neck and stained with watery dark marks around the base. ‘I answered the door,’ Leif ponderously repeated, ‘no one was there, only this bag.’
‘Then open it, man!’ Cranston said testily.
The coroner turned away to refill his wine cup. He whirled around at Leif s horrified cry and the bump as the maid fell in a dead faint to the floor. The beggarman just stood there, eyes wide in horror, mouth slack; in his upraised hand he held by the hair the decapitated head of Adam Horne, alderman and merchant.
Now Cranston had seen decapitated heads, be they of murdered taverner or some lord executed on Tower Hill, but this was truly gruesome; it was not so much the half-closed eyes and still blood-dripping neck but the mouth forced open and, thrust inside, the mangled remains of the dead merchant’s genitals.
Cranston grabbed the head from the horror-struck beggar’s hand, thrust it back into the bag, stepped over the still prostrate maid and, roaring for Maude, dashed down the passage-way to the door. He flung it open, rushing like an angry bull down Cheapside, but the snow-covered thoroughfare was still deserted, with no trace or sign of their mysterious, grisly visitor. Cranston stopped and, half crouching, retched violently as the true horror of what he had seen seized his mind and wrung his stomach as if it was a wet rag.
‘Oh, the bastard!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Lord help us!’
He staggered back inside the house. Maude, white-faced, stood at the foot of the stairs.
‘Sir John, what is it?’
‘Go back to your room, woman!’ Cranston roared. ‘Stay there!’
He turned to the grooms and servants now huddled together near the kitchen door.
‘You,’ Cranston barked at one, ‘go for a physician! You,’ he pointed to the cook and her assistant, ‘take the maid into the solar!’
The poor, half-unconscious girl was hustled to her feet. Cranston walked back into the kitchen. Leif sat on the stool like a man pole-axed. The bag and its gruesome contents still lay where Cranston had dropped it. The coroner busied himself around the house. He shaved, changed his doublet, put on his sword belt and took his heaviest cloak from its hook outside the buttery. He found a heavy flour sack in one of the outhouses and placed the battered leather bag carefully in it.
‘Leif,’ he ordered, ‘tell Lady Maude I am going to the Guildhall, then on to Southwark.’
The beggar, usually so garrulous but still dumbstruck at what he had seen, just stared and nodded, open- mouthed. Cranston swung the sack over his shoulder.
‘Oh, Leif.’ Cranston turned and grinned evilly at the beggar. ‘There’s more of that rich stew if you want it.’
Leif turned away, retching, whilst Cranston stalked out of his house muttering vengeance against all and sundry.
In St Erconwald’s church, Athelstan had just finished the Mass for the dead and was now blessing the corpse of Tosspot, an old drunkard who’d lived in the cellars of the Piebald Horse tavern. Tosspot had been found dead the previous afternoon. Pike the ditcher and Watkin the dung-collector had, in the absence of any relatives, sewn the body into a canvas sack, placed it on a wooden trellis and brought it to lie in front of the chancel screen. Athelstan had always given strict instructions on this; any poor man or woman found dead in his parish was to be given honourable burial, so this included Tosspot. Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross above the corpse and sprinkled it with the Asperges rod. Around him the usual Mass-goers, Benedicta included, watched fascinated as Athelstan urged the soul to go out to meet his Christ whilst he, Athelstan, priest of that church, summoned God’s army to meet this unfortunate man’s soul; they were to lead it into Paradise and ensure it did not fall into the hands of Satan. Athelstan paused. And what about the body? he thought. Would that be safe? He looked down at his fingers and noted the chalk dust on their tips. Where had that come from? he wondered. It had not been there during Mass.
‘Father,’ Crim the altar boy whispered.
Athelstan, startled, looked up.
‘Father,’ the boy repeated, his face creased in a mischievous grin, ‘you’ve suddenly stopped praying!’
Athelstan shook himself free from his reverie.
‘We beg thee, Michael the Archangel,’ he intoned the final prayer, ‘to take the soul of this our brother.’ He paused. What could he call him? Tosspot? What would the angels think of such a name? ‘Take the soul of this our brother Tosspot,’ he continued defiantly, ‘into the bosom of Abraham.’
The friar glared at the congregation but they all knelt, heads wisely bowed to hide their grins. Athelstan, trying to conceal his embarrassment, signalled at Watkin and Pike to lift the bier and follow him and Crim, bearing a lighted taper, into the cemetery. Outside the cold wind snuffed the taper out. Crim slipped on the ice and fell on his backside, cursing so loudly Athelstan had to bite his lip to keep his face straight. They crossed the lonely, haunted cemetery to the shallow grave Pike had dug in the ground. Athelstan caught a glimpse of the two lepers, shrouded in their hoods near the charnel house. He suddenly remembered the twig he had used to push the Hosts through the leper’s squint for these two unfortunates to swallow. Athelstan smiled to himself. That’s where the chalk had come from. They reached the grave. Pike and Watkin unceremoniously rolled old Tosspot into the shallow hole and, whilst Athelstan muttered some prayers, hastily covered it with icy lumps of clay. Athelstan then blessed the grave and with Watkin darkly hoping the body would stay there, they all trooped back into the church. Athelstan chose to ignore the dung-collector’s dire speculation. The grave robbers, whoever they were, seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps moved on to vex some other unfortunate priest He swept up the nave under the chancel screen and into the small, icy sacristy. Athelstan jumped as a large figure loomed out of the shadows.
‘Sir John!’ he snapped. ‘Must you lurk like some thief in the night?’
Cranston grinned slyly. ‘I must have words with you, Brother, and not here.’
Athelstan looked at him carefully. ‘You’ve been drinking. Sir John?’
Cranston smirked. ‘Yes and no. Quick! I’ll wait whilst you divest.’
Athelstan hid his irritation. He doffed his chasuble, stole and cope, hastily hung them in the cupboard, gave a wide-eyed Crim a penny for his help then bustled Sir John back into the church. He beckoned to Benedicta who was standing near the baptismal font.
‘Lock the sacristy, please,’ he whispered to her. ‘And then clear the church.’ Athelstan looked around. ‘Watkin!’ he shouted. The dung-collector ambled slowly over, one eye on Sir John. ‘Watkin,’ Athelstan confided, ‘I will be gone for some time. You are to ensure the candles are doused and the church is kept safe and, if you are so concerned about the cemetery, keep a watch there yourself.’
The sexton looked hurt and Athelstan could have bitten out his tongue. He had not intended to be so sharp but Cranston’s secretive arrival had unnerved him. The friar led the coroner out of the church. Cranston saw Bonaventure fairly skipping along to greet him but he had no desire to have that bloody cat rubbing up against his leg, so hustled Athelstan out to collect their horses.
‘Follow me, my Mephistopheles,’ he murmured. ‘To a place of warmth and security.’
They crossed the beaten track, dodging between the heavy-wheeled carts, and led their horses down to London Bridge and into the welcoming warmth of the Piebald Horse tavern. Cranston loved this place, a veritable den of iniquity but one which sold good ales, fine wine and delicious food. Of course, the coroner personally knew Joscelyn, the tapster.
‘A real sinner,’ he had once described him as, ‘who will get into heaven because he has stolen the gates.’
Athelstan agreed; the landlord of the Piebald Horse was a one-armed, reformed sea pirate who had confidentially explained to the friar how he would love to go to church but the smell of incense always made him feel ill. Athelstan smiled to himself. He found it strange that he had just buried Tosspot who used to clean the platters and tankards in this very tavern. The friar gazed round. The place looked cleaner; fresh plaster on the wall, the beams newly painted, whilst the rushes underfoot were fresh and sweet-smelling. Joscelyn waddled towards them. The old rogue’s vein-streaked face was wreathed in smiles, his good hand scratching his chin as he relished the prospect of a fine profit. Sir John was a prodigious drinker and was well loved by the city’s tavemers.
‘My Lord Coroner,’ Joscelyn gave a mock bow, ‘you are most welcome to my humble abode.’
‘By the sod, you old bastard!’ Cranston roared. ‘Have you gone back to your old, wicked ways? Where did you get the sustenance to clean this sewer of iniquity?’
Joscelyn shrugged and spread his one good hand, fingers splayed out. ‘I have a new partner,’ he announced proudly, ‘who sold his own tavern near the Barbican and moved across the river to be free from the prying of certain
