‘And wives and children can attend?’
‘Why not?’
‘And you’ll bless our ferrets and traps?’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘And do you know of a patron saint, Father?
Athelstan stared back. ‘No, Ranulf, that puzzles me but I am sure I can find one for you.’
Ranulf gave a sigh of relief and got to his feet.
‘In which case, Father, you have our thanks. Osric, he’s the chief rat-catcher in South wark, will draw up the indenture. He knows a clerk at St Paul’s.’
‘I can do that with no fee,’ Athelstan answered, getting to his feet.
Ranulf crowed with delight and clapped his hands whilst his children, catching his good humour, danced round Athelstan as if he was their patron saint. He glimpsed a trap hanging on the wall and suddenly thought of Cranston’s poor friend Oliver Ingham.
‘Tell me, Ranulf, have you ever heard of a rat gnawing a corpse?’
‘Oh yes, Father, they’ll eat anything.’
‘And you kill them with traps or ferrets?’
‘Aye, and sometimes with poisons such as belladonna or nightshade, if they are really cunning.’
Athelstan smiled his thanks and walked to the door.
‘Father!’
Athelstan turned. ‘No, Ranulf, before you ask — Bonaventure is not for sale. But we can always enrol him as a member of your Guild.’
Athelstan took leave of Ranulf and his family. He was half-way down the alleyway, his mind full of rats, poisons, traps and ferrets, when suddenly he stopped, mouth gaping at the idea which had occurred to him. He smiled and looked up at the brightening sky.
‘O Lord, blessed are you,’ he whispered. ‘And your ways are most wonderful to behold.’
He almost ran back to the rat-catcher’s house and hammered on the door. Ranulf appeared quite agitated as Athelstan grasped him by the shoulder.
‘Father, what is it?’
‘You must come with me. Now, Ranulf! You must come with me now to see Sir John! Ranulf, please, I need your help!’
The rat-catcher needed no second bidding. He went back indoors, shouted instructions at his daughter, kissed each of his children and, with Ferox firmly penned in a small cage, allowed Athelstan to hurry him through the streets of Southwark down to London Bridge.
Rosamund Ingham paled as she answered Sir John’s insistent knocking. She stood with the door half-open and glared at the Coroner then at Athelstan, with Ranulf standing behind him. ‘What’s the matter, Mistress?’ Cranston greeted her. ‘You look as if you have seen a ghost!’
‘What do you want?’
‘You asked me last night to remove the seals from your dead husband’s room and that’s why I am here.’ He pushed the door further open. ‘We can come in, can’t we? Thank you so much.’
He glimpsed Albric standing further up the stone-flagged passageway and, from where he stood, Cranston could see the young fop was visibly frightened.
‘I’d best take you up to the room.’ Rosamund recovered her composure quickly, her pert face showing some of its old icy hardness.
Athelstan waved her on. ‘If you would, Mistress.’
Cranston winked at him.
‘For a monk, Brother, you are as sharp as a new pin.’
‘Friar!’ Athelstan hissed.
‘Well, even better,’ Cranston whispered back as they climbed the stairs.
Athelstan lowered his eyes so as not to glance at Mistress Ingham’s swaying hips. A born flirt, he thought, and knew Cranston would use a cruder word. He glanced at his fat friend walking just behind him. Although the Coroner had a smile on his lips, his light blue eyes were hard with fury. They reached the top of the stairs. Cranston removed the seals and pushed the door open.
‘Why are they here?’ Rosamund pointed a dainty finger at Athelstan and Ranulf.
‘First, because they are fellow officers!’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, second, Mistress, because I want them here. You have no objection surely?’ Rosamund moved herself in between Sir John and the open door.
‘You have removed the seals,’ she snapped. ‘Now, get out!’
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘When the King’s Coroner unseals a room, he has to ensure, to his own satisfaction, that the chamber is as he left it. Surely you have no objections?’
The woman’s lips tightened and Cranston gave up all pretence.
‘I am not here because I am the late Sir Oliver’s friend,’ he muttered, glancing at Rosamund’s black dress. ‘I suppose the requiem was both short and sweet?’
‘It finished an hour ago.’
Cranston shoved her aside, ‘I am the King’s Coroner,’ he declared, ‘I wish to see this room, and I should be grateful, Mistress, if you and that thing downstairs would make yourselves available to answer certain questions.’
Rosamund flounced away, though Athelstan saw the fear in her face and knew that Sir John was right. She was a killer and undoubtedly responsible for the previous night’s murderous assault on the Coroner. As he followed Cranston into the chamber, Athelstan quietly prayed that both Rosamund and her weak-willed lover would fall into the trap prepared for them and that Ranulf would justify their expectations.
Cranston stared round the bed chamber, quiet and sombre, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight pouring through a glazed window. He opened the shutters of another, took a swig from his wineskin and, in an act of outstanding generosity, allowed Ranulf a drink as well.
‘Right, my lad.’ Cranston clapped the rat-catcher on the shoulder. ‘How would you like the right to be appointed chief rat-catcher in the city wards of Castle Baynard, Queenshithe and the Vintry?’
Ranulf beamed his pleasure.
‘In time, my lad, perhaps. But now, find me some rats — preferably dead ones.’
Ranulf brought Ferox out of his little cage from beneath his cloak. Cranston stepped back immediately.
‘You know what we are looking for, just keep that bloody thing away from me! I have a horror of ferrets. I knew a man once who allowed one to get inside his hose. He ended up being castrated!’
Ranulf grinned as he stroked the inquisitive ferret between the ears. The ferret gazed unblinkingly at Cranston.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ the Coroner said.
‘Sir John, if you are really afeared,’ Ranulf replied, pointing to a small bench, ‘perhaps it’s best if you stand on that.’
Cranston gazed suspiciously at him but Ranulf remained sombre-faced.
‘Lord Coroner, I always advise nervous patrons to do that.’
‘You’d best do as he says, Sir John,’ Athetstan added with a smile. ‘You know how Bonaventure loves you. Ferox may be of the same ilk.’
Cranston needed no second bidding but stood like a Colossus on the small bench. He leaned his back against the wall, fortifying himself with generous mouthfuls from the miraculous wineskin. Ranulf held Ferox to his lips and whispered in his ear.
‘What are you doing?’ Cranston bellowed.
‘Telling him what to do.’
‘Oh, don’t be bloody stupid, man!’
Ranulf carefully put Ferox down on the floor boards. For a few minutes the ferret sniffed before darting like an arrow beneath the great four-poster bed. Athelstan went across to the small table and picked up the unstoppered earthenware jug.
‘You say this contained the foxglove?’
Cranston, his eyes intent on the bed, just nodded.
