The sneer died on Rosamund’s face.
‘They also named you.’ Cranston nodded at Albric.
‘That’s not true!’ the young man snapped and glared furiously at Rosamund. ‘You said it would be safe!’
‘Oh, shut up, you fool!’ She sat down, covering her face with her hands.
Athelstan relaxed, aware that he had been digging the nails of his fingers into the palms of his hand. He went to stand over the young man.
‘Confess,’ he said quietly. ‘Turn King’s evidence and who knows what the Coroner will do for you?’
Athelstan crouched and patted the young man’s hand then stood up as Albric stared at the floor.
‘I’ll confess,’ he muttered.
Rosamund pushed her tearful, hate-filled face at Athelstan. ‘Shut up, you bloody priest! You ragged-arsed half-man! I did it for you!’ she hissed at Albric. ‘I did it for you!’
He shook his head. ‘We’re finished,’ he whispered.
Cranston turned and beckoned Robert over. ‘Quickly, go down the street. At The Moon and the Cage tavern you’ll find four serjeants. You are to bring them here immediately!’
The steward scurried off. Athelstan and Cranston walked to the front door and waited until the four city serjeants came. Cranston whispered instructions to them then he and his companions left even as Rosamund’s rage turned to hysteria. She screamed her fury at Cranston and Athelstan as the serjeants began to load her and Albric with the chains they had brought.
Outside in the street Cranston stood still, his eyes full of tears. ‘I can’t say anything,’ he said. He shook Athelstan’s hand very formally and then Ranulf’s. He wiped a tear away. ‘Come on. I did not go to Oliver’s requiem mass but let me buy you the funeral toast.’ He pointed down to Ferox, now dozing quietly in his cage. ‘And our little friend here can go home drunk.’
CHAPTER 10
An hour later, a rather drunk Ranulf with an even tipsier ferret staggered out of The Moon and the Cage tavern, muttering that he had to get back to Southwark. Cranston watched the rat-catcher disappear out of the door of the tavern and grew expansive.
‘A fine man, Brother. I’ve always called your parishioners a gang of sinners but there goes a good man.’
‘We are all sinners,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But, God knows, thinking of Mistress Rosamund, I’d draw a line between those who fall due to weakness and those who sin out of malice.’
‘Which brings us,’ Cranston trumpeted, keeping a wary eye on the relic-seller feasting on his ill-gotten gains in the far corner of the taproom, ‘back to the deaths at the Guildhall, eh?’
Athelstan quickly told him about his meeting with Pike the ditcher. Cranston heard him out, smacking his lips and sniffing at the savoury smells from the tavern kitchen.
‘Pike should watch himself,’ he growled. ‘A man who stands with a foot on either side of a flame ends up getting his balls burnt. Oh, by the way, talking of danger, has the Lady Benedicta collected that minx of a girl?’
‘By now, Sir John, she should be safely at the Minoresses.’
‘A bad business that,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Do you know, Brother, there was something evil in that house?’
‘Well, it’s finished,’ Athelstan declared half-heartedly. He agreed with Cranston’s conclusion but still felt guilty about what had happened. ‘However, this business at the Guildhall.’ He ran a finger round the rim of his cup. ‘You realize, Sir John, those murders are not like the ones we usually investigate? You knew Sir Oliver had been murdered. Someone in that house had killed him. The same is true of the other crimes we have resolved, be it the business at the Springall manor or the murder of Sir Ralph Whitton at the Tower last Christmas.’
Athelstan warmed to his theme. ‘You see, Sir John, such crimes originate not from bad blood but hot blood. Political assassination, however, is different. There’s no personal rancour, no malicious glee at the destruction of an enemy, just expediency. This is what we are dealing with now: Mountjoy and Fitzroy’s deaths were coldly decided, seized as a means to bring My Lord of Gaunt’s plans into confusion.’
Athelstan rubbed his lips and, before Cranston could order more wine, told the pot boy to go away. ‘Remember, Sir John, murder is like chess. You move a piece, your opponent counter moves. Sooner or later a mistake will be made or a path opened in order to discover the truth and bring the game to an end. But here our opponent could be anyone.’ Athelstan brushed crumbs from his robe. ‘Three murders,’ he muttered. ‘We know they died but little else. How was Fitzroy poisoned when he ate and drank what the rest did? How could Mountjoy be stabbed to death in the privacy of his own garden? And Sturmey? One minute on the quayside, the next floating in the Thames with a dagger in his chest.’ Athelstan paused as a loud snore greeted his words. He turned to see Sir John, head back, eyes closed, with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Sir John! Lord above!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I can’t even find your ribs, you’re so fat!’
‘Portly,’ Sir John answered, opening his eyes and licking his lips. ‘I am portly, Athelstan.’ He tapped his red, fleshy nose. ‘Remember, Brother, the Lord Coroner may doze but he never sleeps. What is it you want to know?’
‘Sturmey… you knew something from his past?’
‘God knows! I can’t place it,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ve got to visit his shop again.’
‘I thought Gaunt’s men had sealed it?’
‘Yes, they have, but I’ve received permission from the Regent to remove the seals as long as My Lord Clifford is present.’
‘I was hoping to return to Southwark.’
‘Well, you can’t. There’s God’s work to be done here. Come on, Brother.’
Athelstan followed Cranston out, noting how the Coroner deliberately knocked against the hard-drinking relic-seller.
‘I hate such bastards!’ he whispered outside the tavern. ‘If I had my way I’d clear the lot from the city. They sell enough wood from the true cross to build a fleet of ships!’
Athelstan, seeing the fat Coroner was becoming evil-tempered, linked his arm through his and gently diverted the conversation to a more even keel by asking when he thought the Lady Maude would return. They soon found Lord Clifford’s house, a handsome, three-storied building in Parchment Lane, but the young nobleman was not at home.
‘He’s gone to see the physician,’ a liveried servant explained as he ushered them into the small, comfortable solar. ‘However, he is expecting you, Sir John.’
Athelstan courteously declined the offer of refreshment but Cranston needed no second urging. He sat back in a quilted chair, sipping the claret and openly admiring the luxury of the room. Athelstan, quietly praying Sir John would not drink too much, also looked at the pieces of armour tastefully arranged around the walls. A pair of crossed gauntlets, a shield and two halberds, and a number of intricate, beautifully carved arbalests and crossbows.
‘A wealthy man,’ Athelstan observed.
‘Of course,’ Sir John replied. ‘I served with his father. He took a group of bowmen to France. A fierce soldier, God rest him, and now his son aims high.’
Athelstan glanced at the thick, woollen rugs on the shining oak floor, the silverware on the polished table glinting in the sunlight pouring through a painted glass window. Athelstan wondered why men like Lord Adam, who had so much, always wanted more. His meditations were rudely interrupted by Clifford himself bursting into the room. He tossed his cloak at a servant and strode across to shake their hands warmly. Athelstan saw the bruises and marks on the young man’s face and noticed how stiffly he moved his shoulders.
‘You were injured sorely?’ the friar asked as the greetings were finished.
Clifford grinned then grimaced. ‘Some cuts and bruises to my face. The worst is a dagger wound in my shoulder.’
‘The work of Ira Dei?’
‘Undoubtedly. I was beaten unconscious before the watch rescued me. The bastards even left a note pinned
