to my cloak.’
‘What did it say?’
‘“Do not provoke the Anger of God.”’ Clifford moved his shoulder gingerly. ‘I couldn’t give a fig. It will take more than those ruffians,’ he remarked drily, ‘to hinder me.’
He offered more refreshment but Athelstan said the day was passing.
‘Sir John,’ he explained, ‘wishes to visit Sturmey’s shop, remove the Regent’s seals and search the place.’
Clifford agreed and they went out into the bustling market place, Clifford chatting to them about Gaunt’s determination to restore his alliance with the Guildmasters.
‘Keep your voices down and your hands on your wallets,’ Cranston intervened. He smiled at Athelstan. ‘I think all Southwark’s here.’
The friar glanced around. The stalls were busy, the noise deafening with the apprentices’ raucous cries of ‘St Thomas’ onions!’ ‘Fresh bread!’ ‘Hot pies!’ ‘Pins and needles for a mistress!’ ‘A cap for you, sir!’ All of London, the silk-clad nobles and serge-clothed peasants, swirled around the stalls and Athelstan glimpsed the sharp-faced foists, pickpockets and cut-purses at work. He’d walked so many times through the city with Cranston, he’d acquired the Coroner’s skill in detecting how these sneak thieves worked, constantly moving round the market place looking for a victim. These petty law-breakers were now busy, seemingly oblivious to the punishments being carried out around the stocks and whipping posts of Cheapside: market beadles chained men and women, crude placards slung round their necks describing their litany of crimes, be it cutting buttons from precious robes to bone-pickers and rag-gatherers who were not above helping themselves to any items which fell from a stall.
A pardoner stood beneath the market cross, greasy scrolls in his hand, offering remission for sins in return for donations to the Pope’s coffers. Hawkers sold battered spoons, rusting tin cups and other paltry articles. The whores paraded themselves, keeping a wary eye for the ward constables; tipplers offered fresh water whilst beating off dogs lapping in their buckets or ragged-arsed urchins begging for a free drink. The execution cart forced its way through, preceded by a dark-cowled monk, muttering the prayers for the dying. Three condemned felons sat on their cheap arrow-chest coffins shouting farewells at the sparse, ragged crowd of friends and acquaintances. These accompanied the condemned felons to the gallows to hang on their feet and so ensure a speedy death. Now and again Cranston would be recognized with ‘Hellos’ from the worthy city burgesses or black looks and a stream of obscenities from those who had felt the Coroner’s fat hand on their collar.
At last they turned up Lawrence Lane. Sturmey’s shop was all boarded up but the whey-faced maid and chattering apprentice let them in.
‘His son has not come south yet,’ the young boy told them. ‘But the sooner he does, the sooner I can move on to another master.’
Cranston patted him on the head and slipped a penny into his hand. Clifford drew his dagger, sliced through the Regent’s seal and, taking the keys the Corporation had seized, opened the workshop. Inside, ably assisted by the young apprentice, they began to sift through the bits of discarded keys. Athelstan went through the dead locksmith’s ledger but, after an hour, they could find nothing of interest.
Clifford, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, stamped his foot in annoyance.
‘Sturmey must have made a second set of keys. But how and where is a mystery, Sir John.’
Cranston was staring at the young, angelic face of the apprentice. A vague memory stirred in his mind.
‘How long did you serve Master Sturmey?’ he asked.
‘It’s three years, sir, since my mother drew up indentures with him and I have another three years left.’
Cranston nodded his head sagely. ‘And your master always worked here?’
‘Oh, yes, here or in the garden.’
‘And he had no visitors?’ Cranston smiled. ‘Like this young noble lord here?’
The lad stared at Clifford and shook his head.
‘No, no, it was always the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff.’
Athelstan walked out of the workshop and down the passageway. He smiled at the young maid in the scullery and went through the back door into the garden. A neatly kept place with a small rose patch, a green garth, and the rest flowers or herbs: iris, lily, cowslip and cornflower growing around a small pond. The air was sweet with fragrance from the herb banks: camomile, fennel, lavender, even some hyssop and marjoram. Athelstan noticed a small brick house at the end of the garden and followed the path down. He was surprised to see the sturdy door heavily barred and padlocked so returned to the house and asked the young boy for the key. The apprentice shook his head.
‘Master Sturmey kept that separate,’ he declared. ‘We was never allowed in there.’
Now curious, Cranston and Clifford followed Athelstan back into the garden. The Coroner took a hammer and chisel from one of the work benches and soon made short work of the lock. Inside, the stone shed was musty, rather airless. Cranston knocked open the shutters and stared round. There was a bench and some chests. Cranston grinned and pointed to the small forge near the fire-hearth.
‘This is where he made the keys,’ Cranston declared, and using the mallet and chisel, soon opened the chests. Inside were all the implements a locksmith would need; strips of lead and steel, casting-irons and bits of keys. Cranston rummaged amongst the contents of the chest and brought out a mould which had been deliberately shattered. He handed this to Clifford.
‘If you take that to the Lord Regent, as cats love milk, I am sure you will find Sturmey used this and others to fashion a second set of keys.’
‘For whom?’ Clifford asked.
‘Ah, that’s the mystery.’
A small book, deep in the shadows of the chest, caught Cranston’s eye. He pulled this out whilst Clifford walked back into the garden to study the fragments of the mould more closely. Cranston flicked through the pages. At first he thought it was a small Book of Hours but then he looked at the illustrations, cleverly drawn, and slipped it up his sleeve. He now knew Master Sturmey’s dark secret.
Clifford was excited by Cranston’s find and could hardly wait to hurry off, leaving Cranston and Athelstan to thank the apprentice and maid. Once outside the house, Cranston showed Athelstan the book. He turned over the finely grained parchment pages and whistled under his breath as he studied the paintings some clever artist had depicted there. Boys and young men, as naked as they were born, in a variety of poses. Some fought with swords; one group lounged on cloth-of-gold couches; two practised spear-throwing. Other pictures were more daring — young men washing each other or exchanging embraces and kisses.
‘Master Sturmey did have his secrets,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Such a book could condemn a man to be burnt alive.’
Cranston tapped the side of his nose.
‘I knew I had it. Come on, Athelstan!’
He strode back into Cheapside, the friar having to trot to keep up with the Coroner’s surprising spurt of speed. Leif the beggar, however, stopped them only a few yards from the Coroner’s house.
‘Be on your guard, Sir John!’ he whispered dramatically. ‘Be on your guard!’
‘What are you talking about, you silly bugger?’
‘The Lady Maude’s back.’
Cranston’s jaw sagged. ‘She’s come back early,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my God, she’ll see those bloody dogs!’
‘She’s in a strange mood,’ Leif declared sombrely, trying hard to hide his glee.
‘Domina Maude is always in a strange mood,’ Cranston growled. He stared longingly across Cheapside at The Holy Lamb.
‘Oh, no, Sir John!’ Leif warned, now thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘The Lady Maude was most insistent. I was to stand guard on The Holy Lamb and tell you to go home immediately.’
CHAPTER 11
Athelstan felt sorry, for all the life seemed to have gone out of old Cranston. He just stood scratching his bald
