pate like a little boy caught stealing apples.
‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘I’ll be with you. Lady Maude will scarcely lay a hand on Holy Mother Church.’
‘Domina Maude would challenge God himself if she thought the cause was right!’
Cranston blinked, drew in his breath, pushed Leif aside and walked like a condemned felon into his house. In the doorway he stopped for one last generous swig then, raising his fingers to his lips, tiptoed down the passageway and peered into the kitchen.
‘Be still!’ The Lady Maude stood by the table. Gog and Magog sat like two carved statues before her. Domina Maud was in full spate, giving the dogs a pithy lecture about the rules of the house. Athelstan, peering over Cranston’s shoulder, could see that both wolf hounds were as terrified of Domina Maude as their newfound master was. Behind the dogs Boscombe stood fixed like a candlestick, now and again nodding his head in approval of every word the Lady Maude uttered. Cranston coughed and walked into the kitchen. Lady Maude turned. She was only just over five foot high.
Athelstan had never before met a woman who could seem to be twice her height.
‘Sir John,’ she cried sweetly. ‘I arrived home early.’
Cranston gingerly walked forward, his beaver hat clenched in his hands.
‘Lady wife,’ he stammered, ‘you are most welcome. And the poppets?’
‘Upstairs with their nurse, sleeping soundly. And no, Sir John,’ as Cranston turned, ‘you will leave them at peace. I decided to return,’ she walked forward, ‘because I missed you, Sir John.’ She smiled. ‘And good news! My brother Ralph, his wife and children might be joining us after Michaelmas.’
Cranston daren’t let his fixed smile slip.
‘Oh, rat’s arse!’ he breathed.
Lady Maude came closer. She stood on tip-toe and kissed her husband on either cheek before turning to clasp Athelstan’s hand. The friar saw the merriment dancing in the little woman’s eyes.
‘Sir John has been behaving himself, Father?’
‘A man of righteousness, Lady Maude.’
Her smile widened at the gentle sarcasm in Athelstan’s voice. Cranston stood stock-still, staring at Gog and Magog then at Boscombe. The dogs ignored him, their eyes on Lady Maude, whilst Boscombe gazed glassily back.
‘You have met our visitors, Lady Maude?’
‘Visitors!’ his wife cried. ‘Sir John, they are part of our family. Master Boscombe is a rare jewel.’
‘And the dogs?’
‘They now know their place, as should everyone in this house.’
Cranston stiffened even further at the hint of warning in his wife’s words. Maude suddenly gripped Sir John’s hand.
‘You are a kind and generous man,’ she’ whispered. ‘I would have been angry if you had done any other. How could a man like Boscombe be turned into the streets and two of God’s beautiful creatures be cruelly destroyed? I do not like my Lord Regent, and Boscombe has told me about the business at the Guildhall.’
Cranston shot a glance at him. The servant had been sworn not to utter one word about the attack in the alleyway. Boscombe, still glassy-eyed, shook his head imperceptibly. Cranston relaxed and, seeing how the wind blew, took off his cloak, threw it over the table and embraced his wife in a bear-like hug.
This was the signal for all chaos to break out. The dogs started howling, Boscombe became solicitous. The Lady Maude insisted on Cranston sitting in his high-backed chair, Athelstan opposite him, whilst she served ‘Her Lord and Master’ with suitable refreshment.
At last the confusion died down. Sir John and Athelstan exchanged news and gossip with Lady Maude. A perspiring maid brought down the two poppets to bawl lustily at their father, who dangled them on his knees, turning both even more red-faced with fury. Athelstan gazed at the strapping babies, then admiringly at Lady Maude: he secretly wondered how such a delicate little thing could have given birth to what he privately considered to be the burliest babies he had ever seen. They looked like peas out of the same pod, even more so now, with their fat cheeks and balding heads.
Gog and Magog came over to sniff, nudge and lick — until even Cranston, who revelled in such loving chaos, declared enough was enough and beat a retreat to his Chancery. Once he and Athelstan were inside what Cranston termed his ‘sanctuary’, the Coroner leaned back against the door and mopped his sweating brow.
‘God save us!’ he whispered. ‘Thank God the Domina chose to be merciful. Believe me, Brother, old Jack Cranston is afeared of nothing except Domina Maude’s fury.’
Not to mention Ferox and Bonaventure, Athelstan silently added, but kept his own counsel.
‘Now,’ Cranston declared, ‘let’s look amongst my records.’ He threw back the lid of a huge, iron-bound coffer and dug like a great dog, sending pieces of parchment flying over his shoulder. Cranston muttered to himself, cursing as he unrolled one scroll after another only to toss it aside.
‘At last!’ he crowed in triumph, squatting on the floor with his back to the wall. He read the scroll, greedily studying its contents, now and again crying out and slapping his thigh.
‘Dirty little secrets!’ He tossed the parchment down and rubbed his hands. ‘And old Jack knows them.’ He got up, threw the parchment at Athelstan and went to the top of the stairs to bellow at Boscombe.
‘Go up to the Guildhall,’ he ordered. ‘Tell My Lord Mayor and the Guildmasters that the Lord Coroner wishes to have words with them immediately about Master Sturmey’s secrets.’ He grinned at the whey-faced servant. ‘Don’t look so bloody frightened! You just tell them what I said and watch their faces. I’ll be in the council chamber within the hour.’
Cranston returned to restore order to his room whilst Athelstan sat on a stool, reading the parchment.
‘I can’t believe this,’ he muttered.
‘Oh, yes.’ Cranston grinned evilly down at him.
‘Where there’s wealth, there’s sin. And they were all involved one way or the other.’
Athelstan read on. The parchment was two foot long, the writing small and cramped: it encapsulated memoranda, reports, messages and accounts. Athelstan had to take it over to the window to study it more closely.
‘Did you notice another name, Sir John?’
‘Who?’
‘A Master Nicholas Hussey, a chorister at St Paul’s.’
Cranston went over and studied the line just above Athelstan’s finger.
‘Devil’s bollocks!’ he breathed. ‘Brother, you are right.’
Athelstan read on. Boscombe returned, grinning from ear to ear, to say the Guildmasters and the Mayor would see Sir John immediately. Cranston, snorting like a bull, seized his cloak and almost ran downstairs, shouting his farewells to the Lady Maude. He walked up Cheapside with a wicked smile on his face. Athelstan hurried behind, still trying to finish reading the report, but at last he gave up and put the scroll into his leather writing bag.
‘I am going to enjoy this,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Just watch their faces, Athelstan.’
The Mayor and Guildmasters were waiting in the council chamber. Athelstan noticed how the servants were dismissed and no refreshments were offered as Cranston and he were summarily invited to sit at the great oval table. Goodman looked even more pop-eyed and anxious. Sudbury and Bremmer were visibly sweating. Marshall scratched his bald head and wouldn’t meet their eyes whilst Denny had dropped any foppish manners and stared fixedly at Sir John like some terrified rabbit confronted by a stoat.
Goodman cleared his throat. ‘Sir John, you wished to see us?’
‘Too bloody straight I do!’ Cranston leaned his great arms on the table. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush. Master Sturmey the locksmith was hired to build a special chest to hold the gold bars. It was furnished with six different locks. Each of you held a key but the gold has been taken, Sturmey’s dead, and before you ask, yes, he was murdered because someone forced him to make a second set of keys.’ Cranston wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Now you may ask why? What would force a reputable merchant like Sturmey to become involved in robbery and treason? The lure of gold? No, Sturmey wasn’t like that. Advancement? No, sirs. He was the victim of blackmail.’
The Mayor and Guildmasters stared at Cranston like a line of felons before a hanging judge.
‘Fifteen years ago,’ he began, ‘I was a junior Coroner in Cordwainer and Farringdon. Surely, Sir Christopher,’
