the taverrt, dipped his hands in the rose water and wiped them on a napkin. He felt slightly elated; for the first time since these dreadful murders had started, he began to see a flicker of light in the darkness. He stared at a cured ham hanging from the rafters of the tavern and recalled the words of his mentor, Father Paul.
‘Always remember, Athelstan,’ the old man had boomed, ‘every problem has its weakness. Find it, prise it open and a solution will soon follow.’
‘What’s the matter with you, Friar?’ Cranston bellowed.
Athelstan sat down again. ‘Sir John, are you busy today?’
‘Of course, I am! I’m not some bloody priest!’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John, let us retrace the steps of our murderer. Let me go back to the Guildhall, to the garden where Mountjoy died and the banqueting chamber where Fitzroy was poisoned. Benedicta, do you wish to come?’
The woman nodded.
‘What’s the matter, Friar?’ Cranston asked curiously.
Athelstan grinned. ‘Nothing much, Sir John, but a sugared plum could hang a murderer!’
He refused to be drawn further as a grumbling Cranston led them across Cheapside, into the Guildhall, down passageways and across courtyards until they had reached the small garden where Mountjoy had been stabbed. A pompous official tried to stop them but turned and fled when Cranston growled at him. Benedicta stared around, admiring the bronze falcon on top of the fountain, the clear water pouring from leopards’ mouths into a small channel lined with lilies and other wild flowers. She slipped down the tunnel arbour, made of coppice poles tied with willow cords, and openly admired the grape vines and roses which had wound themselves around these. She came out, her face flushed with excitement.
‘This is beautiful,’ she cried.
Athelstan pointed to the small enclosed arbour. ‘The seat of murder,’ he said flatly. ‘That’s where Mountjoy was killed.’
They all stood by the fence. Once again Athelstan wondered how any murderer could approach Sir Gerard and get past those fierce hounds.
‘Look, Sir John, let’s play a mummer’s game.’
Athelstan tugged at the Coroner’s sleeve, opened the small gate and led him into the garden. ‘You sit on the turf seat.’ He grinned. ‘Benedicta, you must pretend to be a wolf hound.’
Both smiled, shrugged, but did what Athelstan asked. Cranston slumped on the turf seat and took a generous swig from the wineskin.
‘Now,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘Sir Gerard is sunning himself in the garden with his dogs. Sometime that same afternoon he is stabbed to death, the dagger driven deep into his body, yet he made no resistance and those fierce dogs made no attempt to defend him.’ Athelstan walked back to the wicket gate and pointed to the brick wall of the Guildhall which bordered one side of the garden. ‘Now, a murderer couldn’t come through there.’ He changed direction. ‘He could scarcely climb the fence behind Sir Gerard because both the Sheriff and his dogs would have noticed him. Nor could he come through the wicket gate, knife drawn.’
‘What happens if he did?’ Benedicta asked. ‘What happens if he was a friend, whom the dogs would accept, as their master cordially greeted him?’
‘Mountjoy had no friends,’ Cranston muttered.
‘No.’ Benedicta waved her hands. ‘The assassin gets very close, he draws a knife and plunges it into Sir Gerard?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘It’s possible,’ he replied. ‘But hardly probable. Sir Gerard would at least have seen the dagger being drawn; the assassin would scarcely enter the garden carrying it. There would have been a fight which would have alarmed the dogs. Remember, Sir Gerard was killed without any sign of a struggle.’
Benedicta stuck her tongue out at him.
‘There’s only one way,’ Cranston growled, pointing to the fence paling at the bottom of the garden. ‘The pentice between the kitchens and the Guildhall.’
‘There are gaps in the fence,’ Benedicta added.
Athelstan shook his head. ‘Too narrow for a man to throw a dagger with such force and accuracy. Look, wait here.’ He took Cranston’s dagger, rather similar to the one the assassin used, walked back into the Guildhall and down the darkened pentice. He stopped and, through gaps in the fence, could see Cranston sitting opposite him on the turf seat. He pushed the dagger through; the gap was wide enough but he was right, no man could hurl a dagger through it. Scratching his head, Athelstan went back into the garden. ‘A mystery,’ he muttered. ‘Come, let us visit the banqueting chamber.’
Cranston pulled a face at Benedicta but followed the rather bemused friar up to the banqueting hall. The room was deserted and the tables still left as they were on that fateful night. Athelstan badgered Cranston with a string of abrupt questions.
Who had sat where? What had they eaten? How late it had begun?
Then, without explanation, he wandered off, saying he wished to talk to the steward who had been present that night.
Cranston didn’t mind. He knew his ‘little friar’ had started some hare and would become engrossed until he had resolved the problem facing him. Moreover, the Coroner was only too willing to sit and chat with the lovely Benedicta who questioned him closely about Athelstan’s story of a thief stealing the severed heads of traitors from above the gatehouse at London Bridge. At last Athelstan returned.
‘Well?’ Cranston bellowed. ‘Have you found anything? Would you like to share your thoughts with mere mortals?’
Athelstan grinned and tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s all a jumble,’ he explained, I need to sit, write and think.’
‘No better place than The Holy Lamb of God,’ Cranston mumbled.
He led them out of the Guildhall, down the steps into a busy market place. The stalls were now laid out for a day’s trade. Apprentices shouted goods and prices or tried to catch the sleeves of passersby. On the corner of the street, Cranston’s hated relic-seller was busy proclaiming his litany of goods for sale. He stopped as the fellow listed his different relics from the stone which killed Goliath to the arm of St Sebbi.
‘I have the relics,’ the fellow bellowed, ‘in a secret place, bought specially at a great high price from the Archbishop of Cologne. The head of St John the Baptist, miraculously fresh as on the day the great martyr died. I tell you this, good sirs and ladies all, you pious citizens of London, his hair is red and soft, his skin as supple, as that of a child!’
Cranston sneered and shook his head.
‘Why don’t you bloody priests,’ he muttered, ‘put an end to this stupid trade?’
‘I wonder where he would obtain the hair of John the Baptist?’ Benedicta muttered.
Cranston just gaped at her. ‘What did you say?’ he whispered.
‘How could he get the head of St John the Baptist? And how does he know the prophet had red hair?’
Cranston grabbed the surprised woman and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Come on!’ he whispered. ‘To The Holy Lamb of God!’
The Coroner forced his way through the throng. Athelstan could see how excited he was by the way Cranston kept bellowing at people to get out of his way. Once in the tavern he dug into his broad purse and drew out a silver coin.
‘Benedicta, take this across to the relic-seller. Say you have five more to purchase the head of St John the Baptist.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan interrupted.
‘You know the man’s a fraud. There’ll be no head, just some stupid trick or device. Who knows, Benedicta may even be robbed?’
‘Shut up, Athelstan!’
‘But, Sir John,’ he pleaded. ‘You know! I know!’
‘What?’ Cranston snapped.
‘He can’t have the head of the Baptist…’ Athelstan’s voice trailed away and he grinned at Cranston. ‘Ah! To quote the good St Paul, My Lord Coroner, I see in a glass darkly.’
Cranston clapped his hands like a child and Benedicta, with the assurances of both men ringing in her ears,
