Cranston and Maltravers? Sexto, we have the attack on Maltravers last night. He believes it’s the work of Sir Thomas Parr, I don’t. Parr would not stoop so low or do something which would leave him so vulnerable.’ Athelstan turned so his face caught the sun. ‘What else do we have, my dear cat, my comrade in arms? Yes, that’s right. The loose threads. How did Routier know how to escape?’
Both he and Bonaventure jumped as the trap door opened. Bonaventure immediately leapt into the friar’s lap. Athelstan tensed but then relaxed as Sir John’s great red face appeared, whiskers bristling, grinning from ear to ear.
‘I thought you’d be up here.’
‘Sir John.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘Do not try to get through the trap door. You are far too… well, you are far too large.’
For one moment he thought the coroner was going to ignore him. The friar had a picture of Sir John wedged in the trap door and having to be pulled loose by members of the parish. Sir John, however, had the sense to accept his advice.
‘I’ve seen Maltravers and that good-for-nothing Godbless. They told me what happened last night.’ The coroner’s ice-blue eyes glowed fiercely. ‘I wish I had been here, Athelstan, ferocious as a mastiff I would have been, striking swift as a swooping hawk. Maltravers still thinks it’s Parr.’
‘I know, I know, Sir John but, for God’s sake, let’s go down!’
Watching him fairly skip down the narrow spiral staircase, Athelstan was intrigued by how nimble-footed the over-large coroner always was. Holding Bonaventure, Athelstan followed. Sir John stood waiting on the church porch.
‘Don’t let’s go into the house,’ the coroner moaned. ‘If that Godbless chatters at me again I’ll hit him, while Maltravers appears to be more woebegone than ever.’
‘The Piebald Tavern,’ Athelstan suggested. ‘I feel like a jug of ale, perhaps a pie. Yes, Sir John?’
He strode down the steps and was halfway along the alleyway before Athelstan caught up with him.
‘You think those assassins were sent by Mercurius, don’t you?’ Sir John grasped the friar by the shoulder. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, but it will wait.’
They entered the taproom, Sir John shouting good-natured abuse at some of Athelstan’s parishioners seated round the great wooden tables. Joscelyn, the innkeeper, waved them over to a window seat; the casements were open and the sweet smell of the flowers planted outside wafted through. The one-armed taverner brought blackjacks of cool London ale and a large pie cut up and quartered. He insisted on serving them himself, placing the slices on traunchers of hard-baked bread.
‘Do you remember that girl?’ Sir John began, smacking his lips. ‘The one we found hanging by the neck at the Golden Cresset? Well her name’s not Anna Triveter. She’s better known along St Mary Axe Street, just near Pountney Inn, as Beatrice the Bawdy Basket. A quiet, rather gentle whore who sometimes dressed as a nun to please her customers.’
‘I beg your pardon, Sir John?’
‘Oh believe me, Brother. In that part of the city, if you have the silver, a whore can act any part you want: nuns, countesses, even Dominicans!’
‘Don’t blaspheme, Jack!’
‘Dear Beatrice disappeared a few days ago,’ Sir John blithely continued. ‘Or so the scrimperers told me. Anyway, I’ve been to St Mary Axe Street and spoken to Peterkin the pincher. He’s a pimp, a salacious rogue, who entices young women on to the streets and arranges for them to sell their bodies while he provides protection. Now Peterkin didn’t want to speak to me. But, after I had banged his head a couple of times against the alley wall, he did recall two strangers approaching him. Hooded and cowled, he couldn’t say who they were but they paid him good silver for Beatrice and took her away.’
‘Two men?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Two. But, listen to this, Brother: their voices were disguised by mufflers but they were well accoutred, definitely English. Anyway, they took Beatrice away and that’s the last Peterkin saw of her. After that I went to see my Lord Regent at the Savoy. I told him what had happened at Hawkmere. Do you know something, Brother? Gaunt held a hand over the lower part of his face. I am sure he was laughing at me.’
Athelstan leaned back against the wooden panelling and gazed out over the garden. He recalled his earlier suspicions about Gaunt. Was the Regent quietly rejoicing over what was happening? Was this all part of some game that subtle, wily mind was playing? Making him and Cranston dance like puppets?
‘Is it possible, Jack?’ Athelstan picked up his tankard and cradled it in his hand.
‘Everything’s possible, Athelstan. You said that.’
‘No, I mean, could Gaunt be killing those prisoners to draw Mercurius out into the open?’
‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’
The friar turned. Godbless, holding an arrow, came trotting into the taproom, Thaddeus behind him.
‘Oh, Satan’s tits!’ Sir John growled. ‘What does he want?’
Godbless looked at the tankards and licked his lips.
‘Three more tankards!’ Sir John shouted out. ‘No, on second thoughts, make it four, one for the bloody goat!’
The arrival of Thaddeus caused a stir. A mongrel came in from the garden but when the goat lowered its head the dog changed its mind and disappeared.
‘Where did you get the arrow, Godbless?’
The beggar man handed it over. It was just over a yard long, the wood smooth and white, the arrow head bright and sharp, the goose quills dyed a dark orange. Godbless waited until the tankards had been served and squatted on a stool. He drank from his while allowing Thaddeus to sup at the other.
‘Goats are not supposed to drink from my tankards!’ Joscelyn came over.
‘I wouldn’t say that too loud,’ Godbless retorted. ‘If that’s the case, you wouldn’t have any customers!’
Joscelyn looked at Athelstan.
‘He’s a clean goat,’ the Dominican explained. ‘I give you my word, Joscelyn.’
The taverner strode away, grumbling under his breath. Sir John leaned down, his face only a few inches from Godbless.
‘Where did you get the bloody arrow? And why is it so important?’
‘Well. Do you know the cemetery around St Erconwald’s? Well, Thaddeus here likes picking things up. You know how curious he is.’
The little goat lifted its head and stared affectionately at the fat coroner.
‘And Thaddeus found it there?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, just near the sycamore tree.’
‘Right. I’ve had enough of this!’ Athelstan drained his tankard and got to his feet. The friar grasped the arrow and walked out of the tavern, a disconcerted coroner, Godbless and a slightly tipsy Thaddeus following behind him. Athelstan threaded his way through the alleyways and runnels of Southwark until they entered the small market area down near the riverside. Athelstan stood on tiptoe and gazed about.
‘Ah, there he is!’
He went across to a stall. Its owner was a tall, thickset man with white hair, beard and moustache. The sign above the stall declared he was Peter the Fletcher.
‘Good morning, Brother Athelstan.’ The fletcher’s cheery face lit with a smile. He came from behind the stall, wiping his fingers on his leather apron. He gazed mournfully down at his hands. ‘It’s the glue, it’s always the glue!’
‘Sir John Cranston, one of my parishioners, Peter Megoran, a Yorkshireman: arrowsmith, fletcher and carpenter, once a master bowman in the Earl of Salisbury’s company in France.’
‘I know you, Sir John.’ The fletcher squeezed the coroner’s hand. ‘I was at Poitiers.’
‘Were you now?’ Sir John said. He took out his wineskin and offered it to the fletcher who took a generous swig.
‘Halfway down the hill I was,’ Megoran explained, handing the wineskin back.
Sir John’s eyes took on a faraway look as he recalled the arrow storm which struck the massed French cavalry.
‘Queen Mab’s tits! And now?’
