The rest of the troupe stopped. The troubadour picked up the little silver cup which was the prize. He looked down at it then at Athelstan.
'Run for it, lads!' he bawled.
And the whole group took off down an alleyway pursued by the jeers and cat-calls of their small audience.
'Very good, Brother.' Sir John grinned. 'I've never seen that trick before. They collect money from the audience and, if anyone solves the problem, they are off like the wind.'
They went further along into Mincham Lane, a broad thoroughfare with pink plaster houses on either side. Most of the lower stories served as shops with stalls in front displaying clothing, felts, shoes and caps. The sewer, unlike those in Southwark, was clean and smelt of the saltpetre placed over the night soil and other refuse.
Mistress Sholter's house was at the far end, a two-storied building with a pointed roof and jutting gables. A well-furnished stall stood outside the front door, the lintel of which was draped in mourning clothes.
'Is your mistress within?' Sir John asked the two apprentices manning it.
'Yes, sir, she's still grieving,' one of them replied lugubriously. 'She's there with her maid and Master Eccleshall.'
Sir John and Athelstan entered the house and waited in the hallway. It was clean and well furnished. Pieces of black lawn now covered the gleaming white plaster on either side. A young woman, her hair gathered up in a mob cap, came out of a room to their right.
'I beg your pardon, sirs?'
'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and his secretarius Brother Athelstan.'
'Oh, do come in,' a voice called.
The maid stepped aside. Cranston and Athelstan entered a well-furnished parlour where Mistress Sholter and Eccleshall were seated on either side of the hearth. A sewing-basket in the window seat showed where the maid had been sitting. The widow and her companion rose. Athelstan made the introductions and the coroner quickly accepted Mistress Sholter's offer of refreshment.
Sweet wine was served and a small tray of crusty, sweet marchpane. Athelstan refused this but Sir John took a number of pieces, murmured his condolences and slurped at the wine cup.
'I'm sorry to intrude on your mourning.'
Athelstan noted that most of the hangings on the walls were hidden by funeral cloths.
'However, I need to ask further questions.'
Bridget Sholter's face looked even paler, framed by her dark hair under a mourning veil which fell down beneath her shoulders.
'What questions, Brother? I've been sitting here with Philip wondering what had happened.'
'Tell me again?'
'I've told you,' Eccleshall said. 'Miles and I left here about four o'clock.'
'And you reached the Silken Thomas?'
'Oh, about six.'
'You travelled slowly?'
'What was the hurry? We'd decided to stay at the Silken Thomas and leave before dawn. We would be refreshed and so would our horses.' He shrugged. 'Measure out the distance yourself. It takes an age to get across the bridge; we stopped to pray at the chapel of St Thomas a Becket. Then, of course, we had to wait for that officious little gatekeeper.'
'True, true,' Sir John agreed. 'A leisurely ride from here to the Silken Thomas would take that long.'
'And you, Mistress Bridget?' Athelstan asked.
She made a face and gestured at her maid.
'Hilda here will attest to this: shortly after Miles went, I closed the stall, after all it was Saturday afternoon. I left the house and went down to the markets in Petty Wales.'
'Then you came back here?'
'Well, of course, Brother.' She laughed softly. 'Where else could I go?'
'It's true what my mistress says,' the maid said. 'The master left. As he did so, the apprentices were bringing the goods in. The mistress then dismissed me and she took her basket out.'
'You don't sleep here?'
'Oh no, Brother, I live with my own family in Shoe Lane.'
'Our house is very small,' Bridget Sholter explained. 'We have a parlour, kitchen and scullery while the upper rooms are used as bedchamber, a small chancery office and storerooms.'
'But I came back here later,' Hilda said.
'At what time?'
'Oh, it must have been just before curfew, between ten and eleven o'clock.' 'What is your name?'
'Hilda Smallwode: when the Master's away, I always come and see that all is well.'
'Why these questions?' Bridget Sholter asked, getting to her feet. 'What are you implying?'
'I am implying nothing, madam.' Athelstan also rose. 'We are investigating the dreadful murder, not only of your husband, but of two other souls. My parish faces a heavy fine and the people I serve are poor. I need to know every detail if I am to lodge an appeal.'
Eccleshall spread his legs out, stretching them until the muscles cracked.
'Well, Brother, now you have it: Miles and I left shortly after four o'clock. We crossed London Bridge. We stopped to say a prayer at the chapel of St
Thomas a Becket. The gatekeeper, after some delay, let us through. We must have arrived at the Silken Thomas just before six o'clock. At some time before eight Miles decided to return for his St Christopher medal.'
'Yes, can I see that?' Athelstan asked. Bridget Sholter, looking narrow-eyed, made to refuse but Sir John coughed and shuffled his feet. 'I'll get it for you.'
She left and came back. The medal was really a large locket, gold gilt on a silver chain. Athelstan prised the clasp open to reveal on one side a picture of Christ, on the other a St Christopher bearing the Infant Jesus. Athelstan snapped it shut and handed it back.
'I thank you mistress, Master Eccleshall.' They made their farewells and went out into Eastchepe.
'What was all that about?' Sir John asked. Athelstan led him through a porchway. 'Sir John, Miles Sholter was murdered. I am sure, as God made little apples, those two are responsible!'
Chapter 8
Athelstan stared up at the great keep of the Tower. On the green around him the women of the garrison were washing their clothes in great iron-hooped vats. Children also played in these, splashing water, jumping out and chasing each other. Soldiers lounged in the shadows drinking ale and playing dice. A lazy, pleasant place. The autumn sun was now warm and the grounds of the Tower seemed more like the setting for a midsummer fair than a formidable fortress. The mangonels, catapults and battering rams were all covered with tarred sheets. A horseman rode in, the hooves of his mount clattering on the cobbles. Grooms shouted and ran out to help take off the harness and lead the horse away. Cooking smells drifted from the kitchens and, from the royal menagerie, came the powerful roar of the lion sent as a gift by the Prince of Barbary to John of Gaunt.
The great hall, which lay next to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, had its door flung open. Servants and retainers were bringing out the greasy laden trestle tables to be scraped and washed once the women had finished with the vats of water. Two great hunting dogs snarled and fought over blood-spattered bones. Athelstan's gaze travelled to the parapets where archers, supposedly on guard, sought shade against the autumn sun.
Athelstan eased his writing bag off his shoulders and sat down on the grass. One of the great hunting dogs came over, chased by a child; it would have licked his face but the little boy grabbed the dog and pulled it away. Athelstan turned back to study the keep which soared up into the sky six or seven storeys high, built of dressed stone. Athelstan wondered at the ingenuity of the builder, Gundulf.
'He was a Bishop of Rochester,' he said to himself. 'He may not have been much of a churchman but, as a mason, he had a real gift.'
