The Anger of God smoba-4

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Other people knew,’ Denny spoke up. ‘Why question only us?’

  ‘Who else knew?’ Cranston retorted. ‘His Grace the King was not yet born, my Lord Regent was only a boy and the Council would protect his ears from such scandal. I have a copy of the investigation and I don’t suppose any other record exists. So, yes, please tell me, who else knew?’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Perhaps other people did but they are not powerful Guildmasters, they are not witnesses to treason, the robbery of treasure, the murder of one of their colleagues, not to mention the secret assassination of a London Sheriff.’ Cranston pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘But I tell you this, sirs, old Jack Cranston will dig out the truth and justice will be done.’

  Once outside the Guildhall he clapped his hands with glee.

  ‘The buggers are frightened,’ he chortled. ‘Lord, Brother, you can smell their fear.’

  ‘What happens,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if these murders have more to do with ancient crimes than the ambitions of the Regent or the dark designs of Ira Dei?’

  Cranston shook his head. ‘No, those men, Athelstan, are gluttons for power. They are neck deep in vice. Corruption is their second name. Old sins play a part here but only as a device rather than the cause. Mark my words.’ Cranston smiled. ‘I have shaken the apple tree. God knows what may fall down!’

  The Coroner peered across the market place. ‘Let’s leave this matter,’ he breathed. ‘Tomorrow is Saturday and I must play dalliance with the Lady Maude. You have my manuscript?’

  Athelstan nodded.

  ‘Then keep it. Study it carefully, Brother.’

  Athelstan vowed he would and, with Sir John’s salutations ringing in his ears, made his way back down the Mercery, across London Bridge and into Southwark.

  Benedicta was waiting for him in the priest’s house. She looked rather subdued.

  ‘I took the girl Elizabeth and her nurse Anna to the Friar Minoresses. The sisters were good and kind, even though the two were hysterical. Elizabeth calls her father and step-mother assassins: she claims the truth was revealed to her by her mother in a dream. Brother, what will happen to them?’

  Athelstan slumped wearily on to a stool and shook his head.

  ‘Benedicta, I don’t know. I thank you for what you have done but only God knows what the future holds.’

  She went to the buttery and brought back a flagon of ale.

  ‘You look tired.’ She pushed the tankard into his hands. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Drink and have something to eat. You’ll have some bread and dried meat? I’ll prepare enough for both of us.’

  Athelstan, embarrassed at her care and concern, mumbled his thanks and sat staring into the weak flames of the fire. Benedicta bustled around the kitchen laying the table. The widow deliberately kept up a litany of gossip about the parish in an attempt to distract Athelstan from what he so aptly described to her as his ‘sea of troubles’. During the meal he tried to respond but felt weary, his head buzzing with all he had seen and heard that day. Benedicta took her leave, saying she would see him at Mass tomorrow. Athelstan watched her go then put his head on his arms and fell fast asleep.

  When Athelstan awoke it was dark. He felt cold and cramped so he built up the fire. He was about to go into the buttery when he was startled by a gentle knocking on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he called. Getting no answer, he took his ash cudgel from the corner and placed his hand on the latch. ‘Who is it?’ he repeated, trying to calm his anxieties. He strained his ears but only heard the gentle swishing of the trees in the cemetery and the ghostly hooting of an owl. He opened the door and stared into the darkness. He was about to walk out when his foot caught something. He bent and picked up a small loaf of bread with a scrap of parchment attached to it. Athelstan looked round once again, closed and bolted the door behind him, lit the candle and read the scrawled hand.

  ‘Incur the wrath of God and you will incur the bread of bitterness.’

  Athelstan picked up the small loaf and sniffed it carefully. He could see the sprinkled salt and caught the bitterness of some crushed herb. He read the scrap of parchment again and tossed both it and the loaf into the fire. ‘The bread of bitterness,’ Athelstan muttered to himself and half-smiled at the apt quotation from the Old Testament. He sat for a while staring at the candle flame; Ira Dei had made his reply, taunting him with the knowledge that he knew Athelstan only wished to communicate with him at the behest of his enemy, John of Gaunt. The friar recalled Cranston’s confrontation with the Guildmasters earlier in the day. The Coroner probably hoped that his words might provoke Ira Dei into some stupid error.

  Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Ah, well!’ he muttered. ‘Cranston and I now have his answer.’ And he wearily climbed the stairs to his small bed chamber.

  CHAPTER 12

  Athelstan awoke fresh and invigorated the next morning. He washed, shaved, changed his robe, fed Bonaventure and ate a hurried breakfast. Athelstan then went across to celebrate the Requiem for Ursula the pig woman’s mother. Benedicta was waiting for him at the entrance to the rood screen after he had finished in the sacristy.

  ‘What is it, Benedicta?’

  ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Father, but I’ve received messages from the Minoresses. You’ve got to come. Last night Elizabeth Hobden tried to hang herself!’

  Athelstan bit back his curse, said he would lock the church and meet her within the half-hour on the steps of St Mary Overy. Athelstan quickly made sure all was secure, left oats and hay for a snoring Philomel and hurried down to where Benedicta was waiting for him.

  ‘What else did the message say?’ he asked breathlessly as they hurried on to London Bridge.

  ‘Nothing, Father. Apparently the girl kept repeating the same story. Late last night a sister heard a crash from her cell and, when she went to investigate, discovered the girl had tried to hang herself with the sheets from her bed.’

  Under the gateway of London Bridge Athelstan stopped and looked up at the severed heads of traitors spiked there. Benedicta followed his gaze.

  ‘Father, what on earth…?’

  Athelstan shrugged. ‘I find it difficult to believe, Benedicta, that Cranston is actually hunting someone who steals such grisly objects.’

  She crossed her arms and stared out at the mist still floating over the middle of the river.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she muttered, ‘I hate this place. I have thought of moving away to some country place — more peaceful and clean.’

  ‘You can’t.’ Athelstan bit his lip. He looked at her squarely. ‘If you went, Benedicta, I’d miss you.’

  ‘True, true.’ She grinned back. ‘And who would then look after you and Cranston?’

  They hastened across the bridge and into East Cheap, following the alleyways along Mark Lane into Aldgate and turning right on to the street leading to the gleaming sandstone buildings of the Minoresses. The sun was beginning to rise and Athelstan wiped away the sweat from his brow.

  ‘We should have come by horse,’ he muttered. ‘God knows why I am here.’

  ‘She has no one else.’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘That’s as good a reason as any.’

  The nuns greeted him warmly and insisted both he and Benedicta refresh themselves in the refectory before the novice mistress, a stout but very pleasant-faced nun, described what had happened the previous evening.

  ‘We found her lying on the floor,’ she began. ‘Half-choked by the sheet she had wrapped round her neck. If it hadn’t torn, if the commotion hadn’t been heard…’

  She spread her hands. ‘I’d be sadly reporting her death now. Brother Athelstan, what can we do? We have a girl here, a mere child, who might commit suicide!’

  The friar got to his feet. ‘Let me see her.’

  The novice mistress took them along a cool, porticoed passage and knocked on a cell door. Another nun answered and the novice mistress took them in to where Elizabeth Hobden sat on the edge of her bed, dark-eyed and pale-faced, a purpl
ish bruise round her soft, white neck.

  ‘How is Anna, the nurse?’ Benedicta asked.

  ‘Oh, she’s well enough, eating and drinking as if there’s no tomorrow,’ the nun replied.

  Athelstan picked up a stool and sat beside Elizabeth. He looked up at the two nuns.

  ‘Sisters, will you please leave us for a while? The lady Benedicta will stay.’

  The nuns left. Benedicta stood by the door as Athelstan gently took the girl’s listless hand.

  ‘Elizabeth, look at me.’

  She raised her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she muttered.

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘You can’t. They murdered my mother and now I am an outcast.’

  Athelstan stared at the girl and then at the crucifix nailed on the wall behind her. He took this down and held it up before the girl.

  ‘Elizabeth, do you believe in Christ?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Then put your hand on the crucifix and swear that your accusation is true.’

  The girl almost grabbed the cross. ‘I swear!’ she said firmly. ‘By the body of Christ, I swear!’

  Athelstan put the crucifix back and crouched beside her.

  ‘Now, promise me one thing?’

  The girl stared at him:

  ‘Promise me that you’ll do nothing foolish again? Give me a week,’ he pleaded. ‘Just one week. I’ll see what I can do.’

  The girl nodded and Athelstan flinched at the hope which sparkled in her eyes.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he repeated, patted her gently on her hand and left.

  ‘What can you do?’ Benedicta asked as the gate of the Minoresses closed behind them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied, ‘But perhaps Cranston will.’ He sighed. ‘I had intended to leave Sir John alone, at least until Monday. I’ll just have to remind him there’s no rest for the wicked.’

  They walked back into the city, down Aldgate and Cornhill. At the corner of Poultry the stocks were full of malefactors taken after roistering on a Friday evening whilst the huge iron cage on the Great Conduit was full of night hawks and bawds who raucously jeered as they glimpsed Athelstan pass by with a woman. Poultry, Mercery and West Cheap, however, were quiet because the market bell rang late on Saturday. Apprentices were laying out stalls whilst rakers and dung-collectors made a half-hearted attempt to clear the refuse and rubbish of the previous day. A maid answered their knock on Cranston’s door and blithely informed them that Lady Maude was still abed for Sir John had gone to Mass at St Mary Le Bow.

  Athelstan hid his smile and led Benedicta straight across to The Holy Lamb of God where they found the Coroner in his favourite corner breaking his fast on a meat pie and a jug of ale. He greeted them rapturously, refusing to be satisfied until Athelstan and Benedicta agreed to eat something. He then listened attentively as Athelstan described his visit to the Minoresses.

  ‘What can we do?’ Athelstan asked softly.

  Cranston drowned his face in his tankard. ‘Well, first, we have no proof that Walter or Eleanor Hobden committed any crime so under the law we have no right to question them. However, I am the King’s Coroner in the city. I do have the authority to exhume a corpse. Hobden said his first wife is buried at St James Garlickhythe?’

  Athelstan nodded.

  ‘Right, we’ll begin there.’

  ‘Can we do that, Sir John? What will it prove?’

  ‘First, I can do anything. And, second, who knows what we’ll find?’ Cranston stared out of the window. ‘We’ll have to wait until early evening. Part of the cemetery there is used as a market.’

  Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. There was so much to do at St Erconwald’s but, as Sir John would say, ‘ Alea jacta ’, the die was cast.

  ‘Well, aren’t you pleased?’ Cranston asked, a tankard half-way to his lips.

  ‘There’s something else, Sir John.’ And Athelstan briefly described the message left by Ira Dei the previous evening, trying to ignore Benedicta’s gasps of annoyance at not being told of the danger.

  Cranston wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

  ‘It makes no difference,’ he said. ‘Gaunt was stupid. Ira Dei would scarcely trust you.’

  ‘Yes, but why reply so quickly?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who knew about the Ira Dei message?’

  ‘Gaunt and the Guildmasters. They told us at the same time as they did about the attack on Clifford.’

  The conversation stopped as the taverner’s wife brought across a bowl of sugared plums for Sir John. Athelstan absent-mindedly picked one up and popped it into his mouth. He was about to speculate further when he realized the plums were so heavily coated with honey and sugar they stuck to his teeth and gums. He excused himself as he walked to the door and tried to prise the cloying morsels free. Suddenly he stopped and stared down at his fingers.

  ‘When did I do that last?’ he murmured to himself.

  He looked back over his shoulder at Benedicta and Cranston, heads together, whispering, the Coroner undoubtedly explaining what had happened at the Guildhall. Athelstan walked to the lavarium in the far corner of 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 dire
ction. ‘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.