by Paul Doherty
‘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, walked back across Cheapside with Cranston’s silver clasped firmly in her hand. Athelstan and Cranston watched her go. Benedicta stopped and whispered to the relic-seller and the man left his perch as quickly as any hungry gull. He led her off, down an alleyway with Athelstan and Cranston following quickly behind. Cranston was excited, Athelstan fearful for Benedicta’s safety, but the man seemed harmless enough. At last he turned off an alleyway going down to Old Jewry. He stopped before the door of a house, said something to Benedicta, she nodded and they both went in. Cranston and Athelstan hurried up.
‘Give the bastard a few minutes,’ Cranston whispered.
Athelstan nodded. Cranston counted softly and, when he reached thirty, kicked with all his might against the rickety door and sent it flying back on its rusty hinges. The house was dingy and smelly and, as they hurried along the passageway, Athelstan gagged at the terrible stench. They heard raised voices, Benedicta’s exclamations. They found her in a small chamber at the back of the house with the relic-seller and the latter’s young assistant. Benedicta looked white, the two tricksters paled with fright at the commotion and Cranston’s shouts, whilst on a table in front of them lay the severed head of a red-haired man, eyes half-closed and purple lips agape. If the two relic-sellers could have escaped they would have but they just huddled together in a corner as the Coroner grabbed the severed head and lifted it up. Benedicta had seen enough and, hand to mouth, hurriedly left the chamber for the street beyond.
‘Well, well, my buckos!’ Cranston grinned. ‘You are both under arrest!’
‘What for?’ the relic-seller shouted.
‘Theft of Crown property, my lad, counterfeiting, deceptive practices and blasphemy. This is not the head of John the Baptist but of Jacques Larue, the French pirate taken off the Thames and legally executed!’ Cranston gazed round the chamber. ‘Lord, this smells worse than the shambles at Newgate!’
He walked out of the door, pushing Athelstan before him, and took the key from the inside lock, imprisoning the two very subdued relic-sellers within.
‘There are no windows or other doors, Athelstan. The rogues can stay there until I hand this key over to the ward officials. Now, let us see what this house of treasures contains.’
Athelstan followed him around but, after a while, gave up in disgust at the different grisly objects discovered and went to join Benedicta in the street outside.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ he whispered, quoting Cranston. ‘The place should be burnt from top to bottom.’
Cranston, however, came out full of himself. He pulled the house door close then locked it.
‘Benedicta,’ he grinned, ‘you are an angel. Where else would a relic-seller get a head to sell as that of a saint except from the execution yard?’ The Coroner rubbed his hands together. ‘One more small victory for old Jack, eh?’
They walked back into Cheapside and waited whilst Cranston summoned officials and sent them to the house. One of the beadles was eating a meat pie, munching insolently as Cranston talked to him. The Coroner grinned as he watched the men stride away.
‘I haven’t told them what they’ll find,’ he joked. ‘But the insolent one with the meat pie will soon receive a short, sharp lesson on eating when the King’s Coroner is giving him instructions!’
He led them back to The Holy Lamb of God, loudly guffawing at Benedicta’s wondering how anyone could be so stupid as to trust such rogues.
‘Stupid!’ Cranston laughed. ‘If you go to any city in England, France or beyond the Rhine, you’ll find men, Princes of the Church, the most intelligent and educated of priests, spending fortunes on pieces of dirty bone and rag. Do you know, here in London, I heard of a merchant who paid a hundred pounds sterling for a napkin on which the Blessed St Cuthbert wiped his mouth. Devil’s balls!’ He mumbled an apology to Benedicta. ‘But hell’s teeth! I wish everything was as easy. Brother, did our journey to the Guildhall clarify anything?’
Cranston eased his great backside down on to the stool and stared pitifully at his clerk. ‘Athelstan,’ he pleaded. ‘Sooner rather than later, the Regent is going to ask me to account.’
The friar stared at the table top. ‘Let us see,’ he began slowly. ‘We know why Mountjoy and the other two were murdered. Not because of any secret sin or personal rivalry but to upset the Regent, to block his ambitions, to build up support amongst the powerful merchant class of London. Well, that has been achieved so there will be no more murders. At least, not for the time being.’ Athelstan paused, I am sure the murders can be laid at the door of the Ira Dei, but suspect he is only the architect. There’s a traitor and a killer in Gaunt’s party — Goodman or one of those powerful Guiidmasters.’
‘Why, Sir John?’ Benedicta interrupted. ‘Why hasn’t the assassin struck at Gaunt himself?’
‘Because the devil you know, My Lady, is better than the devil you don’t. Someone has to be Regent or, to put it more bluntly, someone has to be there to take the blame. If Gaunt were removed, his chair would merely be filled by one of his younger brothers. No, these murders are to clip Gaunt’s wings.’
‘Has there been any reaction to our meeting with the Guiidmasters about Sturmey’s private life?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston shook his head. ‘Not as yet.’
‘Sir Nicholas Hussey was a boy when the scandal occurred?’
‘O
nly very young,’ Cranston replied. ‘God knows, he may remember whispers, but according to the records there is no indication that he was involved, even as a victim. Ah, well.’ He put his tankard down on the table.
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘Wait, Sir John, think, reflect. As I have said, the murders at the Guildhall are not crimes of passion but cold and calculating. I doubt if we will discover any further clue or sign. We must gather all we know, apply logic, and so squeeze out the one and only solution.’
‘If there s one,’ Cranston added wearily.
The conversation became desultory. Cranston’s elation at the arrest of the relic-sellers dissipated under a cloud of gloom as the fat Coroner began to sink into a sulk. Benedicta took her leave, saying she had no wish to stay, she’d had her fill of cadavers and mystery. Sir John took Athelstan back to his house but Lady Maude was busy and the poppets out with the nurse in the fields north of St Giles. Cranston became impossible so Athelstan left him for a while, deciding to visit his brethren at Blackfriars.
The friar returned just as the market in Cheapside drew to an early end and people hurried home to prepare for Sunday. Cranston, more refreshed, clapped him on the shoulder and they went back to The Holy Lamb of God to meet Cranston’s friend and physician, Theobald de Troyes, whom the Coroner had visited earlier in the afternoon.
‘Are you sure you wish to come?’ Cranston asked.
‘Sir John, I am always at your disposal,’ the physician replied. ‘Does the priest at St James know?’
‘I have already sent a constable down there. There will be labourers to dig out the grave and lift Sarah Hobden’s coffin.’ Sir John licked his lips. ‘Perhaps a drink first?
Both Athelstan and the physician flatly refused and, one on either side of him, escorted the reluctant Coroner out of West Cheap across Watling Street into Cordwainer and then along Upper Thames Street to the rather sombre church of St James Garlickhythe. The priest, Father Odo, cheery, red-nosed, and much the worse after a generous lunch, came out of the priest’s house and took them into a rather overgrown graveyard where three labourers were resting under the cool shade of a yew tree. At first there was absolute confusion as Father Odo tried to read the burial book and discover where Sarah Hobden had been buried.
‘I can’t find it,’ he mumbled, swaying dangerously on his feet.
Athelstan peered over his shoulder, realized the inebriated priest was reading it upside down, and took it out of his hand.
‘Let me help, Father,’ he offered gently.
Glaring defiantly at Cranston and daring him not to laugh, the friar sat on a tombstone and leafed through the pages until he found the entry: ‘Sarah Hobden, obiit 1376, North West’.
‘Where’s that, Father?’
Odo pointed to the far corner of the graveyard. Athelstan smiled and returned the burial book.
‘Father, you sit down and take your rest.’ He patted the old priest gently on the shoulder.
‘Don’t you dare!’ he hissed at Cranston as the Coroner’s hand went to where his miraculous wineskin was hanging beneath his cloak. ‘The poor man has had enough and, to be quite frank, Sir John, so have I!’
They called the labourers and crossed to that part of the cemetery Father Odo had pointed out. After some searching, they found Sarah Hobden’s grave, derelict, overgrown and neglected; the wooden cross, battered and lopsided, still bore her faded name. Cranston snapped his fingers and the grumbling labourers began to hack at the hard-packed earth.
‘What will this prove?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Ah.’ Cranston leaned on the grave stone, cradling his wineskin as if it was one of the poppets. He tapped his nose and pointed at the physician. ‘Master Theobald, instruct our ignorant priest!’
The physician winked at Athelstan. ‘When I received Sir John’s invitation, I made careful study of the cause of death.’
‘And?’
‘Well, if it’s arsenic, particularly red arsenic, we might well see what the populous would call a miracle. Let me surprise you, Father.’
The physician went and watched the labourers as their spades and picks began to ring hollow as they reached the coffin lid. More earth was dug out. Athelstan peered round the graveyard and shivered. The shadows were growing longer. The birdsong had stilled. Nothing except the grunting of the labourers and the shifting of earth broke the eerie silence.
‘Why are these places so quiet?’ Athelstan murmured. He strained his ears: he could just hear the sound of chatter and laughter as the traders and tinkers on the other side of the church cleared away their stalls.
‘We are ready. Sir John!’ the physician called.
‘Then pull it out, lads!’
One labourer jumped down into the grave on top of the coffin, ropes were attached and, after a great deal of heaving and cursing, the faded, dirt-covered coffin was hoisted out of the earth. Cranston thanked the labourers and told them to go and rejoin Father Odo. He pulled out his long dagger and began to prise open the coffin lid. Athelstan watched attentively as the clasps were broken. The lid creaked open slowly, almost as if the person inside was pushing it up and threatening to rise. He pushed his hands inside his sleeves, closed his eyes and muttered a prayer.
It’s God’s justice, Athelstan thought. This is God’s work.
The last clasp broke free. Cranston lifted the tattered winding sheet. Athelstan opened his eyes as he heard Cranston’s gasp. The physician was kneeling beside the lid of the coffin, carefully examining the inside.
Athelstan drew a deep breath and walked over and looked down in the deep wooden coffin. The friar stared in stupefaction at the corpse’s face; fatty, white and waxy as if fashioned out of candle grease. Nevertheless, it was free of any corruption; the dead woman’s features were quite pretty, oval-shaped and regular, with a generous mouth and aquiline nose.
‘For God’s sake!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘She’s been dead three years! Corruption should have set in!’
CHAPTER 13
The physician touched the face carefully then ran his hand inside the coffin. When he brought it out Athelstan could see it was covered by fine red dust.
‘Nothing remarkable,’ the physician observed dryly. ‘You see, Brother, arsenic is a subtle deadly poison, particularly red arsenic. Its only weakness is that the corpse, after death, reveals the presence of this deadly substance for corruption is halted.’ He tapped the coffin. ‘I have seen such cases before. The fine red dust, the lack of putrefaction, indicates this poor woman was fed red arsenic over a considerable period of time.’
‘What happens now?’ Athelstan asked. He gestured at the corpse. ‘There’s our evidence.’
‘I will take an oath,’ the physician replied, ‘and so will Sir John and yourself about what we have seen here. That will satisfy any justice.’
‘In which case,’ Athelstan said, sketching a blessing in the air above the corpse, ‘may she rest in peace now that God’s justice and that of the King will be done.’
He and Cranston re-sealed the coffin. The labourers re-interred it and, after thanking a sleepy Father Odo as well as Master de Troyes, Cranston and Athelstan walked slowly back down the Ropery into Bridge Street. The cordwainers, ropemakers, the sellers of tents, string, hempen and flax, had put away their stalls. A street musician played bagpipes whilst a drunken whore cavorted in a crazy dance. The beggars, both real and professional, were crawling out of their hideaways, hands extended for alms, whilst a little old woman, a battered canvas bag in her hands, was busy sifting amongst the rubbish heaps.
The taverns were full as traders celebrated a week’s work, but after that eerie graveyard and the wickedness he had seen, Athelstan felt tired and depressed. From a casement window above him a baby cried and a young girl began to sing a lullaby, soft and sweet through the warm evening air.
‘We are surrounded by sin, Sir John,’ Athelstan sombrely remarked. ‘As in the blackest forest, everywhere we look we see the eyes of predators
.’
Cranston belched, stretched and clapped the friar on the shoulder.
‘Aye, Brother, and the evil buggers can see ours. Look, cheer up, murder runs in all our veins, Brother. You said that yourself: the Inghams, the bloody business of the Guildhall, and now the Hobdens. Life, however, is not only that. Listen to the mother singing to her baby. Or friends laughing in a tavern. What you need, Brother, is a cup of claret and a good woman.’ Cranston grinned. ‘Or perhaps, in your case, a really bad one!’
Athelstan smiled back but then his face became sombre again.
‘What shall we do about the Hobdens? We have no proof they killed Sarah.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Brother, you are not thinking straight. I can prove they did. The bitch Eleanor actually admitted, in my presence, that she tended to the sick woman. Who else would approach her? Do you Know what I think, my good monk?’ Cranston helped himself to another swig from the wineskin. ‘Walter Hobden is a man of straw who met and fell in love with the darling Eleanor. They then put their heads together. Walter began feeding his poor wife a few grains of arsenic. She falls ill and dearest Eleanor is brought in to tend to her. The poisoning continues apace.’
‘Wouldn’t the physician detect it?’
‘Not really. Increased stomach cramps, lackluster appearance. Anyway, the majority of physicians couldn’t tell their elbows from their arses!’ Cranston scratched his red, balding pate. ‘What the great mystery is, Brother, is how the young girl knew? Not only that her mother was poisoned but the actual potion used. Didn’t she say her mother told her in a dream?’
Athelstan nodded and shivered at the cold breeze wafting in from the river.
‘Do you believe that?’ Cranston urged.
