by Paul Doherty
‘Sir John, every morning I take a piece of bread and, according to faith, turn it into the risen body of Christ. I believe that. A baby is born in Bethlehem who is both man and God, and I believe that. The same boy becomes a man who is crucified but rises in glory from the dead, and I believe that.’ Athelstan looked squarely at the Coroner. ‘And I am told that the Spirit blows where it will and that God’s justice will be done. And so, My Lord Coroner, if I can believe all that, I can believe young Elizabeth’s story. The human mind is subtle, Sir John. Perhaps she had her suspicions and so the seed was sown.’
Athelstan blew out his cheeks. ‘God knows what happened then. All her life centred on the fact that her mother had been poisoned and so she entered in to an alliance with her old nurse. Perhaps the latter knew something of potions. Whatever, they devised their little game to force the weak-willed Walter into confession or at least remorse. Anyway, what shall we do now, Sir John?’
‘Oh, I’d let them stew in their juice for a few days. Meanwhile, I’ll visit the girl at the Minoresses.’
‘Thank you, Sir John, and then?’
‘As I said, I’ll return home and swear out a warrant for the arrest of Walter and Eleanor Hobden. My constables can serve it, and before they are much older the Hobdens will both stand trial before the King’s Justices at Westminster.’
Athelstan thanked him again, assuring the Coroner that he would study all the evidence regarding the murders at the Guildhall, and so they parted, Cranston going up to the Minoresses and Athelstan turning down towards London Bridge.
‘Ite missa est.’ Athelstan extended his hand in blessing at the end of the Sunday Mass. He smiled as those of his congregation who knew a little Latin shouted back ‘ Dei gratia ’.
Athelstan went down the altar steps, genuflected and followed Crim into the sacristy then back out again to stand on the porch and to shake hands with his parishioners as they left. Watkin and Pike the ditcher stayed behind as he had asked them to before Mass. He said goodbye to Ranulf the rat-catcher, still full of glee at the way he had helped Cranston, Pernell the Fleming, Ursula and her sow, Tab the tinker and Cecily the courtesan, looking resplendent in a corn-coloured dress.
‘You have been behaving yourself?’ Athelstan asked her.
‘Of course, Father.’
So miracles do happen in Southwark, he thought. The last to leave was Jacob Arveld the German with his pleasant-faced wife and brood of children. An industrious parchment-seller, the German had soon settled down in his pleasant, three-storied house and garden just behind The Bishop of Winchester inn, though he was still having difficulty with the language.
‘Those were nice words,’ Jacob reassured Athelstan now. ‘A most precise sermon. I thank you from the heart of my bottom.’
‘Don’t you mean bottom of your heart?’
‘And that, too, Father.’
Athelstan smiled and watched his congregation gather in the alleyway around a small booth where Tab the tinker sold ale and sweetmeats. He walked back up the nave and into the sacristy where Watkin and his formidable wife, and Pike the ditcher and his equally redoubtable spouse, were waiting for him.
Oh, Lord, Athelstan prayed, please make this peaceful. He darted a glance at Pike whom he had secretly met before Mass: the ditcher, who considered himself in the priest’s debt, had quickly agreed that his son’s betrothal to Watkin’s daughter was the best thing possible. He had then attentively listened as Athelstan told him what he must say when they met Watkin.
‘Well, we are here, Father.’ Watkin shuffled his great dirty boots. ‘I know why you want to see us, though it seems we were the last to realize that our daughter is smitten with Pike’s son.’
‘Young man.’ Pike the ditcher’s spouse intervened.
‘I don’t like this at all,’ Pike the ditcher spoke up. ‘I see no future prospects in their being betrothed. My son should look further afield.’
‘What’s wrong with my daughter?’ Watkin’s wife snapped. ‘Do you think your son’s too good for her?’
Athelstan smiled to himself, stood back and watched Watkin and his wife launch the most vitriolic attack on Pike. After that there was little problem. Pike first reluctantly apologized and then, just as reluctantly, it seemed, agreed that the matter was settled; his son would marry Watkin’s daughter on the first Saturday after Easter. After that they crossed to the priest’s house to drink a cup of wine in celebration. Watkin swaggered in like some successful lawyer from the Inns of Court. He had extolled his family’s name, he had defended his daughter’s reputation, he had brought his great rival Pike the ditcher to book and made him accept what he proposed. Athelstan poured the wine, refusing to look Pike in the eye, and whilst they toasted the young couple, quietly prayed that Watkin would never discover how he had been tricked.
After they had left, Athelstan ate a little breakfast and walked back to the deserted church to say his office. He then cleared the table in the kitchen, laid out his writing implements: quill, ink horn, pumice stone and the roll of new parchment Cranston had given him. Once ready, Athelstan sat and wrote everything he and the Coroner had learnt about the Ira Dei: Mountjoy’s stabbing, Fitzroy’s poisoning and Sturmey’s sudden and violent death in Billingsgate. The day wore on. Athelstan paused to eat a little soup, some dried meat and bread. He crossed to the church to say prayers then walked through the graveyard reflecting on what he had written. He drew a fresh diagram of the Guildhall garden, a seating plan of the banquet where Fitzroy had died. Now and again he remembered some other items and made a neat insertion.
By dusk Athelstan believed he had written down everything he and Cranston had learnt and began studying his notes carefully. He smiled as he remembered his mother looking for a thread in an old cloak and, once she did, carefully teasing it out, unravelling the precious wool. However, there was no loose thread here.
‘Cold-blooded murder,’ Athelstan muttered to himself. ‘No crime of passion, no impetuous gesture which would betray the assassin.’ He listed no less than eight possible culprits whilst the identity of Ira Dei remained a mystery. Athelstan got up and stretched, lit the candles and built up the fire as Bonaventure slipped through the open window.
‘Good evening, my prince of the alleyways.’
The great tom cat stretched in front of the hearth, his little pink tongue darting in and out. He purred with pleasure as Athelstan brought out a pitcher of milk from the buttery and filled his battered, pewter bowl. The friar crouched down and stroked the one-eyed torn cat between the ears.
‘I wish you animals could talk,’ he muttered. ‘I wish I was like the great St Francis of Assissi and had the gift of conversing with God’s little creatures. What mysteries do you see, eh, Bonaventure? What wickedness do you glimpse as you hunt amongst the alleyways and runnels?’
Bonaventure kept lapping the milk, his tail twitching with pleasure. Athelstan rose, sipped from his tankard of beer and went back to his problem. Darkness fell, owls hooted from the cemetery and the friar’s irritation grew. He went back upstairs and collected the scroll he had taken from Cranston’s house about the investigation some fifteen years ago in which Sturmey had been involved. He went downstairs and carefully scrutinized the document, using his ruler so as to study each line.
‘Oh, Lord help me!’ he whispered. ‘Please, just one loose thread!’ Athelstan read on and then, in a corner of the margin of the manuscript where the scribe had made a little annotation, he found it. ‘Oh, Lord save us!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, of course!’
The friar extinguished the candle and trudged upstairs, lay down on the cot bed and stared up at the ceiling. On such a beautiful autumn evening, particularly a Sunday, he would usually be at the top of the church tower, scanning the stars and talking to Bonaventure about the theories of Roger Bacon. He had to confess, however, that a study of the human heart was more fascinating as he began to build a logical explanation which might flush out the murderer into God’s own light. His mind sifted the possibilit
ies till his eyes grew heavy. He drifted into a troubled sleep and a recurring nightmare of standing under the moonlight in the Guildhall garden.
He was sitting where Mountjoy had been and could see the assassin moving behind the fence paling. He tried to get up but realized he was fastened and unable to move. He knew the assassin was going to strike. Then Athelstan would turn, conscious of someone beside him, and see the greyish faces and red-rimmed eyes of a line of corpses: Mountjoy, Fitzroy, Sarah Hobden, whilst on a spike in the centre of the garden was the decapitated head of Jacques Larue, the French pirate. The corpses pressed against him, mouths gaping. Athelstan wanted to shove them away but was terrified of taking his eyes off the assassin lurking behind the fence.
At last he awoke, sweating and moaning. He swung his legs off the bed, breathing deeply to control his thudding heart. He looked through the window. The sky was already shot with red so he washed, changed and went down to the kitchen for something to eat. Eventually the terrors of the night faded as he sat before the rekindled fire, gently rocking in the chair with Bonaventure curled in his lap. Then he went back to his writing. At first slowly, then with greater vigour and speed as he drew up what he termed his bill of indictment against the assassin.
Outside the birds stirred, swooping and singing; the sun rose higher and stronger. Athelstan put down his pen and went across to the church to celebrate Mass. No one came. Crim, heavy-eyed, burst through the door just as he finished, shouting his apologies. The lad explained how both his family and that of Pike the ditcher had spent the previous evening celebrating the forthcoming betrothal. Athelstan reassured him all was well, took a penny from his pouch and led Crim out on to the porch of the church.
‘You know the Lord Coroner, Crim?’
‘You mean old Horse Crusher?’
‘No, Crim!’
‘Yes, Father, I know the Lord Coroner and where he lives.’
‘Well, go across and see him. Deliver this message. He is to meet me at The Holy Lamb of God.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Yes, just as the market opens. Also tell him to ask my Lord of Gaunt and the other nobles to meet us at the Guildhall at noon.’ He slipped the penny into the boy’s grimy hand and made him repeat his message three times. Crim faithfully did so, eyes closed in concentration, and then was off, running like a hare down the alleyway.
Athelstan went back into the church and crouched at the foot of one of the pillars. He’d be glad to have this business finished. He only hoped he was right. He had some proof but not enough: that would come when they were all assembled in the Guildhall though he would have to confess that the identity of Ira Dei was a mystery that had eluded him.
Athelstan stared round the church. He really would have to catch up on parish business. Huddle had not finished his painting above the baptismal font, whilst Cecily had not cleaned the church for days. Athelstan closed his eyes. If only he could persuade someone to buy stained glass for one of the windows. Some brilliant picture like those he had seen in the well-patronized London churches. A story from the life of Christ or even that of St Erconwald, portrayed in great detail so he could refer to it when he gave his sermons.
His mind wandered. He hoped Elizabeth Hobden would be safe with the Minoresses, and had Cranston issued the warrants for the arrest of her father and stepmother? Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. Returning to the priest’s house he cleared the table, packed the leather bag with his writing implements and went out to saddle a rather surly Philomel.
He rode down to London Bridge, past the one-storied tenements of many of his parishioners. He resisted the temptation to ride directly at Ursula’s great sow which was lumbering up the street, its ears flapping, probably heading direct for Athelstan’s garden patch. The friar stopped beside a small ale-house where Cecily sat, legs pertly crossed, deep in conversation with Pike the ditcher. Athelstan handed him the keys to the church.
‘Cecily,’ he pleaded, ‘the church needs a good clean and I have paid you to do it.’
The girl’s child-like blue eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Father, I am sorry but…’
‘Cecily has been busy,’ Pike interrupted. ‘With Alberto.’
‘Who?’
‘A sailor from a Geneose cog berthed at Dowgate.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘Now he has gone, Cecily is back with us and the church will be clean.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘Did you like him, Cecily?’
‘Oh, yes, Father. He promised he’d be back within two months.’
Athelstan nodded and urged Philomel forward. Aye, he thought, poor Cecily. Cranston would say: ‘Alberto would be back when Ursula’s sow takes flight.’ He patted Philomel’s neck.
‘We are the poor, Philomel,’ he whispered, ‘remember that. And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.’
‘Are you talking to yourself, Father?’
Athelstan looked up. He’d passed the priory of St Mary Overy and was on the broad street leading down to the bridge. People were shoving and pushing around him and he couldn’t see the person who had spoken.
‘Father, it’s me.’
Athelstan stared down to where Burdon, the keeper of the gatehouse, stood almost hidden beneath Philomel’s muzzle.
‘No, Master Burdon, just praying,’ he lied.
The manikin slipped towards him. ‘Where’s Sir John? Oh, don’t tell me, deep in his cups in some city tavern. What about my heads?’
‘What about them?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Have more gone?’
‘No.’ The little man squared his shoulders. ‘But them that’s gone should come back.’
‘Well, I’ll see Sir John about that.’
‘Good! And tell him to stop by soon. My wife is expecting another child.’
Athelstan waved and urged Philomel on. He didn’t want Burdon to see the surprised grin on his face for surely it was one of God’s great mysteries how such a little man could be the proud father of enough children to fill a choir stall?
London Bridge was packed with carts and dray horses and Athelstan had to wait patiently, remembering not to look between the gaps at the seething river below. At last he was across, riding up Bridge Street, Lombard Street and then into bustling Cheapsidc.
Sir John, full of the joys of spring, had received Crim’s message and was seated in The Holy Lamb of God busily munching on a dish of eels and newly baked bread. He looked fresh and rested, and almost crushed Athelstan in his embrace.
‘I have said it once,’ the Coroner boomed, ‘and I’ll say it again! For a monk, you are not too bad!’ He held Athelstan at arm’s length. ‘Have some claret.’
‘No, Sir John.’
‘You’ve discovered the murderer?’ Cranston whispered.
‘You have sent the message to the Guildhall?’
Cranston nodded.
‘Then, Sir John, sit down and I’ll tell you what I think.’
Cranston sipped his drink whilst Athelstan developed his explanation. The Coroner asked a few questions then sat cradling his tankard, staring out into Cheapside.
‘Are you sure, Brother?’
‘Not fully, but it’s the only logical conclusion.’
‘How do we know the person you name might not be Ira Dei?’
‘I doubt that, Sir John, but it’s possible.’
‘But could someone use a dagger like that? No, no.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘On second thoughts, it could be done. Let me take you to Simon the armourer. Our comrades of the Guildhall are not to meet us until noon, yes?’
Athelstan nodded. Cranston heaved his great bulk up and swaggered out into Cheapside and up Friday Street. The houses crowded together here; shop signs jutting out on poles swung dangerously above people’s heads. Cranston stopped under a gaudily painted picture of a steel basinet and a pair of gauntlets.
‘Let’s have a word with old Simon.’
Despite its narrow frontage, inside the shop was large and cavernous. In the back yard beyond was a small smithy, where sweating apprentices brought pieces of
metal from the roaring fires and placed them on anvils to hammer with all their might. A small rubicund man appeared as if from nowhere. He reminded Athelstan of a goblin with his bright, darting eyes, thin hair and long, pointed ears.
‘Sir John!’ The little man’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit as he surveyed the portly bulk of the Coroner. ‘You have come to buy armour?’
The little man wetted his lips as he calculated the fee for protecting such a wide girth in chain mail and plate armour. For a while Cranston teased him but then clapped the little fellow on the shoulder, almost driving him into the ground.
‘Nonsense, Simon, and you know it. My fighting days are over. This is Athelstan, my clerk.’ He waved one podgy hand airily. ‘And he has a theory. Explain!’
Athelstan did so. Simon heard him out, pulled a face and shrugged.
‘Of course.’
He went into the back of the shop, opened a huge chest and became involved in a heated discussion with Cranston over daggers, dirks, Italian stilettos, long bows, crossbows and arbalests. An apprentice was called in to demonstrate the proof of Simon’s argument. An hour later Cranston, Athelstan and the little armourer, a leather sack over his shoulder, walked back into Cheapside, heading directly for the Guildhall. Athelstan stopped at a baker’s to buy some marzipan and doucettes wrapped in a linen bag. They had also to pause as beadles led a line of malefactors and felons from the Newgate and Fleet prisons to be punished.
There was the usual despondent procession of footpads, felons, night-walkers, but then came a cart preceded by two musicians playing bagpipes — a jaunty skittish tune. Then a horse and cart, the latter filled with all forms of grisly objects which made the air stink like a sewer and provoked cries of outrage and clamour from the crowd. At the tail of the cart were the two relic-sellers Cranston had arrested the previous day. The men’s faces were bloody, their tousled hair covered in all sorts of filth as the crowd pelted them with offal and refuse.
Cranston grinned. Athelstan felt a twinge of compassion, for both men had their hose pulled around their ankles whilst their bare buttocks were sore and bleeding as two beadles lashed them with thick leather belts. Behind the malefactors another official walked with a gaudily painted proclamation describing ‘The horrible crimes of these two counterfeit men’.
