by Paul Doherty
‘What will happen to them?’ Athelstan Asked.
‘Not what they deserve,’ Cranston growled ‘The carts full of their so-called relics will be taken down to London Bridge to be burnt by the public hangman. After that our two beauties will be whipped to Aldgate, cut loose and banned from the city, under pain of forfeiture of a limb for the first offence, their lives for the second.’ Cranston gazed over the crowd, now yelling abuse as the carts disappeared up the Mercery. ‘It’s a lesson for the others which by tomorrow they will undoubtedly have forgotten.’
They continued across Cheapside, the little armourer drawing Cranston back into an acrimonious debate over the superiority of certain weapons At the Guildhall they had to cool their heels for a while before a tipstaff took them up to the council chamber where Gaunt, flanked by Clifford and Hussey, sat with the Guildmasters. The Regent dispensed with ceremony. Not even inviting them to sit, whilst he looked disdainfully at the little armourer. Simon was so overcome in the presence of such august personages he couldn’t stop bobbing and bowing, until Cranston hissed at him to stay still and stand by the door.
‘You have something to report, My Lord Coroner?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
Gaunt played with the leather tassels on his expensively quilted jacket. Athelstan could see that the Regent had been looking forward to a morning’s hunting in the fields and marshes north of Clerkenwell, Hussey was his usual diplomatic self, pleasant-faced but quiet. Clifford rubbed his wounded shoulder thoughtfully, whilst the Guildmasters were like a pack of hunting dogs: Goodman the Mayor tapping his fingers loudly on the table. Sudbury and the rest were arrogant and resentful at being summoned from a morning’s trade.
‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘We are busy men, Sir John!’
‘As am I, My Lord Mayor.’
‘You have come earlier than we thought,’ Sudbury snarled. ‘Do you have our gold?’
Cranston shook his head.
‘Have you arrested Ira Dei?’
‘No.’
Gaunt leaned forward and smiled falsely.
‘So why in God’s name are we here, Sir John?’
‘Perhaps to arrest a murderer, Your Grace. All entrances to the Guildhall must be secured.’
Gaunt stared back, a spark of interest in his eyes as he realized this was to be no ordinary meeting.
‘You have discovered something, haven’t you?’ he said softly. ‘You and your little friar.’
The atmosphere in the chamber changed dramatically. They’d dismissed us as failures, Athelstan thought to himself. These arrogant hawks thought a fat Coroner and his dusty friar too dim-witted to search out the truth. He breathed deeply to control his anger. Gaunt sat back and spread his hands.
‘Sir John, in this matter we are your prisoners.’ He glared over his shoulders and bellowed at a captain of the guard standing against the wall behind him: ‘Have the Guildhall secured! No one is to leave or enter until I say.’ He looked at Cranston, ‘What else do you need, My Lord Coroner?’
Athelstan spoke instead. ‘I want the banqueting table laid out, as it was the night Fitzroy died.’
Gaunt nodded. ‘And what else?’
‘I want cushions and bolsters where Sir Gerard Mountjoy the Sheriff was sitting. The garden must be cleared.’
Gaunt smiled. ‘And finally?’
‘Until I and Sir John have finished, Your Grace, I would be grateful if you would all stay here.’
A hubbub of protest broke out but Gaunt slammed the table top for silence, his face flushed.
‘A few days ago,’ he roared,’ I came to this Guildhall to seal a pact of friendship between myself and the city. The deaths of Fitzroy, Mountjoy and Sturmey put an end to that. Sirs, you will wait until this business is finished.’ He jabbed a finger at Cranston. ‘And, My Lord Coroner, God help you if you are wasting my time!’
The servants were summoned. Gaunt gave his instructions. Athelstan led Cranston and the trembling armourer out of the chamber, down the stairs and into the small pentice which connected the kitchens to the Guildhall. Athelstan tried to curb his excitement as he peered through the gaps in the paling, watching the servants place the cushions and bolsters as he had ordered. From where he stood he could see through the gaps that they were piled high on the very spot Sir Gerard had been murdered. He waited until the servants had gone back to the Guildhall then smiled at the armourer.
‘Well, Simon, now’s your opportunities to prove our theory correct.’
The armourer placed his sack on the ground, taking out an arbalest or crossbow. The gulley where the bolt would be slipped had been specially widened. He then took a long dagger, identical to the one found in Mountjoy’s chest. He placed this carefully in the deepened groove and slowly winched back the powerful cord.
‘Very good,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Now, Simon, try and shoot the dagger from the arbalest into the centre of the top cushion, the green-fringed one.’
Cursing and muttering, Simon lifted the crossbow and released the dagger. It sped like a stone from a sling but the aim was wrong and the dagger struck the wooden fence, narrowly missing the cushions. Cranston, huffing and puffing, went to fetch it, bringing it back and telling Simon to steady himself or they would all spend the next week in Newgate. Again he put the crossbow to the ground and winched back the powerful cord. The long dagger was inserted into the groove. He took careful aim and this time the dagger speed well and true, sinking deeply into the cushion, pinning it securely to the wooden fence behind. Cranston crowed in triumph and clapped his hands like a child.
‘It works!’ he said, ‘It works!’
He hurried back into the Guildhall, reappearing a few minutes later with Gaunt and the rest of his companions from the council chamber. Athelstan and the armourer, his crossbow back in the sack, stood by the wicket gate staring at the cushion.
‘What’s this nonsense?’ Goodman shouted.
‘You have brought us down here, Cranston to see a dagger driven into a cushion?’
Gaunt, however, pushed the gate open and walked in, putting his hand on the dagger and prising it gently loose I a small puff of dust and goose feathers.
‘You didn’t stab it, did you, Cranston?’
‘No, Your Grace,’ he replied. ‘The dagger was shot from a crossbow through the gaps in that fence.’
‘Can it be done?’ Denny exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes it can be done!’ Sudbury smiled sweetly at the Mayor, ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Christopher? You are a member of the Bowyers Guild.’
The mayor looked pale and rather shaken by Cranston’s announcement.
‘Well?’ Gaunt glared at him.
‘Your Grace, it’s easily done,’ the man mumbled. He waved a hand. ‘This dagger is like the one which killed the sheriff, it has no hilt or cross guard; it can be shot from a crossbow if its groove has been deepened and widened. After all, it’s just an elongated bow and thus the dagger becomes an arrow.’
‘You see,’ Simon the armourer interrupted, but suddenly covered his mouth with his hand as he realized where he was. ‘Do it, Simon!’ Cranston urged gently. ‘Fire the dagger again!’ He hurried away. They saw him behind the pentice the cord twanged and again the dagger smacked into the cushions. You see,’ Cranston extended his hands. ‘Imagine, good sirs, Sir Gerard Mountjoy sitting in the afternoon sunshine enjoying his wine and the company of his bounds in his own private garden.’ He looked at Denny. ‘You saw him there. The Guildhall is quiet, everyone dozing or resting in the afternoon heat, but our assassin slips along the covered way. Beneath his cloak he has a crossbow, an arbalest, or some other type of bow specially bought for one purpose. The gap in the fencing there is wide enough. The assassin takes aim, Sir Gerard is killed immediately, the dagger piercing his heart — whilst the assassin has not had to enter the garden or pass the dogs. He slips away.’
‘I suspect,’ Cranston continued, ‘the assassin had practiced beforehand and so the murder was carried out in a matter
of seconds. The dogs hardly knew what had happened whilst Sir Gerard died almost instantly,’ He nodded as Athelstan grasped his sleeve and whispered in his ear.
‘And Fitzroy?’ Gaunt asked.
Cranston waited until Athelstan had disappeared through the Guildhall door.
‘Oh, Fitzroy’s murder was much more clever. We must return to the room where he died. However, the assassin who killed Mountjoy used the same method to murder Sturmey. That pathetic locksmith, for reasons I shall explain later, was lured down to the quayside at Billingsgate. He was waiting for someone. He walked up and down, anxiously wondering when the man who had been blackmailing him would arrive. But the murderer was already there, hidden between the stalls or behind one of the warehouses. Again the crossbow was lifted, dagger in place. One minute Sturmey was standing on the quayside, the next a dagger struck deep into his chest and tumbled him into the river. This explains why there were no reports of anyone being seen even within hailing distance of the murdered man.’
Gaunt stared at the Coroner, tapping his fingers on the broad leather hunting belt round his slim waist.
‘My lord Coroner, the banqueting chamber has been prepared. Our clerk, Brother Athelstan, has gone up. I expect he awaits us. You have explained the deaths of Mountjoy and Sturmey.’ He was going to speak further but caught Cranston’s warning glance so instead turned, dug into his purse and flicked a gold coin at the armourer who had returned to the garden.
‘You have earned that, fellow. Stay here until this business is finished. And when you leave, keep a still tongue in your head or I’ll see you have no head or tongue to wag!’
Simon the armourer fell to his knees, overcome by a mixture of gratitude and gear, whilst Cranston led the rest back into the Guildhall.
CHAPTER 14
Athelstan was waiting for them in the banqueting chamber. The steward had laid out the tables as on the night of Fitzroy’s murder, a silver trencher at each place. At Athelstan’s request, Gaunt, Hussey and the rest took their seats. For a while there was some mumbling and muttering but Cranston’s lecture in the garden had made them fearful and apprehensive. Athelstan, who sat where Fitzroy had, smiled at Goodman on his left and Denny on his right. He allowed the murmur of conversation to die as Cranston turned to Lord Clifford Standing near the door.
‘My Lord, You can take Brother Athelstan’s seat.’ Cranston looked away, ‘On the night Fitzroy died, I know you were absent.’
The young nobleman, toying nervously with the hilt of his dagger, quietly obeyed. Athelstan once more peered round the room; two of the Guildmasters had already fallen into his small trap. Gaunt banged the table top, demanding they should continue, and Athelstan got to his feet.
‘Your Grace, the night Fitzroy died, we were, I believe, in the middle of a splendid banquet?’
‘A perceptive observation.’ Gaunt replied tartly.
‘No, Your Grace, it is important. Tell me,’ Athelstan continued, ‘had we finished the banquet?’
Gaunt wriggled in his seat, ‘Of course not. The main course had been served and the cooks were preparing dessert when Fitzroy brought matters to a macabre conclusion.’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan said, ‘I had forgotten about that until the other day when I ate a plum.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Denny snarled. ‘Don’t pose riddles Brother!’
‘No, I did,’ Athelstan continued softly. ‘I ate a sugared plum. I was embarrassed because the sugar and honey syrup stuck to my gums and teeth. I had to prise bits loose from my mouth. S I washed my hands in a bowl of water, I suddenly realized the last time I’d had so much sugar on my fingers was when I examined Fitzroy just after he died. I wondered why the dead Guildmaster had so much sugar in his mouth when dessert had not even been served.’ He starred around the quiet room. ‘Your Grace, sirs, think back on what we ate that evening. Can any of you remember eating anything coated with thick sugar and syrup?’
‘Fitzroy could have eaten something before he came to the banquet.’ Hussey spoke defensively,
‘No, No,’ Athelstan replied, ‘We have already established that if Fitzroy had eaten such a poison beforehand, he would have died with the hour.’ Athelstan smiled as another of his listeners fell into his trap.
‘What do you mean?’ Gaunt snapped.
‘I mean, Your Grace that we established that Fitzroy did not take the poison before the meal. We also established that nothing he ate or drank at the banquet was poisoned. Yet,’ Athelstan continued, ‘Fitzroy was certainly poisoned in this room because he ate something none of us did.’
‘What?’ Hussey exclaimed, leaning forward, ‘Enough riddles, Brother.’
‘Fitzroy was poisoned by someone who knew he had a sweet tooth. Indeed, Fitzroy had an appetite for sugar. Some even called him a glutton. What I think happened is this. Someone who knew where Fitzroy was going to sit, placed a sweetmeat, something very sweet, beneath his silver plate before the banquet began. Only the cloying sugar helped hide the fact that this sweetmeat was soaked in poison. It was that sugar which I detected in the dead man’s mouth. I suspect this is how Fitzroy was killed.’
‘Nonsense!’ Goodman exclaimed his arrogant face now white and pale. ‘Wouldn’t Fitzroy think it strange?’
‘No.’ Athelstan replied,’ First, he had come to a banquet. Perhaps he thought a servant had dropped it or left it there as a small treat for him. Second,’ Athelstan smiled,’ you have all sat down. Before you on the table is a small trencher. Beside each of these, before you entered, I placed a sweetmeat. How many of you ate that sweetmeat? Popped it absentmindedly into your mouths?’
Denny, Goodman and Bremmer smiled in embarrassment.
‘How do you know it wasn’t poisoned?’ Cranston barked, enjoying the look of stupefaction on their faces. He lumbered to his feet. ‘You did what any person might do, seated at a table waiting for a meal. You found something nice and popped it into your mouth. Fitzroy was no different. Indeed, with his appetite, he could scarcely resist.’
‘Yes, but who placed it there?’
The atmosphere chilled as Gaunt’s question hung like the sword of Damocles above them, Cranston pointed to Lord Adam Clifford.
‘You, sir, are a traitor, a liar and a murderer! I accuse you of maliciously causing the deaths of Sir Fitzroy, Peter Sturmey and Sir Gerard Mountjoy!’
Clifford sprang to his feet, his eyes wide with anger, his face suffused by rage. ‘You fat old fool!’ he yelled. ‘How dare you?’
Gaunt sat back in his chair, looking as if he had been pole-axed, whilst the Guildmasters started unbelievingly at Cranston. Clifford advanced threateningly towards the Coroner, hand on his danger. Sir John drew his own sword but the captain of Gaunt’s guard moved swiftly between the two men.
‘Lord Adam, I suggest you sit down,’ the solider said softly. He looked over his shoulder at his master. Gaunt had now regained his composure and nodded silently. His eyes never leaving his young lieutenant.
Sit down, Adam.’ He said quietly.’ My Lord Coroner, continue. But if his allegation is false, you shall answer for it.’
‘I will answer to God,’ Cranston retorted. He started round the assembled men. ‘Now let me tell you a story,’ he began, ‘of a kingdom where the prince is a mere child and all power rests with his uncle, the Regent. In the absence of a strong ruler, factions emerge, jostling for power. At court the nobles become immersed in deadly rivalries; in the city powerful burgesses vie for power. Outside in the countryside the labourers mutter treason, forming secret covens and groups to plot treasonable rebellion.’
‘Be careful, Sir John!’ Gaunt snapped.
Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed that Cranston would not go too far.
If I tell a lie,’ Sir John answered,’ let someone here contradict me,’ Cranston gazed round the Guildmasters but they were silent as was Clifford who now sat with beads of sweat running down his face.
‘A leader emerges.’ Cranston continued, ‘a mysterious man who calls hims
elf Ira Dei, the Anger of God. He directs the Great Community of the Realm, the secret council of peasant leaders. They do not know who he is, nor does anyone else. He comes and goes, sowing the seeds of dissension. Now things change. His Grace the Regent here decides to form a bond of amity with the leading merchants of London. Ira Dei wishes to frustrate this so he looks for a traitor close to the Regent. He finds him in My Lord Clifford, a young man who has not forgotten his humble beginnings, or at least those of his family. And Clifford, either for idealism or for personal profit or for both, agrees to be Ira Dei’s agent in bringing my Lord of Gaunt’s plans to nothing.’
‘A lie!’ Clifford shouted, though the tremor in his voice did little to convince any of his companions, who gazed stonily back.
‘Now my Lord of Clifford’s father,’ Cranston continued, ‘was a captain of archers, a skilled bowman — a skill he passed on to his son Adam. On the afternoon Sir Gerard Mountjoy dies, Clifford brings a hunting bow or converted arbalest and, when everyone is either resting or involved in their own affairs, slips like the shadow of death along the pentice. He shoots the dagger, Mountjoy dies in mysterious circumstances, and we become engrossed in the riddle of how he died rather than considering why or who did it.’ Cranton helped himself to a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘The following evening, the assassin strikes again.’
‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted. ‘Don’t you remember, Sir John, Lord Clifford was absent from the banquet?’
Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in firmly.’
Yes, he did say he had business elsewhere but not before he left the poisoned sweetmeat beneath Fitzroy’s plate.’
‘Of course!’ Gaunt got to his feet and pointed to his pale-faced lieutenant. ‘Adam, you were responsible for deciding who sat where, then you excused yourself, claiming pressing business in the city.’ Gaunt’s face became mottled with anger. ‘You were most insistent. My Lord Coroner is correct: not even I knew where everyone would sit. That was left to you and you told each of the guests.’
