by Paul Doherty
Cranston nodded. ‘Of course, Hussey is in the saddle. Yes, yes,’ he continued excitedly. ‘The Regent hasn’t caused the problems but, when the revolt comes, Hussey will make sure Gaunt is the one held responsible. Richard, on the other hand, will play the role of the innocent young King, innocent of any crime, unable to control his wicked uncle.’
‘Precisely, My Lord Coroner. The revolt will end, Gaunt may go, and rebel leaders disappear. But the Crown will survive.’
Cranston took another swig from his wineskin and laughed sourly. ‘From the lies of princes,’ he whispered, ‘Lord deliver us. I’ll tell no one, Brother. But I’ll keep a sharp, wary eye on Sir Nicholas Hussey!’
‘Well, it’s over, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned, feeling the cold pillar against his hot cheek.
‘It’s never over, Brother. Do you remember Rosamund Ingham? Well, she’s committed suicide in the Fleet. Somehow or other some of the powder she denied to poor Oliver was smuggled in to help her escape the hangman’s noose. And it was all for nothing. I attended the reading of Ingham’s will.’
‘And?’
‘He left every penny to me. A mere pittance for his wife. His house, movables, gold and silver plate, all to poor Jack.’ Cranston wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Before God, I’d give it all back just to see Oliver’s face once more!’
‘And what will you do with the money, Sir John?’
‘Well, brighten up this Godforsaken place for one thing.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘A nice piece of stained glass, eh? A fitting memorial to old Oliver!’
‘Sir John, that would be a splendid gift.’
Cranston staggered to his feet and stretched. ‘And you, Brother, what will you do? Mind you,’ he blew out his cheeks, ‘we’ve got more murders: a taverner supposedly drowned in a vat of malmsey in a tavern in Carter Lane. A young wife in Shoe Lane, Farringdon found floating in a carp pond. And even worse…’
Yes, Sir John?’
‘My brother-in-law Ralph is about to descend on us next week. Lord, the ticklebrain will chatter like a garrulous squirrel!’
Athelstan smiled. ‘In which case, you’ll be by yourself, Sir John. My parishioners and I are going on a pilgrimage to the tomb of the Blessed St Swithun at Winchester.’
Cranston scratched his head. ‘Brother, you jest?’
‘Coroner, I don’t!’
Cranston helped Athelstan to his feet. ‘Come on,
Brother, let’s go and toast old Oliver, just once more, and tease that thieving bugger who owns The Piebald.’
Cranston listed rather dangerously so Athelstan slipped his arm through that of the Coroner and walked him slowly down the nave. Cranston stopped suddenly.
‘Did I ever tell you, Brother?’
‘What, Sir John?’
‘I have always had the deepest devotion to St Swithun…’
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