‘Naked we come into the world,’ that strange individual intoned, ‘and naked we shall surely leave.’ The Fisher smiled at the coroner. ‘Sir John, if there’s nothing else?’
Cranston and the Fisher of Men walked away from the rest, disappearing into one of the cottages. A short while later Cranston emerged carrying a scrap of parchment, a receipt for the exchequer to account for the monies he had paid to the Fisher of Men. Cranston, Athelstan and the rest clambered back into the barge and, with the cries of farewell from that bizarre community ringing out over the water, the ‘Charon of Hades’ as the barge was called, took them back along the river. Cranston however insisted that they stay close to the bank and pull into the narrow quayside close to ‘The Prospect of Heaven’. He asked them to wait, swiftly disembarked and strode off up the towpath towards ‘The Prospect’; its great timbered upper storeys and black slate roof could be clearly glimpsed from the barge. Wenlock and Mahant followed and, cloaks wrapped about them, walked up and down, whispering between themselves as they tried to keep warm. Athelstan studied both of these. The two old soldiers were unusually taciturn and withdrawn. Were they fearful, anxious? He tried to catch the essence of their mood, their souls. Would they also flee? But, there again, Osborne really hadn’t. He’d simply assumed his dead comrade’s name and moved a short distance down the river. Athelstan took out his Ave beads and fingered them. ‘The Prospect’ was an ideal place to hide. A ramshackle sprawling tavern along the Thames where merchants, travellers, pilgrims and river folk ebbed and flowed like the water itself. So, why had Osborne really left St Fulcher’s? What was he doing at that tavern? Why had he left? How had he been so swiftly overcome, his throat slashed, his corpse stripped of everything, his face pounded beyond recognition before being tossed like rubbish into the river?
Athelstan turned as Icthus and his oarsmen broke off from the hymn they were softly chanting and pointed excitedly as the war cog, its prow and stern richly gilded, sails billowing, the armour and weapons of its crew twinkling in the light, rounded a bend in the river. The cog, ‘The Glory of Lancaster’, was surrounded by small boats eager to sell provisions and even the joys of some whores gaudily bedecked and crammed into a skiff by an enterprising pimp. The sight of the cog made Athelstan think of Richer. Was the Frenchman responsible for Osborne’s death? Richer with his many emissaries from foreign ships? Had Richer persuaded Osborne to flee with a promise of safe passage abroad then killed him, but why? Was it to do with the truth behind the theft of the Passio Christi or even where it was now?
‘Nothing!’ Cranston almost jumped into the barge, hastily followed by Wenlock and Mahant.
‘Nothing at all.’ Cranston squeezed into the seat. ‘It’s as the Fisher of Men said. God save us, Athelstan, I tell you this.’ He raised his voice. ‘Osborne will be the last person to flee.’
On their return to St Fulcher’s Athelstan discovered the reason behind Cranston’s statement. The coroner had been busy and his messages into the city had borne fruit. The watergate and every entrance into the abbey were now guarded by royal archers, men-at-arms and mounted hobelars. The same, Cranston declared as he strode across Mortival meadow, patrolled the fields and woods beyond the abbey walls whilst the cog they’d glimpsed had taken up position off the abbey quayside.
‘There will be no more secret meetings, leaving or goings,’ Cranston insisted as they reached the guest house. ‘Everyone, and I mean everyone, will stay where they are.’ The coroner’s edict was soon felt. Cranston relaxed it a little, allowing carts of produce, visitors, beggars and pilgrims, as well as individual monks, to come and go but the royal serjeants had their orders. Everything and everyone were thoroughly searched. The protests mounted. Wenlock and Mahant tried to leave claiming they hoped to secure lodgings in the city along Poultry. Cranston refused them permission. Abbot Walter, still shocked and surprised at the truths he’d had to face as well as the death of his beloved Leda, retreated to his own chamber with his mistress and daughter. Prior Alexander and Richer, however, were furious. They both confronted Cranston and Athelstan as they broke their fast in the buttery. The two monks were joined by Crispin, who bleated he should journey back to the city, claiming he had urgent business with Genoese bankers in Lombard Street. Cranston heard them out, cleared his throat and ordered all three to shut up and listen.
‘You,’ he pointed with his finger, ‘all of you are suspects in this matter.’
‘How dare you?’ Richer’s handsome face reddened with rage. He fidgeted with the hilt of the silver dagger in its embroidered sheath on the cord around his waist.
‘Oh, I dare,’ Cranston replied evenly, ‘that’s the problem, my friends. This abbey is like a maze of alleyways. People scurry about bent on any mischief, even monks who go armed.’
‘I am fearful,’ Richer retorted, ‘the Wyverns hate me. Men are being murdered.’
‘Which is why you are all suspects?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Anyone associated with Sir Robert, the Passio Christi or the Wyvern Company must hold themselves ready for questioning either here or the Tower. That includes you, Master Crispin. I would like you to stay here at least for a day.’
‘Why?’ the clerk protested.
‘Because I am determined to finish these matters,’ Athelstan declared. ‘Don’t worry, this applies to everyone else. Sir John, I am sure, has issued instructions that all members of Sir Robert’s household be confined to their mansion.’
‘Are you so close to the truth?’ Prior Alexander asked.
‘Very close — we always were,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We are just frustrated by lies and evasions and that includes you again, Master Crispin. You knew full well that Sir Robert was spending lavishly, bribing the monks of St Fulcher to send back treasures to St Calliste, and that you and Sir Robert were once novices here. That Sir Robert was not going on pilgrimage but fleeing. I am sure all his accounts are in order.’
‘I don’t. .’
‘Please don’t lie,’ Athelstan warned. ‘Sir Robert was not coming back. He did not intend to leave the Passio Christi here but take it back to St Calliste himself, or so I suspect.’ Athelstan brought the flat of his hand down loudly on the table. ‘So yes, we may be close to the truth, though gaps remain. Consequently you will all stay here until we finish. Now, sirs, we would like to finish our meal. However, before I do, one last question, Master Crispin: what are you actually doing here?’ Athelstan jabbed a finger at him. ‘Again, no lies. You came to find out what was happening?’
Crispin nodded. ‘True,’ he sighed, ‘the mansion in Cheapside is now surrounded by archers. I had to discover what was going on.’
‘Now you have,’ Athelstan replied. ‘So, all of you, please go.’
‘Are we close to the truth?’ Cranston asked once their visitors had left.
‘Yes and no, my Lord Coroner. Yes in the sense that we have the keys but we don’t know which keys fit which locks. We are now dependant on time and three other factors: first, and I must reflect on this, a vigorous search of this abbey, including Richer’s chamber, might be of use. Secondly, matters proceed apace. Another bloodletting might take place and the killer might make a mistake.’
‘And the third?’
Athelstan took a deep breath. ‘God also demands justice. I pray he gives it a helping hand.’
Athelstan returned to his chamber whilst Cranston decided to visit the serjeants in change of the royal archers. The friar locked himself away listing time and again all he knew. He found it difficult to make any progress on the bloody affray here in the abbey except on two matters. First, when Hyde was murdered near the watergate, Richer ran back to see what had happened. Driven by his deep hatred for the Wyvern Company, the Frenchman thrust his sword deep into Hyde’s belly but. . Athelstan paced up and down. Surely Richer must have glimpsed the assassin who’d fled, certainly not through the watergate where Richer and the boatman were doing business, but across Mortival meadow, even if it was to hide in one of the copses? If the assassin had been one of the Wyvern Company, Richer would have been only too pleased to point the finger of accusation, so was it someone else? Someone he recognized? A monk from this abbey? Prior Alexander? Secondly, Athelstan could not forget the attack on him in the charnel house, the speed with which his assailant had opened the door and doused those sconce torches. As regards to Kilverby’s death and the disappearance of the Passio Christi? What if Kilverby himself had removed the Passio Christi, locked the coffer and put the keys back around his neck knowing full well the Passio Christi was safe elsewhere? Athelstan could make no sense of this so he returned to listing his questions, trying to construct a hypothesis which he could push to a logical conclusion. Frustration, however, got the better of him. Athelstan visited the church to pray and, when Cranston returned, listed his unresolved questions for the coroner.