‘You presume right, Sir John,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘My good husband,’ she darted a venomous look at Alesia, ‘had grown tired of his life.’
‘And his marriage!’ Alesia snapped.
‘How dare you!’
‘Ladies!’ Cranston bellowed, turning to Crispin. ‘Tell me, why did he change now and not five years ago?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John.’
‘According to you,’ Cranston declared, ‘when he met the Wyvern Company on his journeys with the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s, he grew to hate them, what he saw, what he heard. .’
‘That’s not entirely true,’ Crispin spluttered. ‘Yes, he had little time for the Wyvern Company but he drew close to one of them, William Chalk. Sir Robert often sought Chalk’s company. They would walk in the gardens or stroll down to the watergate.’
‘Who else was he close to — you?’
‘My master kept his own counsel. He was secretive and prudent. He never discussed his personal thoughts with either me or his family. Isn’t that true?’ Crispin appealed to the others who loudly confirmed his words.
‘So he talked to Master Chalk and who else? I mean, if Sir Robert’s thoughts had turned to judgement and death, he must have had a confidant, a confessor?’
‘Richer,’ Crispin confirmed. ‘I know that. He was often closeted with him, to be shriven, to be set penances.’
‘Such as?’
‘Crawling to the rood screen every Friday, alms for the poor, Masses for the dead.’
‘And contributions to the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm?’
Crispin shrugged. ‘Every powerful man in London did and does that.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Merchants are different.’ Crispin was agitated. ‘He only gave them money for the relief of the poor.’
‘You mean a bribe, so that when the doom arrived, this mansion would not be burnt around your heads. Tell me, is there anyone who wanted Sir Robert dead, who would profit from his murder?’
‘My father was much loved.’
‘Mistress, we all are, once we are dead.’
‘Sir John. .’
‘Don’t “Sir John” me,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Are the seals on Sir Robert’s chamber still unbroken?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why didn’t he want to take the Passio Christi himself to St Fulcher’s?’
‘We have answered that,’ Alesia replied. ‘My father grew tired, weary of it all. He was old. The journey, especially during winter, was hard.’
‘No.’ Cranston shook his head. ‘It was more than that.’
‘If it was we didn’t know. He didn’t tell us.’
‘Is that so, Master Crispin? By the way, why was the bloodstone taken at Easter and on the feast of St Damasus?’
‘Well, Easter celebrates Christ’s Passion and Resurrection; the bloodstone was said to have originated during those three days.’
‘And St Damasus?’
‘A pope of the early church who wrote an extensive treaty on the Passio Christi, its origins, power and the miracles it worked.’
‘And where’s that?’
Crispin blew his cheeks out. ‘Still held by the monks of St Calliste near Poitiers, or so I believe but,’ he hurried on, ‘that’s why Damasus’ feast day was chosen.’
‘There is something very wrong here,’ Cranston declared. ‘Item,’ he emphasised his points with his fingers. ‘Sir Robert, God assoil him, was a hard-headed merchant. Years ago he financed the Wyverns, a marauding free company in France. He took a share of their plunder. Yes?’
No one objected.
‘Item: He held the Passio Christi for years. He’d heard the accepted story but he must have also entertained the accepted doubts. Item: Sir Robert also knew the Wyverns for years? He apparently suffered no scruples. But then, during his visits to St Fulcher’s, he radically changes. He cannot tolerate the Wyverns.’
‘The influence of Richer,’ Alesia broke in.
‘Mistress, with all due respect — nonsense. A young French monk from St Calliste? Your father was a very shrewd merchant. He would expect Richer to be biased. No.’ Cranston returned to his argument. ‘Item: Sir Robert was influenced, like the astute man he was, by something he didn’t realize before, hence all my questions.’
‘True, true.’ Alesia sighed. ‘Recently, I’d often come into my father’s chamber. He’d be sitting at his chancery desk, nibbling as he so often did at the plume of his pens, the other hand smoothing the wood. He’d be lost in thought as if he was experiencing a vision.’
‘What was that vision?’ Cranston asked.
The household just stared back at him, shaking their heads.
Cranston shuffled his feet. He was finished here. He felt he had only been told what they wanted to tell him. He rose, gathered his possessions and insisted on checking the seals on Kilverby’s chamber. Crispin took him there. The coroner scrutinized the large wax blobs bearing the imprint of the city arms. Flaxwith, as usual, had done a thorough job. The chamber and all the mysteries it held was still securely sealed. Crispin escorted him out but, just before he opened the main door, Cranston grasped the clerk’s arm.
‘The Passio Christi, could it be sold on the open market?’
‘No.’ Crispin gently freed himself from Cranston’s grip. ‘What buyer could ever realize gold and silver on it? He’d certainly risk detection. If he took it abroad the same would happen. Sir John, no merchant would risk sacrilege by buying a sacred relic owned by another, especially the likes of His Grace, John of Gaunt.’
Cranston grunted his agreement and donned both hat and cloak. He strolled out into the icy darkness, smiling to himself as Crispin slammed the door noisily behind him. The coroner had only walked a few paces from the main gate, the porter’s farewells ringing in his ears, when a group of hooded, masked men burst out from an alleyway, sconce torches held high. Cranston threw his cloak back, drew sword and dagger, quickly edging round to have the wall against his back.
‘Good evening. Not me, gentlemen, surely,’ he said hoarsely. ‘The King’s own coroner? Not here where I will cry “Harrow” and rouse the good citizens.’
The men, five in all, formed an arc blocking his way. None had drawn their weapons.
‘Sir John, Sir John, my Lord Coroner.’ The voice of the man in the middle was gentle. ‘ Pax et bonum, sir. We have no quarrel with you — well, not yet, not here.’
‘So you’ve come to praise me, to wish me well?’ Cranston raised both sword and dagger. ‘Who are you — envoys from the Upright Men?’
‘Two items, Sir John. The Dominican Athelstan. He’s at St Fulcher’s because of the deaths of those former soldiers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And their assassin?’
‘We don’t know who yet, perhaps you or someone you’ve hired.’
‘Everybody is for hire and yes, we have friends in St Fulcher’s but they know little.’
‘So why ask me?’
‘For our own secret purposes as well as to assure ourselves that the Dominican is safe. His parishioners. .’
‘You mean your adherents who happen to be his parishioners?’
‘His parishioners are worried. They want to be assured that he’s there for a good purpose. Rumour has it that His Satanic Grace, our so-called Regent, has exiled him.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘We have your word on that? Athelstan’s parishioners do seek reassurance.’
‘You have my word, now get out of my way.’
‘Secondly, Coroner,’ the man’s voice remained conversational, ‘we would like you to take a message to my Lord Abbot.’
‘Go hire Mulligrub or Snapskull. I’m not your scurrier.’
‘Please tell our Lord Abbot when you meet him that his payments are long overdue.’
‘Payments for what?’
‘He’ll know and, I guess, so do you, Sir John. We bid you goodnight.’ The five men swiftly withdrew back up the alleyway.
Cranston remained where he was — pursuit would be highly dangerous. He sheathed his weapons and stared up at the sky. He certainly would have words with Lord Walter. As for those rapscallions at St Erconwald’s, they wanted reassurance? Well, Cranston smiled to himself, tomorrow was Sunday and such reassurance would be his gift.