‘Good morrow, Sir John.’
The coroner, full of self-pity, looked at his secretarius, who slipped on to the bench opposite him.
‘You are in poor spirits, Sir John?’
‘Bloody murder!’
‘You mean the business at Queen’s hithe?’
‘No, there have been burglaries in the streets around Cheapside. Always the same pattern. A deserted house is robbed but the felon leaves no sign of any forced entry or exit. Last night there was another one, in Catte Street. I have just been down to the Guildhall. A group of angry aldermen gave me and under-sheriff Shawditch the rough edge of their tongues!’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Anyway, what do you want, Brother?’
‘Emma Roffel came to see me. She was shocked about what had happened to the corpse of her husband and by the rumours that he had been murdered. She’s at the funeral now.’
‘We’ll deal with my troubles first,’ Cranston muttered.
He grabbed his cloak and trudged out of the tavern across Cheapside, so sullen, he ignored the usual banter and good-natured abuse hurled at him.
‘Sir John, is this so serious?’ Athelstan asked, hurrying beside him.
‘Never forget, Brother. The city council pays my salary. I am friendly to all of them but ally to none. Sometimes I think they’d like to remove me.’
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan protested.
‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ the coroner said dolefully. ‘And how’s your bloody parish?’
‘My bloody parish is fine, preparing for the play.’ Athelstan seized Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, pause a minute.’
Under his thick beaver hat, the coroner’s fat, usually cheery face now looked so mournful that Athelstan had to bite his lip to hide his smile.
‘Sir John, will you be in our play?’
He caught the flicker of amusement in the coroner’s eyes.
‘As what?’
‘Satan.’
Cranston stared at him, threw his head back and roared with laughter. He clapped the friar so vigorously on the shoulder that Athelstan winced.
‘Of course I bloody will! I’ll even buy my own costume. Now come on!’
He led Athelstan up a lane and stopped before the main door of a grand four-storeyed house.
‘Who lives here?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A big fat merchant,’ Sir John replied. ‘He made a fortune in the wine trade and is now absent from the city visiting friends and relations.’
Cranston hammered on the door. A pale-faced servant opened it. Sir John roared who he was and marched straight in. Shawditch was already in the large, white-washed kitchen questioning the servants, who sat, anxious-faced, around the great fleshing table. Cranston introduced Athelstan, who shook the under-sheriff’s hand.
‘Well, what happened?’ the coroner snapped.
‘The same as ever, Sir John, with one difference. Last night some footpad entered the house. God knows how – the doors were barred and the windows shuttered. He stole precious objects from the upper floors. Unfortunately a linen-maid, Katherine Abchurch, had fallen asleep in one of the chambers. She woke after dark, opened the door and surprised the intruder, who promptly stabbed her to death.’
‘And then?’
‘Disappeared leaving no trace of how he left or how he entered.’
Cranston nodded towards the servants. ‘And you have questioned all of these?’
They can all account for their movements. In fact, the steward here noticed Katherine was missing and went looking for her.’
Athelstan beckoned the under-sheriff closer. ‘Is there anyone here who had anything to do with the previous burglaries?’ he asked.
Shawditch shook his head. ‘No one.’
‘And you are sure that all the entrances and exits were sealed?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Ah well, let’s see for ourselves,’ Cranston said. ‘Come on, Shawditch.’
The under-sheriff led them along a corridor and up a broad staircase where the oak gleamed like burnished gold. The walls were panelled and the plaster above them painted a soft pink. Heraldic shields hung there and, on one wall, the head of a ferocious-looking boar had been mounted on a wooden plaque. On the second floor just outside a chamber, Katherine Abchurch lay where she had fallen, a woollen blanket tossed over her. Athelstan looked around the corridor. He saw chamber doors, the staircase at the far end and a table with dusty rings on it.
‘Something was stolen from here?’
‘Yes,’ Shawditch replied, then jumped at a loud knocking on the door downstairs.
‘That will be beadle Trumpington,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him to wait below.’
He hurried down the stairs. Cranston and Athelstan pulled back the blanket and stared at Katherine’s mortal remains.
‘God save us!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘She’s only a child.’
He saw the bloody puncture marks on the girl’s dress and his heart lurched with compassion at the terror still frozen on her face. ‘God rest her!’ he said softly. ‘And God punish the wicked bastard who did it!’
He replaced the blanket tenderly, covering the girl’s face. ‘My mind’s a jumble of problems but I will do all I can to bring this assassin to justice!’
Shawditch rejoined them.
‘Let’s inspect the house,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Every floor, every room.’
‘I have asked for all the chambers to be opened,’ Shawditch said.
‘Then let’s begin.’
There was a look of cold determination on Athelstan’s usually gentle face as he moved from room to room. It reminded Cranston of a good hunting dog he had owned as a boy. Athelstan’s irritation at not being able to find any clue, however, grew as they reached the top floor.
‘Nothing,’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Nothing at all.’
They went into the garret, which was dark and chilling – only the beams and the tiles above separated them from the cold. Athelstan kicked among the rushes on the floor.
‘No window. No opening.’ He crouched down and felt the rushes. They were cold and damp to his touch. He walked into the corner of the room and felt the rushes there. He came back shaking his head. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’
They returned to the kitchen, where Trumpington the beadle was holding court before the great roaring fire.
‘Sir John, Master Shawditch, have you found anything?’ The beadle’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Athelstan. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Brother Athelstan, my secretarius,’ Cranston replied.
Athelstan stared at the beadle. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘But you, good sir, could do me a favour.’
‘Anything you ask, Father.’
‘But, first, one question.’
‘Of course.’
‘You patrol the streets. You noticed nothing wrong?’
‘Father, if I had I’d have reported it.’
Athelstan smiled.
‘And the favour, Father?’
‘I want you to get a tiler, a good man.’
‘I’ve done that already,’ Trumpington said.
‘To check this house?’
‘No, but he checked all the others and found nothing amiss.’
‘Well, ask him to check again. See if any tiles have been removed. If he finds any aperture we have missed, report your findings to the coroner.’
‘Is that what you want, Sir John?’ Trumpington asked pointedly, throwing a look of disdain at the friar.
Sir John caught the tinge of contempt. ‘Yes it is. And do it quickly!’
They made their farewells and left the house.
‘Well, Brother, did you find anything?’ Cranston asked. Athelstan saw the expectation in his and Shawditch’s faces.
‘Nothing, Sir John.’
Cranston cursed.
There is one thing, though,’ Athelstan said. ‘Master Shawditch, a small favour?’
The under-sheriff looked at Cranston, who shrugged.
‘It’s nothing to do with this business,’ Athelstan went on, ‘but could you ask the boatmen along the Thames if they took anyone out to the ship God’s Bright Light two nights ago?’
‘I’ll do what I can, Father,’ Shawditch replied and hurried off.
‘What’s that all about?’ Cranston grumbled.
‘Well, let me tell you.’
Athelstan pulled Cranston into a small alehouse. Sir John needed no second invitation to refreshment – he immediately began shouting for a cup of claret and a piece of freshly roasted capon. Athelstan sipped at his ale as he watched the food restore Sir John’s good humour.