‘You found what you wanted, Brother?’ she asked, stopping Cranston in mid-sentence.
Athelstan put the leather bag on the floor, undid the buckles and emptied the contents out. They were not much: a pair of knee-high, woollen stockings; a needle and some thread; a quill; an inkhorn; some unused scraps of parchment; a shirt; two rings, scratched and rather battered; a St Christopher medal; a small compass; and a calfskin-bound book of hours. Athelstan picked the book up, undid the catch and leafed through the yellowing pages.
‘His only legacy from his priesthood days,’ Emma explained. ‘Wherever he went, he always took that with him.’
‘Yet,’ Athelstan observed, ‘he was not a man of prayer and neither are you. Father Stephen at St Mary Magdalene regarded you as strangers.’
Mistress Roffel was about to reply when Cranston burped and emitted a loud snore. Athelstan looked at his fat friend, who slouched in the chair, nodding, his eyes closed.
‘Is Sir John well?’ Emma asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan replied sourly. ‘He’ll sleep like a babe and wake shouting for refreshment.’
The friar turned over the pages of the book, noticing how the blank pages at the end carried strange entries which could perhaps be accounts – sums of money, sometimes followed by the note ‘in S.L.’.
‘What are these?’ Athelstan asked.
‘God knows, Brother. My husband was a secretive man. I am still visiting the goldsmiths along Cheapside to discover where he banked his monies.’
Athelstan leafed over the pages and stopped to look at one fresh drawing; a squiggly line running across one page, small crosses carefully drawn alongside. The drawing looked fresh: the friar showed it to Mistress Roffel but she replied it made no sense to her. Athelstan sighed and placed the book back among the other possessions.
‘Your maid tells me that you are leaving the city,’ he said.
‘My maid knows too much for her own good,’ Emma retorted. ‘But, yes, once these matters are finished, I intend to collect my possessions, whatever monies my husband has left me, and return to Scotland.’
‘You hate London so much?’
They all turned, surprised to see Cranston awake, blinking and smacking his lips.
‘Do you hate London, mistress?’ the coroner repeated.
‘It holds bitter memories: it’s best if I forget the past.’
‘And you know nothing to resolve these mysteries?’ Cranston asked.
She shook her head.
‘And you, Sir John, do you know who murdered my husband and desecrated his corpse?’
Cranston lumbered to his feet, shaking his head.
‘No, mistress,’ he breathed. ‘However, if I do find out, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.’
They made their farewells and left the house. Both jumped as the Fisher of Men, with two of his gargoyles trailing behind him, slunk out of the shadows.
‘Satan’s futtocks!’ Cranston swore. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing, creeping up on good Christians like that?’
‘Sir John, you gave me and mine some money, so me and mine will earn it!’
‘What have you found?’
‘We saw the light gleaming.’ The Fisher of Men turned and patted one of his creatures.
‘Yes, I know about the lights!’ Cranston growled. ‘The ships pass signals between each other.’
‘Oh, no, not those. Something else. A lamp winked from the ship God’s Bright Light every hour until just before dawn and someone on the quayside answered it with a lamp.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘No, it was someone in the shadows. When we find out, Sir John, we’ll let you know.’ The Fisher of Men stepped back and disappeared as silently as he had arrived.
Athelstan, aware of the drizzle beginning to fall, pulled his cowl well over his head. ‘Bernicia said that,’ he remarked.
‘Said what?’ Cranston asked testily.
That there was someone in the shadows of the warehouses watching the ship.’
‘Satan’s balls! I have had enough of this!’ Cranston grumbled. ‘I’m hungry, I’m cold and wet!’
He stamped down the alleyway, Athelstan hurrying behind him. The coroner sped, direct as an arrow, past the door of his own house, across a deserted Cheapside and into the Holy Lamb of God. He stopped abruptly, Athelstan almost colliding with him. Cranston glared angrily at the two men dressed in brown robes who sat at his favourite table.
‘Who the sod are you?’ Cranston snapped.
The men smiled in unison and waved them over to the waiting stools.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, please be our guests. We have already ordered blackjacks of ale.’
Cranston and Athelstan sat down as the landlord’s wife placed tankards before them.
‘Your good health, Sir John.’ The brown-robed men raised their tankards in a toast to the coroner.
Athelstan gazed at the strange pair. They looked like peas out of the same pod – merry-faced, balding, dressed the same, they seemed to do everything in unison. They would have passed as two merry monks from one of the city monasteries, with their soft skin and easy smiles, but for their eyes, hard and watchful. The friar shivered. These men were dangerous. They followed the coroner of London around the streets and did not give a damn. Now they sat waiting for him in his favourite tavern as if they knew his every movement.
‘Your names?’ Cranston growled.
‘Oh, you can call me Peter,’ the taller of the two replied. He smiled at his companion. ‘And that is Paul.
Yes, call us Peter and Paul, the holders of the keys. What a nice touch!’
‘I could call you a lot of things,’ Cranston said grimly.
‘But you wouldn’t, Sir John,’ the one who had been given the name Paul replied. ‘We are like you; we may not be Children of the Light but we are their servants.’ He turned and smiled cheerily at Athelstan. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you, Brother?’
Cranston swung his cloak back, touching the long stabbing dirk sheathed in his belt. Peter watched the movement, grinned and held his soft, white hands up in a gesture of peace.
‘Sir John,’ he lisped. ‘You are in no danger. We only wish to help.’
‘What with?’ Cranston snapped. ‘My marriage, my boys, my treatise, my bowels?’
‘God’s Bright Light!’ Peter snapped back, the good humour draining from his face.
Athelstan spoke up, leaning across the table. ‘We appreciate your help, but who are you?’
‘We are the scrutineers. Do we work for the king’s council?’ Peter smiled and shook his head. ‘For the king himself?’ Again the shake of the head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we work for the crown. Princes and councillors come and go. We do not serve individuals, or noble families or a certain blood line but the crown itself.’ He leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers, and gazed quickly around the warm, cheery tavern. The life blood of the crown,’ he continued, ‘is its money. We scrutinise what should be the crown’s, its taxes, rights, prerogatives, levies and dues.’
‘So, you are treasury officials?’
Again the smile. ‘Oh and much more! We are particularly interested in the crown’s rights in France and, Sir John, you know what has happened there? The present king’s grandfather conquered and held the greater part of northern France. However, those of the same blood, but of a more feckless nature, are fast losing this patrimony. What does the crown hold now?’
Cranston shrugged. ‘Parts of Gascony around Bordeaux.’
‘And in Normandy?’
‘Calais and the area around it.’
Peter nodded. We have men working out of Calais to recover the lost lands.’
‘You mean spies?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, yes, you could call them that. Now their task is to weaken the French.’ Peter shrugged and smiled at his companion. To keep them busy. You know – arranging the occasional accident to their ships, stirring up discontent, collecting information.’
‘And how does that concern us?’ Athelstan asked.
Well, my dear friar, it really doesn’t, except that you are investigating Captain Roffel’s death and the disappearance of the watch from the God’s Bright Light. Yes? Now that doesn’t really concern us. What does concern us are the movements of Roffel’s ship during his last voyage. You see, two of our brethren sailing on a fishing smack from Dieppe to Calais never arrived. Their ship disappeared.’