‘Master Thorne, you are a taverner. I know very little of your previous life. I understand you fought in France. You were a captain of hobelars. Now, Sir John, correct me if I am wrong, but a hobelar is a man-at-arms and a bowman? Not just one of the levy but skilled and seasoned. Hobelars are often used as scouts or despatched under the cover of dark to kill enemy sentries before a night attack is launched.’
Thorne just glanced away.
‘You know that to be true,’ Cranston remarked quietly. ‘You have as much experience in war as I have.’
‘I simply say that,’ Athelstan declared, ‘to demonstrate that you, Thorne, have killed, albeit the king’s enemies. I suspect you were very good at it. You amassed considerable wealth from the war in France. Your first wife dies and you marry again. You invest in this tavern. Of course, you wonder sometimes, more often than not, whether it was such a prosperous venture. London seethes with unrest. When the Great Community of the Realm raises the black banner of anarchy, I truly believe that Southwark will burn. Oh, you make payments to the Upright Men and you also curry favour with Master Thibault, but you know that that can’t save The Candle-Flame from devastation. Now, your wife Eleanor is the daughter of a tavern keeper who owns the The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. Last summer the assassin Beowulf successfully attacked and killed Justice Folevile, one of Thibault’s horde of tax collectors. Of course, families meet and mingle. You must have heard about such an attack and, I suspect, the seeds of the heinous murders committed here were sown: a plot to seize a treasure which would be your surety in the time of trouble.’
‘You are very much mistaken,’ Thorne spluttered. ‘I …’
‘I shall prove I am not,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Marsen arrived here with his treasure chest. He was a most unsavoury character, Mauclerc not much better. You leave them to their own devices. Mooncalf serves the food whilst you visit occasionally. We know the reason why and I shall return to that later. In the main, you act the busy taverner who resents having to pay court to the likes of Master Thibault, as well as contribute just as secretly to the Upright Men. You hate them both but, as I’ve said, you have your own devious plan to escape the coming fury. Undoubtedly I could summon your father-in-law from The Silver Harp on the Canterbury road. I would place him on oath. I am certain that he will agree with me that he provided you with a very detailed description, at your insistence, of the crossbow bolts used to kill Folevile and others. I am more than certain that he would have repeated those mocking verses taken from the prophet Daniel. A search of your muniments will reveal a copy. I could ask why a taverner has written down such verses.’
‘There is no law against that!’ Thorne retorted. ‘True, I have heard the verses before. I find them compelling, like many lines from the scriptures. I, too, am a scholar, Brother Athelstan, learned in my horn-book. I have read the scriptures, I understand Latin. Certain verses, as I have said, appeal to me.’
‘Oh, I am sure they do.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Such as “By their fruits ye shall know them”. But to return to my indictment. On the night of the murders, you pretended to be concerned about a possible intruder in the stables.’
‘But there was one!’ Thorne beat against the table, hastily withdrawing his hand as Cranston’s fingers fell to the sword lying close to him.
‘Oh, I know there was an intruder. However, on that particular evening, you used that as an excuse, a pretence to explain your absence from your own bed. Master Thorne, I shall be swift. You had planned well and your motive was the oldest of sins – pure greed. You must have seen the heavy exchequer coffer during your visits to Marsen. You observed how he loved to throw back the lid to glory at the gold and silver heaped within. There was no need for any keys. Marsen thought he was safe. He had a guard of six veteran archers and he was locked and secured in the formidable Barbican. You did see the gold and silver, didn’t you?’ Thorne grudgingly nodded his head. ‘Such a sight would only whet your appetite and hone your greed. Under the cover of darkness you took a stout cask of your famous ale from the cellar. You pulled back the bung and poured in a very powerful sleeping potion. You walked across the Palisade and stopped before the campfire. Two of the archers were there but, of course, Hugh of Hornsey was missing. You would know that, wouldn’t you? Because you keep everything under close watch, yes, Master Thorne?’ The taverner, now more wary than angry, simply stared back. ‘Hornsey and Ronseval were lovers. You knew that because they had lodged in your tavern before. I have inspected your chamber ledger; your wife is very methodical. The last time they were here was during the festivities at Christmas. Of course, they stayed in separate chambers, but that was only a pretence. They had to protect themselves against being discovered, public humiliation and execution. I shall return to both these victims of your murderous heart. On the evening in question, however, you offer cheer to those two archers. They are cold, tired and of course they would love to sample your tastiest ale, which I am sure is markedly better than what the niggardly Marsen bought for them. Moreover,’ Athelstan gestured to his right, ‘I made discreet enquiries with your cook. I understand that on the night of the murders you helped him prepare the dishes for Marsen and his comitatus. He recalled you making the capon highly spiced and very strong, which of course only deepened their thirst. You fill their blackjacks and wait. They drink and soon lapse into sleep. I suspect the potion was very strong and would soon have an effect. You then take the tankards and empty what is left of the tainted ale on to the ground. You use the common ale the archers have brought out with them to clean those tankards as well as remove any trace of the sleeping draught.
‘Juice of the poppy?’ Cranston asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Athelstan replied. ‘You have some here, Master Thorne?’ Again the only reply was that hard, unblinking glare. You tried to murder me, Athelstan thought. You are quite prepared to watch me burn a horrible death simply to conceal your own dire, wicked acts. I was to be silenced so you could hide your host of mortal sins.
‘Brother?’ Cranston asked.
‘Quieta non movere, quieta non movere,’ Athelstan declared, ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’ I recall seeing a bear fast asleep on a corner in Southwark. Its owner claimed the animal had been given a sleeping draught. On other occasions my cat Bonaventure, who drank my ale, lay fast asleep on the hearth and, at the other extreme, Sparwell lurched in that execution barrel bereft of all consciousness. Such images made me recall this tavern’s great pig, the boar Pedro the Cruel, falling fast asleep outside its sty on a freezing winter night. Pedro, I suspect, is a benevolent animal but still a very greedy one, with a snout for any titbit left lying about, including all the drugged ale you poured out of the tankards used by those archers. On reflection, I concluded, that could be the only explanation for a pig who loves its comfort not to return to sleep in its sty on such a night.’ Athelstan sipped from his own goblet. ‘Of course, unlike poison, a sleeping potion leaves no visible effect. Even the rats in the Guildhall dungeon would just creep back into their holes to sleep. So let us return to the Palisade, shrouded in an icy darkness. You leave the archers sleeping and move to the Barbican.’
‘What if Hornsey had returned?’ Thorne, his lower lip trembling, gestured with his hand.