‘When did Marsen and his company arrive here?’
‘Four days ago,’ Thorne declared. ‘He sent Hugh of Hornsey ahead of them.’
‘When?’
‘About a week ago. Hornsey insisted that the Barbican be given over entirely to his master.’ Thorne pulled a face. ‘There was no problem with that. They arrived just as the Vespers bell tolled. Marsen acted the arrogant pig; Mauclerc no better. He proclaimed how he had been attacked on the road but God had intervened. He showed me the bolts loosed at him and said that no such danger better threaten him here.’ Thorne sniffed. ‘The Barbican was all prepared thanks to Mooncalf.’ Thorne patted the young man’s shoulder. ‘I told him to look after Marsen and his coven and he did, with great patience and good humour.’
‘Why didn’t Marsen cross London Bridge and shelter in the Tower?’ Cranston asked.
‘I suppose they had further business here in Southwark levying their devil tax, including what I owed.’
‘You paid it?’
‘Of course, Sir John. What choice do I, you or indeed anyone have?’
‘Before last night,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did anything happen – any strangers appear, whatever their business?’
‘You mean the Upright Men or their assassin, Beowulf?’ Thorne spread his hands. ‘Brother, this is a very busy tavern, not so much from the guests who stay but any who travel through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’
Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.
‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.
‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with the dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’
‘And where were these whores from?’
‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’
‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’
‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’
‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’
‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.
‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.
‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’
Cranston stared at Athelstan, who just shook his head. ‘We found no such bag in the Barbican, Sir John.’
‘Then the killer must have taken it,’ Mooncalf insisted. ‘I definitely saw it, I definitely heard it.’
‘Apart from the whores, were there any other visitors?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ Thorne replied, ‘a black-garbed fellow, hair of the same colour drawn tightly back and tied behind the head, harsh-featured with the unblinking stare of a hawk.’
‘Lascelles,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Master Thibault’s henchman. When did he come?’
‘The night before last. He met Marsen in the Barbican then left. Sir John, I know nothing of their business.’
‘And this morning?’ Athelstan glanced at Mooncalf.
‘As usual I went to wake them. I found the two archers as you did. I hurried across to the Barbican and hammered on the door.’
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, boy?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to the miraculous wineskin.
‘Anything at all?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘No. Pedro the cruel,’ Mooncalf grimaced, ‘the tavern boar, was sleeping outside his sty. Sometimes he does that. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I became frightened and hurried back to the tavern to raise the alarm.’
Athelstan turned to Thorne.
‘I came out with the others, all shaken from our sleep. You’ve seen the Barbican, Brother, it is built for defence. Apart from the heavy door the only way through is the window. There is no ladder long enough so I put the one we have on a handcart and climbed up. The outer shutter was still hooked. I inserted a blade and lifted that; the door window was clasped shut. I cut back the horn, put my hand through and lifted the latch. The inner shutter was easier; the hooks came up but,’ he patted his stomach, ‘too much baggage. I came back down and sent Mooncalf up.’
Athelstan glanced at the ostler.
‘Brother, you saw what I did. The upper chamber was warm as the shutters had been closed all night. The brazier still glowed, as well as the chafing dishes.’ Mooncalf screwed up his eyes. ‘All of the candles had burnt out – they were extinguished.’
‘And the trapdoors?’
‘I remember the one to the roof was locked – yes, both were. The trapdoor to the lower chamber was also bolted.’ Mooncalf paused at Cranston’s loud snoring. The fat coroner, warmed and fed, was now relaxing in the comfort. Mooncalf stared at him then back at Athelstan in open-mouthed wonderment.
‘Don’t worry,’ the friar reassured, ‘Sir John can sleep with his eyes open and see when they are closed.’
‘And the truth never escapes me.’ The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips. ‘The main door?’ he asked.
‘Bolted top and bottom, the key turned and still in the lock.’ The ostler’s reply created a profound stillness. Even the distant sounds of the tavern faded. Athelstan stared down at the table top. They were now approaching the true mystery of this murderous maze. Athelstan recalled his youth, working on his father’s farm in the West Country. He and the other children would be clearing the furrows following the massive hogged-maned drays which pulled the sharp-toothed plough. Warm, sun-bright days but out to the west he’d glimpse sombre clouds massing, the heralds of a coming storm. Athelstan closed his eyes as other memories surfaced. He recalled sitting on the brow of a snow-covered hill staring down at the dark line of forestry certain that shadows would creep out of the blackness across the hard-packed snow. So it was here as the mystery unfurled. Athelstan opened his eyes. What was the sinister truth behind this heinous massacre? Nine souls had been ruthlessly despatched along that mystical path stretching to God’s judgement and their eternal destiny. How did it, how could it happen? Two able-bodied archers, surprised and summarily executed, and then the real mystery: the same blood-seeking wraith had swirled into the Barbican. The well-armed guard on the ground floor were slaughtered before the demon moved up to murder four others in the upper chamber. Once done, he had apparently pillaged a three-locked coffer without using the keys. Afterwards this killer had left just as mysteriously with the windows still shuttered, the main entrance and the two inside trapdoors all firmly locked.