‘Woe to the kingdom whose king is a child!’ Athelstan translated. He paused as a clerk of archers came up the stairs and into the chamber, accompanied by four Tower guards carrying a makeshift stretcher. They waited whilst Athelstan once again searched the corpse, but he could find nothing. The clerk lit a candle, took a sheet from the bed and used it as a shroud, sealing the linen cloth with blobs of wax from his writing satchel so the corpse and other items could not be interfered with. Whitfield’s baggage was then scrupulously searched. Athelstan declared himself satisfied that he had overlooked nothing and repeated his instructions: Whitfield’s remains and all his possessions were to be taken to Master Philippe at St Bartholomew’s for further scrutiny and examination. The busy-eyed clerk of archers promised all would be done and, with a little help from both Cranston and Athelstan, the corpse and the other impedimenta were taken out on to the gallery.
‘So bleak and empty.’ Athelstan gestured around.
‘Why, little monk, what did you expect?’ Cranston teased.
‘Pictures, paintings depicting love, lust and all the other fascinating things and, by the way, Sir John, I am a friar, not a monk.’
‘And one apparently acquainted with brothels?’
Cranston, his face all curious, came over and gently poked the Dominican in the chest.
‘Oh, yes,’ Athelstan smiled, ‘I visited one in Perugia, Italy. I was studying at Pavia but, in the summer months, I journeyed round the northern cities. One glorious afternoon, I was walking across a sun-washed piazza in Perugia. The square was a sea of brilliant colour. Beautiful young men and women dressed in multi-coloured silks and taffeta milled back and forth. Children were selling the freshest fruits. Open air, portable stoves cooked the most appetizing food: cheese and herbs on flat savoury bread with strips of quail and other meats grilled to perfection. A group of musicians played heart-plucking melodies. Anyway, I was there, all agog, when a beautiful nun, her face framed by a wimple, approached me and grasped my hand. She had the most brilliant smile. Although I could not understand her, she talked so softly, so prettily; she pulled at my hand, urging me to come with her.’ Athelstan paused. Cranston was now sitting on the stool, face in his hands, shoulders shaking. ‘She took me across the square to what she called her Domus, her convent.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s snort of laughter. ‘A truly exquisite place. The outside stone was honey coloured, the walls within covered in rich paintings, a shimmering black and white tiled floor reflected the light. Only when I entered what I thought was the convent parlour did I suddenly realize that something was very wrong.’ Cranston was now sobbing with laughter. ‘There was a painting of a young man, supposed to be Adonis, attended by two graceful young ladies, naked as when they were born …’
Athelstan smiled as Cranston, shaking with laughter, his eyes brimming with tears, rose and clapped him on the shoulders.
‘Oh, little monk!’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I explained that she had me wrong. I was there to see the sights …’
Cranston threw his head back and roared with laughter.
‘I asked if she would like to accompany me, did she wish to be shriven? I …’
Sir John turned away and slumped back on the stool.
‘She became very angry.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath. ‘So I thought it best to leave.’ He went and stood over Cranston.
‘I often think of her, Sir John, her exquisitely decorated chamber, the bed with its snow-white sheets …’
‘Have you ever been with a woman,’ Cranston asked, ‘having lain with one?’
Athelstan coloured and turned away. ‘I know what it is to love, Sir John, to love and lose and nurse a broken heart. As for the sex act, strange to say, my good friend, and you can ask many a priest, it’s not the coitus, the little death of the bed which haunts your soul. No, being celibate, remaining chaste bites deeper than that. It’s the loneliness, Sir John, the yawning, empty solitude. Bonaventure, not my cat but the great Franciscan theologian, had it correct. He claimed the greatest friendship in the world should be that between husband and wife.’
‘And the good Lord does not fill that emptiness, Brother?’
‘We worship a hidden God, Sir John, an elusive one. We search for him, the hidden beauty, and that search can lead us down many strange paths. In the village where I was born an old widow woman lived in a well-furnished cottage surrounded by a garden overlooked by a small rose window filled with coloured glass. Turtle doves nested beneath this. Now the old woman lived by herself. Her husband had left an eternity ago to fight in Normandy. He promised he would return: the first she would know about it was when he tapped at that rose window. He never came back, killed by a crossbow bolt at Crecy. Nevertheless, every evening that old lady, just as dusk fell, waited for the turtle dove to begin its passionate pattering against the darkening glass. Love, Sir John, manifests itself in so many strange ways. The human heart is a hungry hunter; it starves for love, for acceptance and deep friendship, and the road it follows twists and turns. Sometimes it can bring you to a place like this. They say a man who knocks on the door of a brothel really wants to knock on the door of God. He is searching for that hidden beauty and joy.’
‘You are a strange one, friar.’
‘Then I am in good company, Sir John.’
‘You deal with sin but never commit one?’
‘I did not say that, my portly friend. Yes, I sit in the shriving chair and listen to souls pattering their sins. However, the more you listen, the more you realize that you and your penitent have so much in common.’ Athelstan laughed. ‘They often confess what you would love to do yourself, which, Sir John, brings us back to Perugia and what I saw there compared to what we have here, a stark bareness, which is not what I expected.’
‘Brother, any house openly proclaiming itself a brothel would be condemned, raided and closed. So the Golden Oliphant masquerades as a wealthy tavern.’
‘Where other appetites are discreetly served?’
‘Precisely, little friar. Now we should go down and meet those other guests.’
‘They will wait, they have to,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘It’s good for their souls. Rest assured, Sir John, The Golden Oliphant now houses the deep, curdling mystery of Whitfield’s death. Logically therefore it also holds the solution which, I suspect, is already known to one or more of its occupants. So, let us get the measure of this place.’
Athelstan crossed to the door then came back.
‘Thibault claimed there was a story to this house. He mentioned an old comrade of yours, Sir Everard Camoys, his brother Reginald and the Cross of Lothar. I have heard of the latter; an exquisitely beautiful, bejewelled cross of great antiquity. Come, Sir John, there is a story behind the Golden Oliphant?’
The friar gazed expectantly at the coroner, who just stared back. You are, Cranston thought, a little ferret, you gnaw away at a problem until you reach the truth. The coroner half-cocked his head, listening to the sounds from below: the archers leaving, Whitfield’s cadaver being loaded on to a sled, the clatter of pots, all drowned by the deep growling of dogs.
‘What are those?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Hunting dogs, mastiffs, Mistress Cheyne lets them loose at night to roam the gardens. Well, there is one less now, thanks to Master Thibault.’
‘So those mastiffs must have been prowling last night?’
Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Brother, we should go down and begin the questioning.’
‘In a while, Sir John. Thibault said that you have a story and, as I have said, I want to hear it. I need to capture the very essence of this place. We must summon up all our wit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because a very clever, subtle murder has been committed here.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Sir John, I feel it here.’ Athelstan beat his breast. ‘Something is very wrong and we must uncover the truth. We must listen, reflect and pray. Eventually that truth will emerge like light from a candle, the pool will spread and strengthen. So,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the Golden Oliphant?’