‘True, true,’ she murmured, not lifting her head. ‘The sign was fashioned a few years before Reginald’s death. At the same time, those carvings appeared in the Golden Oliphant and the chantry chapel of St Mary Le Bow.’ She sniffed. ‘Always a dreamer, always mischievous, Reginald loved his dead comrade Simon Penchen more than me.’ Athelstan caught her deep bitterness of loss. ‘Always,’ she continued in a whisper, ‘full of fanciful ideas.’
‘One final twist,’ Athelstan added. ‘The original quotation uses the word, “Vinces – you will conquer”; Reginald changed it slightly using the word, “Vinceris”, or at least that’s my educated guess, so the inscription reads, “In this sign you will be released.” Reginald was actually addressing Lothar’s Cross, bidding it an affectionate farewell as well as challenging those who knew him to find the cross and release it from the sign. A much more pleasing prospect than having to admit its true worth. Reginald wove a complex tale to satisfy himself as well as leave secret puzzles, riddles and enigmas behind him.’ Athelstan pointed at Matthias. ‘He also wanted you to use your brain, your wits, on something better than drinking and wenching.’
‘Reginald should have been a minstrel, a troubadour,’ Sir Everard declared. ‘I did have my suspicions for the very same reasons you did, Brother Athelstan. So we have the truth. But you have summoned me here for more than this, I suspect.’
Athelstan turned to the carpenter who had sat fascinated at what was being discussed. ‘Master Tallifer, I thank you. Submit all reasonable expenses to Sir John at the Guildhall and he will ensure you receive speedy reimbursement.’
The carpenter collected his tools and rose. ‘I have heard similar tales,’ he declared, ‘about signs containing some secret.’ He grinned. ‘But not like this.’
‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan gestured at the sign, ‘Master Tallifer can also claim for rehanging the sign.’
She nodded, licked thin, dry lips and rose to her feet. ‘I can go now?’
‘You certainly can,’ Cranston declared. ‘I will arrange for the sign to be returned to the waiting cart. Master Foxley, I understand, accompanied you here?’
Athelstan rose and crossed to the window, staring down into the cobbled bailey where Foxley stood next to a cart. He half listened as Tallifer, Mistress Cheyne and Guildhall servants removed the sign from the judgement chamber. Once the door had closed behind them, Cranston resumed his seat in the coroner’s chair; Athelstan sat on a bench facing Sir Everard and Matthias.
‘I asked a question, Brother,’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Why have I been summoned here?’
‘Why indeed?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘I shall be brief. To assist your liege lord the King and his ministers, such as Sir John here, to resolve certain murderous mysteries and so bring the perpetrators to justice.’
‘I have nothing to do with the deaths at the Golden Oliphant.’
‘Yes and no, Sir Everard. But first let me try and win your favour as well as alert you,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Matthias, ‘to a possible danger you might face. Sir John, you have the bailiff from Sir Everard’s ward ready for us?’
‘Poulter?’
‘Yes, Master Poulter, and a speaking horn.’
Cranston, whom Athelstan had carefully instructed, left the chamber. He returned shortly afterwards grasping a very frightened Poulter by the arm as well as carrying a hollow, metal tube similar to a tournament trumpet.
‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan gestured at the stool facing the judgement table, ‘sit down.’ The friar took the speaking horn from Cranston and placed it between his feet. Poulter, all sweat-soaked and quivering, glanced at this and moaned quietly. ‘Master Poulter,’ Athelstan began, ‘I do not wish to torture you or put you to the question, but that could be arranged in the dungeons below, is that not so, Sir John?’ The coroner nodded. ‘You have a family, Master Poulter?’
‘A wife and five children.’
‘You are a city official?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have heard of the Herald of Hell?’
‘Of course,’ Poulter stammered.
‘You are the Herald of Hell,’ Athelstan accused.
‘I am not! I had no choice!’ Poulter’s head went down and he began to sob.
‘What is this?’ Sir Everard demanded. ‘Poulter is loyal and true. He came to my …’ His voice faded away.
‘To be accurate and honest,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you, Master Poulter, are simply one of the many Heralds of Hell plaguing the good citizens of this city. Let me tell you about my friend Robert Burdon, keeper of London Bridge. He, too, was visited at the dead of night by the Herald of Hell. Now I reasoned that either the Herald had braved the waters of the Thames to arrive or depart, or that he actually lived on the bridge. However, I also discovered, thanks to the good offices of Sir John, that on the same night Burdon was visited, the Herald of Hell was active in Farringdon ward. Despite his title, I know that the Herald cannot fly. He certainly did not walk the waters of the Thames, so the only logical conclusion was that he lived and worked on the bridge, as he did in Farringdon, in Cheapside and elsewhere. In other words, the Herald of Hell was truly legion. So who could he be?
‘The only individual who walks the streets of London in the dead of night is the ward bailiff. I suspect the Upright Men, to further and to deepen what I call “the Great Fear”, suborned these city officials with dire threats against themselves and their families both now and when the Great Revolt occurs. The task assigned to them was simple. A named house would be given along with a doggerel verse, a beaker full of pig’s blood and sharpened stalks bearing the same number of onions as there were individuals in that particular household. In Sir Everard’s case, there were two. The bailiff concerned would also be given a simple speaking horn which, together with the other paraphernalia, would be carefully hidden away. At some godforsaken hour of the night, when doors and shutters betray no chink of light, the bailiff, suborned and terrified, would choose his time. The jar of blood with its grisly warning would be left outside the door of the chosen victim. The bailiff, hidden in the shadows and armed with a simple speaking horn, would bray a blast and deliver the warning learnt by rote. A horn like this,’ Athelstan tapped the one resting between his feet, ‘would disguise his voice. Once finished, taking advantage of the darkness and chaos caused, the speaking horn would be hidden away for collection and the bailiff could now act the conscientious, loyal city official. The damage is done. The fear deepens. Security is threatened. People panic. They will either flee or try to seek accommodation with the hidden power of the Upright Men.
‘Sir Everard was different, a veteran soldier made of sterner stuff. More importantly, because of his acute sense of hearing, Sir Everard recognized the voice despite the speaking horn, but he could not place it. He would never dream it was the faithful, loyal wardsman, but it was you, Master Poulter. And the damage you and your kind have perpetrated cannot be undone.’
‘So the Herald of Hell is like the hydra of antiquity, many-headed?’
‘Yes, Sir Everard, but,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘in origin, the Herald of Hell could be one person. Such an individual acts out his title: suborns the watchmen, instructs them on what to do and gives his victims the necessary means to carry it out. Yes, I believe that’s a strong possibility.’ Athelstan paused. He did not wish to reveal more than necessary, but he secretly wondered if Reynard, the Upright Men’s courier, had been bringing that cipher to the real Herald of Hell here in London when he had been caught.
‘Anyway, Master Poulter,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘I have spoken the truth. You agree?’ The bailiff was now quivering like a child. Athelstan winked at Cranston, indicating with his hand that gentleness was the best way forward. ‘I have spoken the truth, Master Poulter?’