‘My Lady,’ Cranston retorted, ‘I would feel better — ’ he raised his voice to a bellow ‘- I would feel better if I got some custom, and the attention due to a King’s officer!’
The landlord kept chatting so Cranston strode across, roaring for a cup of sack and wine for his companions.
‘What’s wrong with Sir John?’ Benedicta whispered.
‘I don’t know. I think the Lady Maude has upset him. She is being mysterious and secretive.’
‘Strange,’ Benedicta mused. ‘I meant to tell you, Brother, Lady Maude was seen in Southwark over a week ago. She is so memorable, so petite and sweet-faced.’ Benedicta screwed up her eyes. ‘Yes, I am sure they told me she was coming out of Doctor Vincentius’ house.’
‘Is he a ladies’ man?’ Athelstan asked hastily, and wished he could have bitten his tongue out the moment he spoke. Benedicta stared coolly back.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ she replied, ‘can you show me a man who isn’t?’
Cranston’s return saved Athelstan from further embarrassment. The coroner swept his beaver hat from his head, scratched his balding pate, winked lecherously at Benedicta and turned to watch a now frightened taverner bring across a deep pewter bowl of sack and cups of wine for his companions.
‘You are not eating, Sir John?’
‘No,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I don’t feel hungry and I suspect the innkeeper, after my blunt speech with him, would poison the bloody dish!’
Benedicta laughed merrily. ‘Sir John, you must calm yourself!’
‘No,’ Cranston replied, lifting the goblet. ‘I’ll find serenity at the bottom of this cup.’
Benedicta watched in disbelief as Cranston drained his drink in one large gulp and boomed for more, smacking his lips, gently burping and belching. Benedicta bit her lower lip to stifle her laughter.
‘Well, Brother.’ Cranston patted his broad girth. ‘With apologies to the Lady Benedicta, what do you make of Mowbray’s death?’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Or Sir Ralph’s?’
Athelstan leaned against the table and ran his finger round the rim of the wine goblet. ‘First, we have found that Sir Ralph was probably murdered by someone who entered the Tower by crossing an ice-bound moat. Secondly, Mowbray was lured to his death by the tocsin sounding. Thirdly, both murders are certainly linked with Sir Ralph’s dreadful betrayal of Bartholomew Burghgesh in Cyprus so many years ago.’ Athelstan smiled at Benedicta’s quizzical face. ‘You are puzzled, My Lady. Well, so are we. First, how can someone enter the Tower, murder Sir Ralph, then leave the fortress without being noticed? Secondly, why did Sir Ralph just lie there and allow his throat to be cut so savagely that his head was almost hacked from his body? You saw the corpse, Sir John, and the chamber? There was no sign of any struggle nor did the guards hear anything. Thirdly, who rang the tocsin bell and, at the same time, so subtly arranged for Mowbray to fall from the parapet?’
The coroner’s face grew longer at Athelstan’s every word.
‘And the list of suspects,’ the friar continued remorselessly, ‘still stands. We may have met the murderer, yet it may equally be someone in the Tower or the city about whom we know nothing.’
‘I do not know the full story,’ Benedicta interrupted, ‘but there is rejoicing in Southwark at Sir Ralph’s death.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Pike the ditcher says it is the work of the Great Community. The secret peasant leaders wish to weaken the city before they organise their great revolt.’
‘Nonsense!’ Cranston slurred, now on his third cup of sack. ‘Pike the ditcher, with all due respect, My Lady Benedicta, should keep his mouth shut and his neck safe! Sir Ralph was not murdered by any peasant.’
Athelstan sipped from his wine cup and made a face at the sourness of the drink. ‘One person we have not met, My Lord Coroner, is the merchant Adam Horne. Benedicta, before we go on to meet Simon in the Fleet prison, there are certain enquiries to make. You will accompany us?’
Benedicta agreed, so they rose and left, Cranston bawling abuse at the hapless taverner. Outside it was growing dark, only a red glow showed where the sun had set. Cranston steadied himself carefully on the icy cobbles and stared at the sky.
‘Why is it always red at night?’
‘Some say,’ Athelstan replied, ‘it’s because the sun slips into hell, but I think that’s an old wives’ tale. Come on, Sir John.’
Athelstan slipped round the coroner, tactfully linked one arm through his and, with Benedicta on the other side, crossed the now deserted Cheapside. The stalls were being packed away, the last iron-rimmed carts crashed along to Newgate or east to Aldgate. Weary apprentices and traders locked their shutters and put out lantern horns. The bell of St Mary Le Bow began to toll the curfew, the sign that all trading should cease, as four urchins pulled a huge yule log up to the door of one of the great merchants’ houses. Cranston stopped to enquire directions of one of the market stewards who sat in his little toll booth on the corner of Wood Street. The fellow pointed down to the corner of the Mercery and Lawrence Street.
‘You will find the Horne house there,’ he said. ‘A fine place, with a huge, black-timbered door and a coat of arms above it.’
They turned, staying in the centre of Cheapside as the melting snow began to slide from the sloping tiled roofs. The Horne house stood deserted, no lantern above the door, only a tired-looking Christmas wreath. Cranston stepped back and looked up at the lead-paned windows.
‘No candlelight,’ he murmured.
Athelstan pulled Benedicta closer into the side of the house to protect her from any snow falling from the small canopied hood of the doorway. He lifted the great brass knocker, cast in the shape of a dragon’s head and brought it crashing down. There was no answer so he knocked again. They heard the patter of footsteps and a whey-faced maid answered the door.
‘Is Alderman Horne here?’ Cranston slurred.
The young girl shook her head wordlessly.
‘Who is it?’ a voice asked from the darkness beyond.
‘Lady Horne?’ Cranston queried. ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner. You sent a message earlier today to the sheriffs at the Guildhall?’
The woman stepped out of the darkness, her drawn face bathed even whiter by the light of the candle she carried. Her cheeks were tear-stained, her eyes dark-shadowed and sad, whilst her steel-grey hair hung in untidy tresses beneath a white veil.
‘Sir John.’ She forced a smile. ‘You had best come in. Girl, light the torches in the solar! Bring candles!’
Lady Home led them up a stone-vaulted passageway into a comfortable but cold solar. A weak fire flickered in the hearth. Lady Horne told them to sit whilst behind them the girl lit candles. Athelstan gazed round. The room was positively luxurious with bright-hued tapestries on the walls, and exquisitely embroidered linen cloths placed on tables, chests and over the backs of chairs. Nevertheless, he could almost smell the stench of fear the house was too quiet. He looked at Lady Horne who sat on me other side of the fireplace, an ivory and pearl rosary entwined around her fingers.
‘You wish some refreshment?’ she murmured.
Cranston was about to reply but Athelstan intervened.
‘No, My Lady. This matter is urgent. Where is your husband?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘That terrible message arrived this morning and Sir Adam left immediately afterwards. He said he was going upriver to the warehouses.’ She clenched her hands tightly. ‘I have sent messages there but the boy returned and said my husband had already left. Sir John, what is the matter?’ Her tired eyes pleaded with the coroner. ‘What does this all mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘But your husband, Lady Horne, is in terrible danger. Does anyone know where he has gone?’
The woman bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Benedicta rose and crouched beside her, stroking her hands gently.
‘Lady Horne, please,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Do you know anything about the message or why your husband was so frightened?’