‘I will answer to God,’ Cranston retorted. He started round the assembled men. ‘Now let me tell you a story,’ he began, ‘of a kingdom where the prince is a mere child and all power rests with his uncle, the Regent. In the absence of a strong ruler, factions emerge, jostling for power. At court the nobles become immersed in deadly rivalries; in the city powerful burgesses vie for power. Outside in the countryside the labourers mutter treason, forming secret covens and groups to plot treasonable rebellion.’
‘Be careful, Sir John!’ Gaunt snapped.
Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed that Cranston would not go too far.
If I tell a lie,’ Sir John answered,’ let someone here contradict me,’ Cranston gazed round the Guildmasters but they were silent as was Clifford who now sat with beads of sweat running down his face.
‘A leader emerges.’ Cranston continued, ‘a mysterious man who calls himself Ira Dei, the Anger of God. He directs the Great Community of the Realm, the secret council of peasant leaders. They do not know who he is, nor does anyone else. He comes and goes, sowing the seeds of dissension. Now things change. His Grace the Regent here decides to form a bond of amity with the leading merchants of London. Ira Dei wishes to frustrate this so he looks for a traitor close to the Regent. He finds him in My Lord Clifford, a young man who has not forgotten his humble beginnings, or at least those of his family. And Clifford, either for idealism or for personal profit or for both, agrees to be Ira Dei’s agent in bringing my Lord of Gaunt’s plans to nothing.’
‘A lie!’ Clifford shouted, though the tremor in his voice did little to convince any of his companions, who gazed stonily back.
‘Now my Lord of Clifford’s father,’ Cranston continued, ‘was a captain of archers, a skilled bowman — a skill he passed on to his son Adam. On the afternoon Sir Gerard Mountjoy dies, Clifford brings a hunting bow or converted arbalest and, when everyone is either resting or involved in their own affairs, slips like the shadow of death along the pentice. He shoots the dagger, Mountjoy dies in mysterious circumstances, and we become engrossed in the riddle of how he died rather than considering why or who did it.’ Cranton helped himself to a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘The following evening, the assassin strikes again.’
‘Impossible!’ Goodman shouted. ‘Don’t you remember, Sir John, Lord Clifford was absent from the banquet?’
Cranston pushed the wine stopper back in firmly.’
Yes, he did say he had business elsewhere but not before he left the poisoned sweetmeat beneath Fitzroy’s plate.’
‘Of course!’ Gaunt got to his feet and pointed to his pale-faced lieutenant. ‘Adam, you were responsible for deciding who sat where, then you excused yourself, claiming pressing business in the city.’ Gaunt’s face became mottled with anger. ‘You were most insistent. My Lord Coroner is correct: not even I knew where everyone would sit. That was left to you and you told each of the guests.’
The Mayor suddenly sprang to his feet.
‘Cranston.’ he yelled, ‘you’re a fool!’
Sir Christopher, ‘Athelstan intervened softly, ‘explain yourself.’
The Mayor advanced into the centre of the room, his fat face wreathed in a smug smile, ‘Can’t you see My Lord’ he addressed Gaunt. ‘Mountjoy was murdered. Fitzroy was murdered. Sturmey was murdered. But let’s not forget the vicious attack on my Lord Clifford!’
‘Oh, no,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s not forget that. Bruises and cuts! Nothing very serious. I am sure Lord Adam knows this.’
Goodman stepped back, gnawing his lip as he realized the stupidity of his outburst.
‘You mean?’ he began.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘that when Lord Adam is taken into custody and examined, the bruises and so-called wounds will be found to be merely superficial.’
Goodman hurried back to his seat.
‘What a marvellous ploy,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But think of it. If Ira Dei had meant to kill Clifford, he would have done so.’
‘The ambush was arranged!’ the Coroner roared at Goodman. ‘A mere distraction!’ He jabbed his finger at Clifford. ‘You know that, My Lord. If you disagree, remove your shirt and let’s see those terrible wounds.’
Clifford glared back.
‘And My Lord of Gaunt is right,’ the Coroner continued. ‘You knew where each of us would sit that night!’
‘I was elsewhere,’ Clifford muttered.
‘You’re a liar!’ Cranston barked.
Clifford shook his head but his eyes betrayed him.
‘A clever ploy,’ Cranston continued. ‘So when Fitzroy died, you were elsewhere. But how, my Lord Clifford, could you go wrong? If Fitzroy took another seat, someone else may have eaten the sweetmeat. Don’t you see?’ Cranston grinned wickedly at the Guildmasters. ‘It wasn’t necessary for Mountjoy and Fitzroy to die, so long as some of you did, murdered in mysterious circumstances, causing enough chaos and confusion to destroy any schemes devised by His Grace the Regent.’
‘And the gold? And Sturmey’s death?’ Nicholas Hussey spoke up as the Regent leaned forward in his chair and glared at the traitor at the other end of the room.
‘Oh, the gold,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Of course, that really set the seal on matters, didn’t it? You see, unfortunately, My Lord Mayor and the late Sheriff chose Peter Sturmey, a famous locksmith, to fashion a new chest which was to be secured by six locks. However, what you, Sir Christopher, had either forgotten or not realized was that our Master Sturmey had a secret life. He was a lover of young boys. Indeed, fifteen years ago he, like many great ones in this city, was involved in a scandal. Nothing was proved against Sturmey but I am sure he became more secretive, cautious in his secret passions.’ Cranston stopped speaking and looked at the King’s tutor. ‘Sir Nicholas, I believe you were a scholar at St Paul’s school at the time?’
Hussey nodded, his eyes hooded, the bottom part of his face hidden behind his hands.
I remember the scandal,’ he murmured, ‘but I knew nothing of it. I was a mere boy at the time.’
‘Yes,’ Sir John murmured, ‘you were only a boy, as were you, My Lord Clifford, a page in a powerful London household — Sir Raymond Bragley’s, then Sheriff of the city. Bragley, as My Lord Mayor remembers, was investigating the scandal and you, My Lord Clifford, must have been well aware of the important messages you carried hither and thither round the city. I suspect you knew about Sturmey’s secret vices and that he continued them. Who knows? He may even have made advances to you, and so you blackmailed him: either he made you duplicate keys or else suffered the supreme penalty for being a sodomist — being burnt alive at Smithfield.’
Clifford stared down at the table, hands spread. He didn’t resist as Gaunt nodded to the captain of his guard to pull Clifford’s dagger out of its sheath.
‘Of course, Sturmey had to die,’ Cranston continued. ‘So you lured him down to Billingsgate where he waited for you at the quayside. A clear target for you to strike at from some shadowy alleyway.’ Cranston shrugged.
‘What more can I say?’
Clifford’s head shot up. ‘You could produce some proof! This is all conjecture, mere hypothesis. You haven’t a shred of evidence to convince one of the King’s Justices. Anyone could have killed Mountjoy. Anyone could have put the poisoned sweetmeat on Fitzroy’s table. And as for Sturmey — yes, I remember the incident, but you saw his secret workshop! Anyone could have forced him to go there and make six keys.’
Cranston drummed his fingers on the table top, trying to conceal his panic. He looked under his bushy eyebrows at Athelstan who still seemed composed.
‘Lord Adam is correct,’ the Mayor asserted. ‘I agree with you, Sir John, but have you proof positive that Clifford shot the dagger and left the sweetmeat?’
‘We have,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘We have the gold. That number of precious bars cannot be easily transported round the city or sold on the open market.’ He looked at the Regent. ‘Your Grace, if you send your soldiers to My Lord Clifford’s house, I will wager you’ll find the evidence. You have to look for a hunting bow or more likely a specially constructed arbalest. Daggers of the sort used against Mountjoy and Sturmey. And, above all, the six gold bars my Lord Clifford so deftly removed from the chest. The theft went unnoticed. No one would even dream that someone could hold duplicates of six keys so, when the robbery was discovered, poor Sturmey would carry the blame. But the problem with gold is, once you remove it, what do you do with it? You can only hide it somewhere safe.’