Stablegate sat down. Sir John moved away. The room fell quiet except for the squeaking of Stablegate’s quill.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Cranston called out. ‘If anything happens to Flinstead before you leave England, you will have violated the law of sanctuary and you can be killed on the spot.’
‘As the Book of Ecclesiastes says, Sir John,’ Stablegate scoffed over his shoulder, ‘there’s a season and a time under heaven for everything.’
‘And the clerks of the Green Wax?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What business did you have with Alcest?’
‘Safe passage from the kingdom, but ask him yourself!’
Stablegate got to his feet, the parchment now crumpled into a ball. ‘I have your word, Cranston?’
‘You have my word. Drop that parchment on the floor. You and Flinstead can flee. Flaxwith will follow.’
Stablegate threw the parchment on to the ground. He made a rude gesture at Sir John and ran for the door; Flinstead needed no second bidding but followed. The coroner and the friar stood and listened to their feet pounding down the passageway, the front door being opened and slammed shut behind them.
‘Is that just?’ Flaxwith asked.
Cranston grinned evilly.
‘You can’t break your word, Sir John.’ Flaxwith’s eyes rounded in alarm. ‘Holy Mother Church is most zealous about the law of sanctuary.’
Sir John picked up the parchment and tossed it from one hand to the other. ‘Oh, they can stay forty days in St Mary Le Bow on bread and water. Then I’ll have the two bastards marched down into Queenshithe. Now, Henry, you may think I’m a bastard but I have a friend, Otto Grandessen, half merchant, half pirate, a real bastard. Otto owns a cog which does business in the Middle Seas, sailing to Aleppo and Damascus. He’ll take those two beauties aboard. By the time Otto’s finished with them, they’ll wish they had died at Tyburn. He’ll put them ashore at Palestine. There’s not much mischief they can do in the desert surrounded by Saracens who would love to take their heads.’ Cranston opened the piece of parchment. ‘Go on, Henry, make sum where they have gone.’
The bailiff hurried off.
‘Well?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The insolent…!’ Cranston looked up ‘Oh, he’s told us where the money is: they never took it out of the house. It’s buried in the cellar.’
Athelstan made to follow him out but the coroner waved him away. ‘No, sit there, Brother, I’ll find the bloody silver! If I know this house correctly, the floor will be beaten earth. When Henry comes back, tell him to join me.’
Cranston marched off Athelstan sat down. He felt pleased: Stablegate and Flinstead were evil men. Whatever Drayton’s crimes, he died a miserable death and Sir Johns agreement to the criminals was more than just. Athelstan leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt a small glow of satisfaction and realised that, in their own way, he and the coroner had done God’s work, as necessary and demanding as preaching and ministering to the parishioners of St Erconwald’s. Athelstan’s eyes flew open. Any feeling of goodwill disappeared as he recalled Watkin marching up and down.
‘God knows what trickery they are up to,’ Athelstan declared. ‘But how and why?’
‘I beg your pardon, Brother?’
Flaxwith stood in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry, Henry, I’m just speaking to myself. Our two felons?’
‘Headed into the porch of St Mary Le Bow like rats down a hole’
‘Good. Sir John wants you in the cellar.’ Athelstan smiled ‘Yes, that’s where they hid the silver. Stablegate must have put it there, planning to return at his own convenience. You’d best hurry.’
Athelstan cocked an ear at the string of colourful oaths he could hear from below. Flaxwith left and, for a while, Athelstan wondered how he could deal with the miraculous cross of St Erconwald’s. He thought of Alison. She must be allowed to leave soon, Athelstan concluded: Sir John could not keep her here for ever. His mind wandered further: he recalled what Stablegate had said about the clerks of the Green Wax. Athelstan was now certain that Alcest, his companions and possibly Chapler had been involved in some subtle trickery, forging licences and letters. A very serious crime: the Vicar of Hell would have known about it, any wolfshead or outlaw who needed a letter or an official writ would pay a heavy price. Alcest probably had a forged seal. Lesures might well suspect it but because of Alcest’s blackmail he dared not investigate or protest. But why the killings? Athelstan scuffed at the floor with the toe of his sandal. All the clerks involved had died grisly deaths, starting with Chapler. Was it a question of thieves falling out? Had Alcest become greedy and decided to keep their ill-gotten wealth for himself? He heard Cranston’s voice in the corridor. The coroner, specks of dirt on his robe, strode into the counting room with two mud-covered sacks which jingled as he shook them.
‘To those who knock, it shall be opened, those who seek shall find.’
‘The Regent’s silver?’
‘Precisely. Those impertinent villains had buried it deep beneath an old chest. Do you know who found it?’ Cranston shook the sacks as if they were bells. ‘Samson, he started sniffing and scuffling…’
‘That’s why I have him,’ Flaxwith announced proudly, coming in with the other valuables. ‘Now, Sir John, surely the dog deserves a small stipend, or a juicy bone or a piece of meat?’
Cranston thrust the sacks into Flaxwith’s already laden arms. ‘The Corporation hires donkeys so why not dogs, eh, Henry?’
The bailiff looked puzzled. Cranston crouched down and patted the dog on his head Athelstan was sure that, if dogs could smile, Samson did.
‘Right!’ Cranston got to his feet. ‘Henry, get your burly boys and take that silver, the gold pieces and the candlesticks down to the Bardi in Leadenhall Street. Tell them Sir John has sent it. They are to count it, weigh it and send it under guard to the Regent at the Savoy Palace.’ He pointed to the seals round the necks of the grubby sacks. ‘It’s all there and don’t worry, the Bardi wouldn’t dream of stealing a penny from John of Gaunt. Then go to the Guildhall, draw on the common purse.’ He clapped the bailiff on the shoulder. ‘You may take Samson to the Holy Lamb of God,’ he added in a reverential whisper. ‘And ask that good alewife for two blackjacks of ale and an onion pie for yourself as well as a nice piece of goose for the dog. I’ll pay.’
Cranston watched as Flaxwith strode down the corridor as if he had just been anointed whilst Samson, who’d paused to cock his leg, wobbled behind as pompously as any Justice at Westminster.
‘There goes a satisfied man,’ Cranston murmured ‘Well, Brother, where to now? A word with Master Alcest?’
‘In time, Sir John. However, I believe the Vicar of Hell might be partial to one of your agreements, so a visit to Newgate wouldn’t be out of order.’
‘It’s Hanging Day there,’ Cranston warned darkly.
‘Good,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It will help concentrate the Vicar’s mind, won’t it?’
‘You think Alcest is the assassin, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sir John, I do. I believe he definitely killed Chapler, then, for his own obvious reasons, turned on his companions in crime.’
He and Sir John walked down the corridor and out of the house. Athelstan slammed the door and, stepping back, looked up at the dirt-covered windows.
‘Avaritia, radix malorum, Sir John: the love of riches is the root of all evil. Or is it?’ he added as if to himself. ‘And is it the case now?’
CHAPTER 12
Athelstan crossed himself and murmured a silent prayer, as he always did when he approached the main gateway of Newgate prison. He and Sir John had just forced themselves through the press as the crowd assembled for Hanging Day. Six footpads who had preyed upon travellers along the old Roman road were now being dispatched as quickly as rats by a farmer. Newgate was a foulsome, horrid place. Athelstan could never decide which was the more offensive, the filth and dirt in which the prisoners were kept or the fawning attitude of the jailers and bailiffs: these smiled falsely and wrung their hands whenever Cranston appeared. Sir John had his own thoughts on the matter: whenever he entered the prison, the coroner never drank, joked or bothered to pass the time with any of its officials.