‘Oh Lord save us, Sir John!’
Dame Broadsheet’s fingers flew to her lips. Nevertheless, Cranston caught a sly look in her eyes. He grasped her hands and squeezed them tightly.
‘You know, don’t you?’ he remarked. ‘Don’t act innocent.’
‘Sir John!’
‘Yes, you bloody well do!’ Cranston squeezed tighter. ‘Now why should Dame Broadsheet know about the deaths of two clerks, one of whom was killed only a short while ago?’
‘The Vicar of Hell told me.’
‘The Vicar of Hell? And what would he have to do with important clerks in the Chancery of the Green Wax?’
Dame Broadsheet withdrew her hands, her eyes rounded in what she hoped was an innocent look. ‘I’ll tell you the truth, Sir John. I know nothing of it. He came here; we shared a cup of wine before he retired with young Clarice. He asked me if I knew about the deaths at the Chancery, I replied I didn’t.’ She shrugged. ‘We left it at that.’
Cranston sipped from his wine cup. ‘And the night of the festivities?’ he asked.
As I said, Sir John, we feasted and drank and then each of us went to a small garret or chamber with our partner. From what I can gather the clerks were as lusty as cocks in a barnyard. A merry coupling, Sir John!’
‘And in the morning?’
‘I woke up, it must have been before dawn. Ollerton was fast asleep in the sheets beside me. I dressed, collected the rest of the girls and we came back here to rest. After,’ she added quickly, ‘our night’s labours.’
‘Bring the girls here,’ Cranston ordered.
Dame Broadsheet did. All of them were now dressed in long gowns, their hair tidied up under pure white wimples. If it hadn’t been for their laughing eyes and saucy looks, they could have been taken for a group of dutiful novices in a nunnery. They stood trouped round the table, hands clasped before them, eyes lowered.
‘Lovely girls,’ Sir John breathed. ‘Who was the leader?’ he asked Dame Broadsheet.
‘The leader, Sir John?’
‘Amongst the clerks? Who organised the night’s festivities?’
‘Why, Alcest.’
‘And who was with him?’
‘I was,’ a young, blonde-haired girl whispered.
Cranston leaned over. ‘Raise your head, girl. You are…?’
‘Clarice, Sir John. Clarice Clutterbuckle.’
Sir John chose to ignore the sniggers: he realised this was no more the young lady’s name than it was his.
‘Clarice, you were with Alcest all night?’
‘Oh yes,’ she purred, rolling her shoulders, reminding Cranston of a cat. ‘We retired to an inner chamber, my Lord Coroner, no bigger than a cupboard but it had a bed.’
And?’
‘We frolicked, we drank some wine.’ She smiled. ‘I fell asleep and the next minute it was morning and Dame Broadsheet was rousing me from bed.’
‘And Alcest was still with you?’
‘Oh yes, Sir John, snoring fit to burst.’
‘And he never left you during the night?’
‘No one ever leaves me, Sir John.’
‘Less of your sauce!’ Cranston barked.
‘Sir John, I was asleep but I would have heard him leave. His clothes were where I,’ she smiled quickly, ‘put them the night before.’
‘And is this true of all of you?’
The other three girls nodded in unison.
‘You saw nothing suspicious?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh no, Sir John.’
Cranston dismissed them; he turned back to Dame Broadsheet. ‘This must have cost a pretty penny.’
‘I mentioned that,’ she continued hurriedly, ‘to Alcest: how costly the evening was. He said he’d been to Master Drayton.’
‘Who?’ Cranston leaned across the table.
‘Master Drayton the moneylender. Alcest had taken a loan out.’ She added in a rush, ‘I mean, clerks of the Green Wax are well paid but the evening was costly.’
Cranston sat back, mouth half open. Alcest, he thought, going to a moneylender, offering surety to raise monies for an evening of revelry? And why should he do that? Peslep was a wealthy man. All five clerks would have contributed to the evening. So why a loan? And why Drayton? Why not the Italian bankers down near the Thames?
‘Sir John?’
Cranston stared at Dame Broadsheet. ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Are you well? Would you like to lie down?’ she asked mischievously.
‘No, madam, I would not.’ Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘I am finished with you for the time being.’
‘So there’ll be no bailiffs?’
‘No, madam, there’ll be no bailiffs.’
Cranston walked across the room, beckoning at Flaxwith who was sitting just within the doorway nursing a tankard of ale.
‘What now, Sir John?’ he asked.
‘Go to the Dancing Pig. Ask the landlord there if any of the clerks left during the revelry.’
‘Anything else, Sir John?’
‘Yes, don’t forget Stablegate and Flinstead.’
‘And there’s something else, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, Henry, there is.’ Cranston put an arm round Flaxwith’s shoulder and pulled him closer in order to whisper in his ear. ‘Get your best men. Have this house watched. I wager a jug of wine to a jug of wine that the Vicar of Hell will return!’
Cranston stepped back as the door of the tavern was flung open. Sir Lionel Havant strode in, hand on his sword. He bowed mockingly.
‘Sir John Cranston, I bring a personal invitation from His Grace the Regent. You are to join him in his private chambers at the Savoy Palace.’
Cranston groaned. ‘Sir Lionel, I am tired, my feet ache, I have been tramping the streets, not to mention falling downstairs.’
Sir Lionel smiled. ‘Sir John, it’s one of those invitations I would beg you not to refuse. We are to escort you to the Savoy.’ Havant sucked at his lips. ‘Whether you like it or not.’
Cranston sighed and turned to Flaxwith. ‘Carry out the tasks I have assigned to you. Tell the Lady Maude that I am His Grace’s most honoured guest, so God knows when I’ll crawl into my own bed tonight.’
Cranston went through the doorway. He heard a bark behind him and the coroner grinned slyly. He really should tell Sir Lionel Havant to keep his ankles well out of the nip of Samson’s jaws. I only wish, the coroner thought, I could take that bloody dog to the Savoy where he could piss and nip ankles to his heart’s content.
The funeral of Edwin Chapler at St Erconwald’s the following morning was a solemn and dignified affair. The coffin had been carried in and laid at the entrance to the rood screen; purple candles ringed it whilst Athelstan celebrated a solemn Requiem Mass. Mistress Alison, supported by Benedicta, had maintained a dignified silence even as the coffin on which she placed a single white rose was lifted out of the church and taken to the fresh plot dug by Pike the ditcher just before dawn. The coffin had been lowered into it. Athelstan had sprinkled holy water with the asperges rod then incensed it with the thurible, the fragrance spreading throughout the graveyard. The earth had been piled in and a suitable wooden cross laid over the fresh mound of earth until Tab the tinker made a proper one. Athelstan and Alison were discussing this when a parishioner, Simplicatas, came running out of the church screaming that a miracle had occurred.
‘The new crucifix!’ she cried. ‘Huddle’s crucifix near the baptistry! It’s bleeding!’
Athelstan, followed by the rest, rushed up the steps of the church. A crowd had gathered round the small recess where the crucifix hung. At first Athelstan could not believe his eyes. The wounds on the hands, side, feet and head of the crucified Christ were glistening red. Indeed, one small drop of blood, like a small ruby, was ready to drip down. Huddle was kneeling there, hands joined; on either side of him Watkin and Pike the ditcher, reminding Athelstan of the Three Wise Men before the crib.
‘Huddle!’ Athelstan bellowed. ‘Is this some trick of yours?’ He nearly added that miracles couldn’t occur in a place like St Erconwald’s but bit back the words.