‘The boatmen, they left widows, families?’
‘Just widows.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘And one of them has died too, drowned washing clothes! Silly woman, she always insisted on drinking ale.’ He wagged a finger in the coroner’s face. ‘Ale and the river don’t mix.’
‘And the other widow?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, that’s fat Margot. She’s left Southwark, sells fish in Billingsgate.’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan declared, ‘after Mass, bring fat Margot to see me.’
Moleskin agreed. Athelstan and Cranston continued their journey. When they arrived at the Night in Jerusalem, Master Rolles was acting all busy in the tap room. He was surly in his greeting, muttering under his breath at how busy he was.
‘I have gathered the rest,’ he declared, wiping his hands. ‘They’re in the solar. Sir John, what is this all about?’
The taverner’s black eyes were almost hidden by creases of fat; his annoyance, however, was obvious, in his petulant whine and the way he kept looking longingly towards the kitchen, where cooks and scullions were busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment.
‘Why, Master Rolles, it’s murder!’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ the taverner muttered.
‘Mine host,’ Cranston slapped him hard on the shoulder, ‘four corpses have been found in your tavern, whilst the Misericord is dead.’
Master Rolles gaped.
‘Dead?’ he spluttered. ‘But he was taken safe to Newgate.’
‘He was safe,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but now he is dead! Poisoned in his cell.’
Rolles immediately ushered them into the solar. The knights were there, surly-eyed and bitter-mouthed, openly seething at Cranston’s peremptory summons, as was Mother Veritable, who made her annoyance obvious by turning away, more interested in what was happening in the garden beyond.
Cranston sat at the top of the table, Athelstan beside him.
‘You seem impatient with us,’ the coroner began, ‘so I’ll be blunt. I’m in no mood for niceties. Where were you all this afternoon?’
He paused while Athelstan undid his writing satchel and laid out a piece of vellum on the table along with his writing instruments.
‘Well?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Where were you all?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Maurice Clinton broke in. I can vouch for that, as can Master Rolles.’ The knight gestured at the taverner. ‘I can also vouch for him.’
‘And you, Mother Veritable?’ Cranston asked sweetly.
‘Why, Sir Jack,’ her voice was rich with sarcasm, ‘I have been here since noon at Master Rolles’ request. We were discussing the burial of poor Beatrice and Clarice.’
‘And none of you left?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The gentlemen,’ Master Rolles declared, ‘rose late, broke their fast, and either stayed in their chambers, sat in the garden or, after noon, dined here. Ask any of the maids or scullions. You had best tell them, Sir John, what has really happened.’
‘The Misericord is dead,’ Cranston declared. ‘He was kept safe in a cell at Newgate, but someone passed him a pie claiming it was a gift from me. The pie was poisoned. .’
Athelstan watched their faces for any reaction. The knights seemed unconcerned, whilst Mother Veritable just shrugged, a bitter twist to her mouth.
‘Look around you, Sir John,’ Sir Maurice urged. ‘Who is missing?’
‘The Judas Man.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘In fact, I haven’t seen him since this morning. And where is Brother Malachi?’
‘Why should we be interrogated,’ Sir Reginald Branson coughed, ‘because a rogue, undoubtedly bound for the hangman, had his pie laced with poison?’
His words provoked laughter, which Cranston stilled by banging on the table.
‘The Judas Man,’ Athelstan asked, ‘is his horse still in the stable?’
‘Yes,’ Rolles replied, ‘I saw it there myself. If you want, I’ll check his chamber.’
They all waited as the taverner left the solar and, complaining loudly, stamped up the stairs. He returned a short while later.
‘The door was off the latch,’ he declared, retaking his seat, ‘but the chamber is empty. All his goods, saddlebags,’ he spread his hands, ‘gone.’
‘But not his horse?’
‘No, Brother, neither his horse nor the harness. Perhaps the Judas Man has hired another chamber?’
‘I wouldn’t blame him,’ Sir Thomas Davenport grumbled. ‘Master Cranston, if we want to, we should be able to leave here.’
‘Sir John, to you,’ Cranston snapped, ‘and I assure you, sir, that if you leave Southwark, I’ll have you arrested and dragged back at my horse’s tail.’
‘Enough!’ Athelstan’s raised voice created a surprised silence. ‘Why this hostility?’ the Dominican continued. ‘Five people have been foully murdered, their souls sent to God before their time. Beneath such murders the events of twenty years ago, the Lombard treasure being stolen, and again five souls disappeared. God knows if they were murdered or not.’
‘Brother, that’s a closed book,’ Sir Maurice countered. ‘The truth couldn’t be established then.’
‘Surely you know the proverb, Sir Maurice: truth is the daughter of time. If we resolve the mystery of twenty years ago, we shall be able to establish the truth now.’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Cranston. ‘So, none of you left the tavern this afternoon and, therefore, were probably not involved in the murder of the Misericord.’
‘Probably?’ Mother Veritable spat out.
‘Well, mistress, you may not have left the tavern, but a man you hated lies murdered.’
Mother Veritable sneered, tapping her fingers on the table.
‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued blithely, ‘the Lombard treasure was stolen. Master Rolles owned this tavern and the Knights of the Golden Falcon were staying here.’
They all agreed.
‘On that particular night you gathered here. The only two persons missing were Richard Culpepper and Edward Mortimer.’
‘Brother Malachi wasn’t here.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘He had been absent all day visiting Charterhouse and Clerkenwell. He didn’t return until afterwards, when the news of the robbery was all over the city.’
‘Very good.’ Athelstan folded back the full sleeves of his gown. ‘Whilst you stayed here, Richard Culpepper fell smitten with the courtesan known as Guinevere the Golden. That is correct?’
Sir Maurice agreed; Mother Veritable echoed the word ‘smitten’ under her breath.
‘Mistress, you find this funny?’
‘Yes, I do, Brother,’ came the cool reply. ‘Everybody was smitten with Guinevere, whilst she was smitten with anyone who had gold and silver.’
‘Guinevere hinted,’ Athelstan declared, ‘that there was to be a change in her life. Do any of you know what she was referring to?’
‘She was a whore!’ Davenport shouted. ‘We can’t be held responsible for what went on in her pretty empty noddle.’
‘So none of you were smitten with her?’
‘Well of course not!’ Branson spoke up, his face all aflush. ‘Culpepper was our comrade; each to their own, I say.’
‘Did Culpepper or Mortimer,’ Athelstan continued, ‘tell you why they had been chosen to receive the Lombard treasure and transport it to the flagship?’
‘No.’ Maurice shook his head. ‘We only found that out later. Apparently, as I’ve said, Lord Belvers chose them especially, though rumour claimed His Grace the Regent was responsible.’
‘Why?’
‘They’d both fought in John of Gaunt’s retinue. He was, I suppose, their liege lord.’
‘Both of them?’ Cranston queried. ‘Culpepper is a Kentish name, but Mortimer, that’s a name from South Wales, isn’t it?’
‘True, Sir John. Mortimer was Culpepper’s friend and comrade — a mercenary who often frequented our company, a good swordsman and a master bowman. Culpepper and Mortimer were like two peas in a pod. During the days before the great robbery they were often absent; they acted rather mysteriously, not telling us where they were going or what they were doing.’
‘And you never questioned them?’
‘Well, of course, Brother, we were curious, but those were very busy days: the fleet preparing to sail, men seeking out friends and comrades, and, of course, there was always the attraction of Guinevere the Golden.’