‘So,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘you know nothing about the Lombard treasure or your two comrades being chosen to accept it; you spent that night here in the tavern, you have no knowledge of why Guinevere hinted that she should soon have a change in station, and you have no knowledge of what happened to the treasure, Culpepper and Mortimer?’
‘I speak for us all,’ Sir Maurice abruptly declared. ‘We would also like to know why we are being kept here, and why,’ he added, glaring bitterly at Cranston, ‘two of our comrades, Sir Laurence and Sir Stephen, have been slain, yet their assassin has not been caught.’
‘We are searching for the assassin,’ Cranston stood, pushing back the chair, ‘and until we find that person, everyone in this room, not to mention the Judas Man and Brother Malachi, is regarded as a suspect.’
Athelstan repacked his writing satchel, aware of the ominous silence. Once outside, Cranston put a finger to his lips. He crossed the stable yard and entered the street.
‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, adjusting the strap of his writing satchel over his shoulder, ‘that Culpepper or Mortimer, or indeed both of them, could still be alive, and be responsible for these murders? Where is the Judas Man, and Brother Malachi? They have questions to answer.’
‘Oh, I forgot to ask them that.’
Cranston told Athelstan to wait, and strode back into the tavern. The friar waited impatiently, watching two boys play with an inflated pig’s bladder, only to be distracted by two little girls chasing a rat they had disturbed in a rubbish heap. The sun had disappeared. Athelstan felt cold and hungry, and leaned against the gate post.
‘It’s time to pray,’ he whispered. ‘To eat and sleep.’
‘Well,’ Cranston came striding back through the gate, ‘I asked my question and nobody could help.’
‘Yes, Sir John?’
‘Did any of them hire the Judas Man? They could tell me nothing, not even his true name. I wonder,’ Cranston tapped his boot on the cobbles, ‘I wonder if the Judas Man was hired, or does he have something to do with those events twenty years ago? I have checked the stables. His horse and harness are still there. I’ll get my searchers out. If necessary I’ll arrest him.’
‘Very good, Sir John.’
‘You look tired,’ Cranston said kindly. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your prayers, monk, I’ll see what the Lady Maud has been doing.’
Cranston walked off down the street.
‘Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother?’ Cranston turned.
‘I’m a friar.’
‘And a very good one too. Good day to you, Brother.’
Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Some of the parish children were playing in the cemetery. He walked up the steps to the church and into the gloomy nave. He lit some tapers at the Lady Altar and, picking one up, walked round the sanctuary. He visited the chantry chapel and noticed the tapers lying on the floor. The missal was gone, and his curiosity deepened when he found it lying down the nave near a pillar. He hurried across to his house. Nothing seemed amiss, but as soon as he turned the key in the lock, he realised something was wrong, though the kitchen was swept and clean, and the fire built high.
‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry.’
The friar glanced up in surprise as Brother Malachi came down the ladder from the bed loft. The Benedictine looked as if he had been deeply asleep. Warming his hands over the fire, Malachi told Athelstan all about his visit to the church: how he had been attacked and fled to the house for safety.
‘Strange,’ he smiled, ‘I never thought a church could be so dangerous. Brother, I had no choice, there was no one around. I forced the shutters and hid; I dared not go out.’
‘I saw no sign of your attacker in the church or cemetery.’
‘Once I was in here,’ Brother Malachi declared, ‘there was no further attack. I think my assailant fled.’
Athelstan reassured him that he had done the right thing, whilst trying to control his anger at the way the attacker had used his church for murder and sacrilege.
‘He threw knives? You are sure of that?’
‘Very sure, Brother. Two narrowly missed my face; they were long, thin and ugly. I thought I would die from fright. I went into the church to think, to make my devotions. I do not like that tavern. I am now highly distrustful of my companions. My days with them are ended.’
He held up his maimed hand.
‘I have known them for longer than I care to think. I have eaten, drunk, lived, slept and fought with them.’
‘Do you think one of them was your assailant?’
‘Perhaps.’ Malachi rubbed the side of his face. ‘And yet, I know those knights. My assailant moved swiftly, a dagger man, and unless I am mistaken, that is not a skill shared by any of those knights.’
‘Let us see, let us see.’
Athelstan took Malachi back into the church. They lit candles and carefully searched but, apart from the splintered wood in the entrance to the chantry chapel, Athelstan could find no sign of any knife.
‘I’ll get Crispin the carpenter to see to the wood.’ Athelstan patted Malachi on the arm. ‘If you wish, you can stay with me. You would feel safer, wouldn’t you?’
The Benedictine nodded. ‘I’ll go back later to collect my belongings. If you could shelter me, Brother, when this is all over, before I leave,’ he offered, ‘I’ll make good any damage or inconvenience I may have caused.’
Athelstan walked him back to the house, describing what had happened that day. He talked whilst he prepared the evening meal, laying out the tranchers. From its hook in the buttery he brought a roll of cured spiced ham, yesterday’s bread, small pots of butter and honey and a pitcher of ale. He recited the Benedicite and sat down.
‘Did you know the Misericord?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I remember him vaguely as a lad, a cheeky-faced boy who had the run of Master Rolles’ tavern, nothing significant. I’m sorry for his death. God assoil him and give him good rest. Brother, I was not in Cheapside today.’ Malachi grinned. ‘I can tell from your eyes you must be suspicious about everyone.’
‘The Judas Man?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Athelstan, I know nothing of him either, nor do I know anything about Master Rolles or Mother Veritable. The knights? I thought they were honourable men, boisterous when young, valiant warriors in war, respectable and upright in their mature years.’
‘Do you think they could have killed your brother and stolen the treasure?’
‘How could they?’ Malachi glanced away. ‘On the night the treasure was taken, they were drunk. I was across the river visiting brethren at Charterhouse. The next morning I saw them; they were totally dispirited, indeed, irritable. Brother Athelstan, I went to Outremer with these men, I slept beside them on ship, on shore, in the desert. I fought with them before the walls of Alexandria. I heard their confessions. If they owned the treasure it would have been obvious. The mice in your church are richer than they were. They were pressed for money, even to eat and drink. When the ship docked at Genoa to take on supplies they had to pawn some of their own weapons and beg loans from their comrades.’
‘But couldn’t they have stolen the treasure and hidden it until their return?’
‘It’s possible.’ The Benedictine pushed away his trancher, picked up a piece of cheese and chewed on it slowly. ‘My order has houses the length and breadth of this kingdom, from Cornwall to the mountains of Scotland. I made enquiries through them; sometimes our abbots act as bankers. I have also circulated lists to the guilds of goldsmiths and jewellers in London, Bristol, Nottingham, Carlisle and even in the Cinque Ports. I promised rewards for any sign of the Lombard treasure being found.’
‘How did you know the description of that treasure?’
‘I went to see Teodora Tonnelli, head of the Lombard banking house in London. He still does business here. He gave me a complete list of what was stolen. He, too, offered a reward.’