‘Helena Mortimer?’ the ale-wife replied. ‘What business do you have with her?’
She studied this large man with his beaver cap and fur-lined robe, who drank her ale, smacking his lips in appreciation. Cranston fished beneath his robe and brought out his seal of office.
‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’
The ale-wife became all flustered, snatched the tankard from his hand and almost hurried him out through the door, pointing him further down the street.
‘The second house past the shop. You’ll find the door open. Helena lives on the bottom floor.’
Cranston thanked her, and when he reached the place, almost collided with a small, swarthy woman, her black hair lined with grey, coming out of the door. She had a round, smiling face with smooth skin, and gracefully accepted, in a lilting voice, Cranston’s apologies.
‘Helena Mortimer?’
‘The same.’
The woman stepped back in alarm; Cranston produced his seal.
‘I must have words with you about your brother Edward.’
‘Have you found him?’
‘Not yet, mistress.’
Helena led him back into the house along a narrow, stone-flagged chamber carefully swept and washed. She unlocked a door and took him into a small chamber with a casement window which looked out on to a herber plot. The room was neatly furnished, coloured cloths hung against the white walls, the chairs and stools were of dark polished oak. She invited him to sit on one side of the mantle hearth while she took off her robe and perched herself on a high-legged stool, feet almost dangling. She reminded Cranston of a small, pretty bird, head to one side, eyes bright and watchful.
‘What made you think we’d found your brother?’
‘Just a moment, Sir John.’
Helena rose and, rubbing her hands, took a padded linen cloth and lifted across the small brazier to stand between them.
‘Oh, he must still be alive.’
She got up again and went to a coffer, and with a jingle of keys opened the lock and threw back the lid. She brought across a white woollen pouch tied at the neck and stamped with the red lion rampant of the Mortimer family.
‘Every quarter,’ she announced proudly, ‘at Easter, midsummer, Michaelmas and Christmas, I receive a pouch, like this,’ she leaned forward, eyes gleaming, ‘containing five pounds sterling.’
‘A generous amount.’
She was intrigued by Cranston’s disbelief.
‘Honestly, Sir John. Every quarter Master James Lundy, Goldsmith of Cheapside, sends one of his apprentices with such a pouch. It’s what Edward promised. You see,’ she chatted on, ‘we Mortimers are from Wales. We are related, very distantly, to the Mortimer family; our kinsman is the Earl of March. Well,’ she warmed to her story, ‘Edward and I were the youngest children of a third son. .’
As she gabbled on about the family history, Cranston, totally bemused, continued to stare at her.
‘I see, I see,’ he interrupted kindly. ‘So you, and your brother, left Wales? He was a master swordsman and archer?’
‘He soon received preferment in the retinues of the great lords. He served Edward the Black Prince, Sir Walter Manny and John of Gaunt before moving to Kent, where I met Richard Culpepper. I truly loved Richard — no, not in the carnal sense, Sir John; he became like another brother. Edward and Richard were inseparable, two eyes in the same head I called them. Richard always looked after Edward. I wasn’t too fond of Culpepper’s brother Thomas, the Benedictine monk, too severe and pious for my liking.’
‘And what about the others?’ Cranston asked.
‘Well, they were kind enough. One of them, Chandler, that’s right, he had lecherous eyes and sweaty hands. Edward challenged him to a duel so he left me alone.’
‘Have you been married, mistress?’
‘Oh no, Sir John, spinster of the parish, though I have my admirers. There’s Master Sturmy, he’s a blacksmith, and John Roper, he’s a-’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Mistress, you heard about the great robbery of the Lombard treasure?’
The change in the woman was remarkable. Her face drained, her lips pursed. She looked at Sir John as if she should dismiss him from her house. ‘My brother was guilty of no crime. Something must have happened.’
‘Of course, mistress.’ Cranston took off his gloves and warmed his fingers over the brazier. ‘But it’s a great mystery, isn’t it? I know a great deal about your brother,’ he continued. ‘I realise he wasn’t a thief.’
Helena’s smile returned to her face, and she offered Sir John a cup of malmsey, which he gratefully accepted.
‘Just tell me your story, mistress.’
‘Twenty years ago,’ she replied in that sing-song voice, ‘around midsummer, we came into London. Edward and Richard were all excited about the great expedition to Outremer. Edward found me lodgings in Candlewick Street. I was left to my own devices, although he and Richard would often visit me on their way down to the Tower.’
‘They often went there?’ Cranston became aware of how quiet the house had fallen; he started at a sound from the passageway.
‘Just mice,’ Helena smiled, ‘and yes, they often went to the Tower.’ She leaned forward. ‘Secret business, Sir John.’
‘Which was?’
‘I don’t know, it was secret.’
‘And Edward never told you?’
‘Oh no, he told me how Richard had fallen in love. I was a little bit jealous and said how lonely I had become, so sometimes they took me to the Tower with them. I was all amazed, Sir John, not even the castles in Wales are like that.’
‘Whom did they meet?’
‘It must have been His Grace, John of Gaunt; both Edward and Richard were closeted with him. I was young and carefree and paid little attention. Edward did his best for me. He said he would buy me this house.’
‘What?’ Cranston almost dropped his cup of malmsey. ‘I thought your brother was poor?’
‘So did I, Sir John. One day he announced he had been given a commission, good gold and silver.’
‘And Richard?’
‘I don’t know, perhaps he was given money too? But, knowing what I do, he probably gave it to his leman, the golden-haired one he often talked about. I chose this house. Poor Jewry is not too wealthy but not too poor. After the Great Plague, prices had fallen. It has five chambers above. I let these out to scholars from the Inns of Court. Edward promised he would bring back a treasure from Outremer, and every quarter I would receive five pounds sterling.’
‘And when did these payments begin?’
‘Well,’ she glanced up at the ceiling, at the small Catherine wheel of candles dangling from its gleaming black chain, ‘Edward’s companions returned to England about two or three years afterwards. I hadn’t heard from my brother, but it was around then that the payments began.’
‘Now look, mistress.’ Cranston put his cup on the floor and grasped her hand. Helena’s smile widened. Cranston felt a deep sadness. This woman truly adored and loved her brother, she could believe no ill of him; for years she had refused to confront the truth. ‘Mistress,’ he repeated, ‘here we have a great mystery. Your brother Edward disappeared, he did not go to Outremer. No one knows where he is, not even you, but four times a year for the last seventeen years you receive five pounds sterling, a goodly amount! Surely you must ask yourself where your brother is? Why doesn’t he visit you? How does he send this money to the goldsmith? He was a landless swordman, what profits did he have?’