‘There’s the other mysteries,’ the coroner declared mournfully. ‘In God’s name, Athelstan, how was Chandler poisoned? And that psalter of his, what great wrongs had he done to keep begging forgiveness?’
‘He was a soldier, and only the mind of God knows what horrors he committed in Outremer whilst his lust for soft flesh must have been a canker in his soul. But for his murder? I can’t say, Sir John, and the same for Broomhill. Oh, he was lured into that cellar, but by whom, how and why remain a mystery.’
Athelstan sat on his stool, head in his hands. Cranston stared at him out of the corner of his eye. Such mysteries often perplexed him; he was more concerned that Athelstan, this little dark-faced friar, was mystified. Time was slipping away like sand in a glass. How long could he detain those knights? Sooner or later they would assert themselves and seek the writ of the Chancellor or a Justice of the Bench at Westminster, and he would have to let them go. Athelstan lifted his face and smiled.
‘Now I know,’ he sighed, ‘what the ancients meant by psychomachia.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A Greek term, Sir John, signifying war in the mind or the soul, the conflict of different ideas. Contradictions impede any progress,’ he tapped the side of his head, ‘in all this confusion.’
‘So?’
‘Well, I’ll quote the great Archimedes, and his famous phrase, “Pou-sto”; it means “I act from where I stand”. Archimedes meant that if you stand in the right place with the right instruments, no problem is impossible.’ He gestured round the sombre church. ‘This is where we begin, Sir John, this is our place.’
‘And the right instruments?’
‘Well, I recall my studies of that brilliant Dominican Thomas Aquinas, and his quinque viae.’
‘Oh no,’ Cranston groaned.
‘No, Sir John, Aquinas had to study a more complex problem than the one facing us — the existence of God. He established what he termed the quinque viae, the five ways. To summarise, Sir John, everything must have a cause. So let’s look at the cause of all this, and the place where it all began. Well, my Lord Coroner?’
‘Why, the robbery of the Lombard treasure, twenty years ago on the Oyster Wharf.’
‘Right, let’s start there. We are told the treasure was brought to the wharf.’
‘Yes,’ Sir John grunted.
‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Well, because it was away from the City but near the Crusaders’ fleet.’
‘How do we know that?’
‘Well,’ Cranston spread his hands, ‘it’s the accepted story.’
‘Yes, that’s what intrigues me. Indeed, old Margot was less specific. Would you send treasure to a quayside in Southwark? What guarantee would you have that the quayside would be safe, that footpads and outlaws weren’t sheltering there? The Good Lord knows Southwark has enough of those, and always has. And if you are going to rob it, would you launch an attack on four strong men and just hope that there would be no witnesses? No beggar loitering in the shadows, no footpad sheltering from the law, no lovers locked in close embrace? If you had planned such a robbery you would be taking a terrible risk. After all, you didn’t know John of Gaunt wasn’t sending a company of archers with it.’
‘But that proves Culpepper and Mortimer are guilty,’ Sir John retorted. ‘We now know they were by themselves.’
‘No we don’t. The boatmen must have been accomplices because they have disappeared as well. I know what you are thinking, Sir John, but your hypothesis is weak. I find it difficult to accept that Culpepper and Mortimer received the treasure chest, loaded the barge, persuaded two honest boatmen to go out on the river with them, journeyed to some lonely place, broke the chest open and disappeared into the night for ever. I don’t think, Sir John, that Culpepper and Mortimer stole the treasure, which means others did, which in turn brings us back to the problem of how the attackers felt so secure in robbing a valuable treasure on one of the well-known quaysides of Southwark. Remember, Sir John, the Oyster Wharf is mentioned in all accounts, but according to old Margot, that was only the place her husband was to reclaim his barge. Did he take it there or somewhere else?’
Sir John’s lower lip came out, a sign that he was seriously considering Athelstan’s theory. He held the friar’s bright-eyed gaze and winked.
‘You’re correct, little monk.’
‘Friar, Sir John.’
‘Whatever, you’re still right. I wonder what Moleskin would think of your theory?’
‘Res ipsa loquitur — the matter speaks for itself. Now let’s look for the proof. I know Moleskin is not far, he’ll be plotting with Merrylegs.’
Athelstan hurried out through the main door and down the steps. Cranston heard him shouting at Crim, who was playing hodman in the cemetery. When the friar returned, Cranston was pleased at Athelstan’s ill-concealed excitement. He started walking up and down, fingering the vow knots on the cord round his waist.
‘It can’t be the Oyster Wharf,’ he kept exclaiming, ‘it just can’t be, not with a parish like this nearby.’
So distracted, Athelstan ignored Cranston’s questions about Moleskin and went off to fill the situla with holy water. Only then did he return to sit opposite Sir John.
‘Benedicta has left to deliver the letter,’ he declared. ‘We must question the Regent whether he likes it or not.’
‘Is he behind this mystery? Oh, Jesu miseieie, I hope not.’ Cranston lowered his voice. ‘He’s a veritable salamander. Everything he touches becomes tainted.’
‘Salamander or not,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he has a finger in this pie.’
Athelstan was about to go and trim the candles on the high altar when Moleskin, garbed in sajreen green, the coat of his guild, fashioned out of the untanned skin of a horse and dyed a rich hue, came running through the door.
‘Oh, Brother,’ he gasped, ‘I was with Merrylegs. He’s a marvellous cook and had some pastry to sell to my wife. .’
‘Never mind.’ Athelstan was unusually sharp. ‘Moleskin, you’ve heard the rumours about the great robbery? I ask you in confidence, would you bring a treasure, even in the dead of night, to the Oyster Wharf in Southwark?’
‘No, Father, I wouldn’t, and I’ve often thought about that-’
‘Twenty years ago,’ Athelstan continued, ‘who would be found at the Oyster Wharf at the dead of night?’
‘Well, Father, the usual, whores, a few fishermen, beggars looking for scraps or a place to sleep. Oh!’ Moleskin’s fingers went to his lips. ‘This was twenty years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘The year of our Lord 1360 — the thirty-third year of the old King’s reign?’
‘Yes,’ Cranston barked.
‘Ah!’ Moleskin blithely ignored the coroner’s anger. ‘That would be three years after the year of the Great Stink.’
‘The what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The Great Stink,’ Cranston explained, ‘occurred in the summer of 1357, after a very dry, hot summer. There was no rainfall, the brooks and the canals of the Thames became polluted and full of rubbish. The smell carried as far north as the great forest of Epping.’ He wagged a finger at Moleskin. ‘I know what you are going to say.’
‘That’s right, Sir John, the Stink lasted for years — at least two, I think. Many pious old ladies thought the Second Coming was due and the Seventh Seal on the Judgment Book of God about to be removed, so they formed the Vespertines. Every night after vespers, these pious old creatures would form a torchlight procession, whilst their husbands would carry statues of the plague saints; you know, Sebastian and the rest. They walked along the quaysides of Southwark, praying that God would send fresh rain and a cleaning wind. I was a young man then but I’m sure the Vespertines were still busy about the same time as the great robbery. I can still remember their chanting and prayers, asking God to repel the demons and the foul airs and vapours they’d brought up from hell.’