Athelstan, Cranston standing beside him, continued the search.
‘Most remarkable.’ Sir John pointed to one document. ‘The ships weren’t riding at anchor off Southwark but between the river fleet and St Paul’s Wharf.’
‘And look,’ Athelstan pointed to a line, ‘there’s no reference, well at first, to the Oyster Wharf. Simply to a great robbery along the river.’ He turned the handle again, moving the document forward. ‘Only a month after the crime is the Oyster Wharf mentioned. Remember what I said, Sir John, about Archimedes. We must go to the right place, and now we have it.’
He paused as Cranston took a deep draught from the miraculous wine skin, offered it to Athelstan, who shook his head, and then to Hubert who, despite his size, surprised Cranston with the generous swig he took.
‘What it means, Sir John,’ Athelstan continued, ‘and we shall have to ask His Grace this question, is why was the Oyster Wharf mentioned, when all the evidence indicates that the robbery took place on the south bank of the river, but much further down? Imagine, Sir John, if you can, the Southwark bank. You pass the Bishop of Winchester’s inn, the stews, the washing places, and then what?’
Cranston closed his eyes. ‘Muddy banks,’ he replied, ‘marshy fields, giving way to mud and shale. Lonely places.’ He opened his eyes. ‘The ideal spot.’
‘Exactly, Sir John, I think that’s where the robbery took place.’
Hubert the clerk was listening intently.
‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ he muttered. ‘By St Mary and all the angels, this is interesting.’
‘It will become common knowledge soon enough.’ Athelstan stood back. ‘Right, Sir John, in that fertile mind of yours, imagine the treasure barge, leaving the Tower. It goes directly across the river, following the bank along the Southwark side, past the Oyster Wharf, down to this lonely spot. Culpepper and Mortimer are waiting with their own barge. They use lanterns or torches to bring the party from the Tower in to where they are waiting. The treasure is exchanged. In the flickering light of the torches, Culpepper hastily signs the indenture.’
Athelstan returned to the Rotulus and found the indenture. ‘Only one word, thesaurum, the Latin word for treasure, indicated the great wealth he received. The document had been drawn up by some clerk. The party from the Tower probably took writing implements with them. Culpepper scrawled his name, “Ricardus Culpepper”, with a cross beside it, and beneath that “Edwardus Mortimer”, who drew a roughly etched lion, his family symbol.’ Athelstan stared at the signatures. Something about them pricked his memory, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the treasure is exchanged, the Tower barge leaves. I’m not too sure when the bargemen arrived, but there, on that dark lonely bank, the demon struck. Whatever people say, I truly believe four souls were sent into eternal night. The treasure chest is stolen, the barge is ransacked and pushed out into the river, where the tide takes it down to some reeds near Westminster.’
‘And the corpses of the four men?’ Cranston asked.
‘I don’t know, Sir John, I truly don’t.’
‘But why all this mention of the Oyster Wharf?’
Athelstan was about to answer when there was a knock on the door. Colebrook entered, grasping a tap boy from the Night in Jerusalem by the scruff of his neck. The lad broke free and hurtled towards Athelstan, almost colliding with him.
‘Brother,’ he gasped. ‘You have to come.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Sir Domus-’
‘Sir Thomas,’ Athelstan corrected.
‘Well, he’s dead,’ the boy retorted, ‘stabbed through the heart with a pricket. Master Rolles is fair raging like a hungry dog on a leash.’
‘When did this happen?’ Cranston asked.
‘This morning,’ the boy declared, eyes riveted on the coin in Athelstan’s hand. ‘A real mystery,’ he whispered. ‘The windows all shuttered, the chamber doors all locked and barred. Master Rolles wasn’t pleased with that either.’ His little eyes didn’t leave the coin. ‘A good door to the Galahad Chamber broken down, bolts and hinges all destroyed. Sir Thomas lying in his own blood like a duck on a stall, fair swimming in blood he was-’
‘Thank you,’ Athelstan interrupted, pressing the coin into the child’s hand. ‘Now lead on, Gabriel.’
‘My name is not Gabriel.’
‘It is today,’ Athelstan smiled.
They thanked Hubert and Colebrook and, with the lad scampering ahead like a monkey released from its chain, left the Lion Gate, up Thames Street and into Billingsgate. They pushed their way through the fish market, thrusting aside the sharp-eyed apprentices eager to sell them the fresh catch of the day. The boy moved like a coursed hare, dodging round the stalls, making obscene gestures at anyone trying to stop him. On the approaches to London Bridge, Cranston had to roar at him to halt whilst he and Athelstan paused to catch their breath.
‘Another murder, Brother,’ the coroner gasped, ‘and it looks as mysterious as the last.’
And they were off again, threading their way through the narrow thoroughfare. They passed the shops and houses built on either side of the bridge, the gaps where the great laystalls stood, full of reeking rubbish from the midden heaps, wary of the makeshift sewer coursing down the centre of the thoroughfare. The stench was sickening. Athelstan hated the place. the bridge rails soared the long ash poles bearing the severed heads of traitors and criminals. The boy had to slow down here, as the crowds thronged, to look over the side and watch the water rushing through, gape up at the severed heads, visit the shops and stalls, or pray in the cold darkness of St Thomas’ Chapel, built in the middle of the bridge directly above the rushing torrent. Athelstan crossed himself as he passed the half-open door. He sketched a blessing in the direction of Bourdon, the diminutive Keeper of the Bridge, who was sitting on the steps of the chapel, between his feet a bucket of brine in which he was washing the severed head of a criminal. Athelstan kept his eyes on the ground. Such sights were offensive, and the dizzying height over the rushing water always made him feel nervous. He was pleased to be off the bridge and hurrying down the lanes and alleyways and into the courtyard of the Night in Jerusalem.
Rolles met them at the door and, like a prophet come to judgement, mournfully took them up the polished oaken staircase into the Galahad Chamber.
‘I told people not to move anything.’
‘Has Brother Malachi been sent for?’ Athelstan asked, staring down at the blood-soaked corpse.
‘He was here much earlier this morning,’ Rolles replied. ‘Then left with his belongings. Good riddance, say I.’
‘Did he come up here? Did he visit Sir Thomas?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, his chamber is on the other side. Anyway, at that time Sir Thomas wasn’t in his chamber but sitting in the garden. He came in, took a cup of malmsey and returned to his chamber. He’d hired the services of one of Mother Veritable’s girls, a whore called Rosamund. I’ve put her in the garden arbour.’
Athelstan turned and looked at the door. The lintel had been ruined; the leather hinges, bolts and locks had torn away huge strips of wood as they were forced.
‘The door was fully secured?’
‘See for yourself, Brother.’
Cranston went across to the window. This was still shuttered, the bar down. The room was very warm, and beneath the faint fragrance of perfume he smelt something else, the tang of blood, of something unwholesome. He opened the shutters and stared at the window with its small latch door which looked as though it hadn’t been opened for days, whilst it was too small for a man to force his way through. He turned back to the corpse, lying slightly on one side, mouth and eyes open, the skin a dirty white. He could tell from the arms and hands that the muscles were stiffening, and reckoned Sir Thomas must have been dead for at least two hours.
Athelstan took napkins from the lavarium and used them as a kneeler beside the corpse. Removing the small wooden cross he wore around his neck, he performed the rites of the dead, blessing the man’s brow, eyes, nose and bloodied mouth, sketching with his thumb as he quickly recited the words of absolution and invited the powers of heaven to go out and meet this soul, to protect him against the hands of the enemy. Athelstan secretly wondered if it was too late. Perhaps the soul had already left the body, its fate resting with the mercy of God. Once finished, he turned the corpse over and, using both hands, pulled out the pricket, an ugly-looking weapon with its broad base, the point as sharp and deadly as any slitting knife. It came out with a gentle plop, and more blood dripped. Athelstan handed the pricket to Cranston and carefully scrutinised the corpse. The flesh was cold and clammy, the muscles hard. He noticed how most of the blood stained the stomach and the lap of the gown. He could detect no other bruise or mark, and when he sniffed the goblet of wine standing on the table, as well as the plate of sweetmeats beside it, no malevolent odour. He picked up a solace stone and felt how it fitted snugly into the palm of his hand.