Cranston, however, acted as if she was an old friend, flattered and fussed her. She winked wickedly back at him, slyly insinuating that she would satisfy all his wants.
'Enough of that, you wicked wench!' Cranston teased. 'Food and ale first, then other comforts perhaps.' He dropped one eyelid. 'Later.'
The ale wife went away cackling and came back to serve both of them huge tankards slopping over with ale and a shared platter of meat mixed with onions and leeks swimming in a sea of grease. Cranston stuffed his mouth. He downed one tankard and, when the friar nodded, helped himself to the second.
'You are not eating, Brother?'
Athelstan toyed with the food on the platter in front of him.
'I don't feel hungry. I am wondering what we do next.'
Cranston, his mouth full of food, stared up at the blackened ceiling, coveting the leg of ham hooked there to be cured in the smoke.
'There's nothing much to do,' he replied. 'We have our suspicions but no proof. Oh, there's something wrong, we all know there is. Two suicides, one murder… but no proof whatsoever, no evidence. We should file our record, send copies to the sheriff, go back and tell Chief Justice Fortescue that whatever secret Springall had died with him, and then return to our normal business.'
'There's something wrong,' Athelstan repeated. He peered across the tavern, watching a group of men busy baiting a relic-seller who claimed he had Aaron's beard in a sack and was prepared to sell it to them for a few coins.
'It's like grasping a slippery fish or a greasy pole. You think you have it, then it slips away.'
Cranston stuck his red, bulbous nose into a tankard, took one slurp and slammed it down on the table.
'Very well, Brother, what is wrong? What do you think?'
'I believe there were no suicides. I think all three deaths were murder, and I think the murderer still walks!'
'And your proof?'
'Nothing, just a feeling of unease.'
'Oh, for God's sake!' Cranston bellowed. 'What do we have here? A merchant who likes riddles is murdered by his servant, who later hangs himself; a small, fat, morose man who thinks he is a Hector with the ladies and, when he realises he is not, goes out and hangs himself. A few riddles written on paper. Let's face the truth. That group over there,' he nodded in the direction of the Springall mansion, 'do not mourn for anyone. I suspect they are glad Sir Thomas is dead! And Brampton! And Vechey! More money, less fingers in the pot and a larger portion of the spoils. All you can feel, Brother, is human greed. Look around, there's a whole sea of it lapping at us everywhere we walk, sit, eat, and pray!' He glared at the friar. 'Come, Brother,' he concluded wearily, 'let us tie the ends of this and call it suicide.'
'In a while,' Athelstan murmured.
He asked for a cup of water, finished it, and leaving Cranston to his drinking, went outside. It was now mid- afternoon. The stalls and booths along Cheapside were plying a busy trade, the shouts of their keepers and the bold imprecations of the apprentices creating an unbearable din. A knight broke through on his way to a local joust or tournament, his steel codpiece carved as large as a bull's whilst the helmet which swung from his saddle bow was fashioned in the macabre mask of a hangman. The helmet gave Athelstan an idea. He was curious and, shouldering his way through the crowd, made his way to St Mary Le Bow.
Father Matthew was resting, Athelstan suspected he was half drunk, but he welcomed the friar cheerily enough, trying to force a cup of Rhenish into his hand. Athelstan promptly refused, for the few mouthfuls of ale he had already drunk bit at his stomach. He also felt rather sick when he recalled how in the ale house he had just left, he had seen a hen roosting on the brim of an uncovered beer tub. He just hoped the ale wife strained the ale before she served it to Sir John! Chicken dung would not do even the coroner's innards any good.
The priest listened to Athelstan carefully.
'Yes, yes,' he murmured. He knew the Springalls, a good but rather secretive family. They attended Mass on Sundays, they gave generously to the poor, the chancery priest sometimes celebrated Mass at St Mary's. They were always generous at Christmas, Epiphany and Maundy.
'And the funeral of Sir Thomas?' Athelstan asked.
'It will take place tomorrow morning. Once the Requiem Mass is sung, the coffin will be buried here.'
'And Brampton, the suicide?'
The priest, lounging in his chair, shrugged, wiping his greasy hands on his gown.
'What can we do? Brampton has no relatives and he is a suicide. Canon Law has laid down…'
'I know what Canon Law says,' Athelstan snapped back. 'But for God's sake, man, Christ's mercy!'
The priest made a face. 'Oh, he will be given a burial.'
'Where is the body?'
'In the death house, a small hut behind the church near the graveyard.'
'May I have a look?'
'The man is sheeted already with a canvas cloth.'
Athelstan dug in his purse and took out a silver coin. 'If I rip the cloth open, you will have it resewn. Surely some old lady in the parish?'
Father Matthew nodded and the silver coin disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. 'Do what you want!' he muttered.
He leant over to where keys hung on hooks in the wall and took a huge, rusting one down. 'You will need this.' He went into the small scullery and came back with a pomander, a ball of cloth stuffed with cloves and herbs. 'Hold it to your nose. The stench will be terrible.'
Athelstan took the key and the pomander, left the priest's house and walked down the length of the church to the derelict hut beyond. The door was barred and bolted. The huge padlock seemed oddly out of place for anyone could have broken in if they had wished. He inserted the key, released the padlock and the door creaked open. Inside it was dark and musty. A strange, sour smell pervaded the air. An ancient tallow candle stood fixed in its grease on one of the cross-beams, with a tinder beside it. Athelstan took it, lit the candle, and the room flared into life.
Brampton's corpse lay on the ground, covered in a dirty, yellowing canvas sheet, inexpertly sewed up. Athelstan carefully ripped the canvas open with the small knife he always carried. The stench was terrible. Putrefaction had already set in. Used to the sight and the smell of the dead, Athelstan did not feel queasy, though now and again he held the pomander to his nose for a welcome respite. Brampton now looked hideous. His face had turned a blueish-yellow and his stomach was swollen, straining against the thin linen shirt. The friar studied the body carefully; the shirt, the hose, but there were no boots. He looked at the soles of the feet, making careful note of what he saw. He then made the sign of the cross, said a Requiem for the poor steward's soul, re-locked the hut, returned the key to the priest and wandered back into Cheapside.
Athelstan stood there dreaming, wondering what was happening in St Erconwald's. Who would feed Godric? Would Bonaventure return or take offence at not being fed by him and disappear forever into the stinking alleyways? He wished he was free of Cranston and this matter; free of Cheapside, back at the top of his tower, staring up at the stars. He leaned against the wall and analysed his guilt- laden thoughts. He missed Benedicta the widow. Her face, innocent and angelic, was always with him. How long had he known her? Six months? He breathed a prayer. He had sinned. Yes, he wished he was back in his church with his beloved sky and charts, standing on the tower, letting the evening breeze cool him as he stared up, lost in the vastness. Was he breaking his vows by wanting that? Should he have become a friar or a student? An astrologer, one of those cowled, bent figures who haunted the halls of Oxford.