front of Athelstan. ‘But it’s not as difficult as this problem, eh?’
Athelstan picked up his crude drawing of the Guildhall garden. ‘How?’ he muttered, conscious of Cranston breathing noisily in his ear. ‘How could such a murder occur?’
‘Never mind that,’ growled the Coroner. ‘Let’s think about who? Hell’s tits!’ he muttered, answering his own question. ‘The possibilities are legion, and amongst them that group of whoreson codpieces who richly deserve a hempen necklace round their necks!’
Athelstan stared at the Coroner. ‘I didn’t know you cared so much, Sir John?’
‘They are,’ Cranston continued, getting into his stride, ‘a group of foul, wrinkled, double-speaking, painted turds!’ He knocked Athelstan’s piece of parchment aside and crumbled the remnants of the piece of bread he had been nibbling. ‘At the Guildhall this afternoon, my dear monk . . .’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘Same thing!’ he mumbled. ‘This afternoon we met the finest collection of rogues who ever graced this kingdom.’ Cranston placed one lump of bread on the table. ‘We have the Guild masters, the devil’s own henchmen. So full of oily grease, if you set a torch to them they’d burn for ever. They hate each other, and resent the Crown whilst each and all would love to control London. Any one of these or all together could have murdered Mountjoy.
‘Second,’ another lump of bread appeared on the table, ‘we have Gaunt’s party. God knows what that subtle prince is up to. He may desire the Crown or at least to be its master. He wants to control the London mob and needs the Guildmasters’ gold to achieve this. Next,’ a third piece of crust appeared, ‘we have the King’s party. Now our young prince is not yet of age, but followers like Hussey would love to break the power of the Regent and replace him with their good selves. Then we have the Great Community of the Realm, the peasant leaders with their secret council and mysterious leader named Ira Dei. Finally, we have the unknown. Was Mountjoy killed for personal rather than political reasons?’
Cranston lowered his voice. ‘Who knows? It could have been Boscombe or, indeed, anyone in London. I wager if you called a meeting of those who hated the Sheriff, there wouldn’t even be standing room in St Paul’s Cathedral and the line of those waiting to get in would stretch all the way down to the Thames.’
‘But, Sir John, the knife bore the name Ira Dei?’
‘Oh, come, come, clever friar,’ Sir John boomed.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I am sure some assassin turned up when all those notables were gathered in the Guildhall and asked for directions so he could kill the Sheriff! It’s obvious,’ Cranston stated, drawing himself up, his white whiskers quivering. ‘I only speak aloud what that double-faced group of bastards secretly know. The assassin was
already
in the Guildhall. Neither the Regent nor that fat slob Goodman reported any stranger being seen in or around their blessed Guildhall.’
Athelstan grinned. ‘
Concedo
, O most perceptive of Coroners. So this matter becomes more tangled?’
‘Of course.’ Cranston picked up the morsels of bread.
‘And what if,’ he speculated, ‘there’s an alliance between all these groups? An unholy conjunction, as between Pilate and Herod?’
‘If that’s the case,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we have a list of complexities which defies logical analysis. The Guildmasters may not be united. They may be divided or even treacherous, paying court to both Gaunt and the peasant faction.’
‘Or worse still,’ Cranston intervened, ‘the Guildmasters could be courting Gaunt, the King and the peasant leaders.’ He waved one podgy hand. ‘Perhaps only one of the Guildmasters is a traitor? Or did Gaunt have Mountjoy killed because he was the one worm in their rose?’ Athelstan put up both hands ‘I agree, Sir John. How Sir Gerard was murdered is a mystery. Who murdered
Athelstan picked up his crude drawing of the Guildhall garden. ‘How?’ he muttered, conscious of Cranston breathing noisily in his ear. ‘How could such a murder occur?’
‘Never mind that,’ growled the Coroner. ‘Let’s think about who? Hell’s tits!’ he muttered, answering his own question. ‘The possibilities are legion, and amongst them that group of whoreson codpieces who richly deserve a hempen necklace round their necks!’
Athelstan stared at the Coroner. ‘I didn’t know you cared so much, Sir John?’
‘They are,’ Cranston continued, getting into his stride, ‘a group of foul, wrinkled, double-speaking, painted turds!’ He knocked Athelstan’s piece of parchment aside and crumbled the remnants of the piece of bread he had been nibbling. ‘At the Guildhall this afternoon, my dear monk . . .’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘Same thing!’ he mumbled. ‘This afternoon we met the finest collection of rogues who ever graced this kingdom.’ Cranston placed one lump of bread on the table. ‘We have the Guild masters, the devil’s own henchmen. So full of oily grease, if you set a torch to them they’d burn for ever. They hate each other, and resent the Crown whilst each and all would love to control London. Any one of these or all together could have murdered Mountjoy.
‘Second,’ another lump of bread appeared on the table, ‘we have Gaunt’s party. God knows what that subtle prince is up to. He may desire the Crown or at least to be its master. He wants to control the London mob and needs the Guildmasters’ gold to achieve this. Next,’ a third piece of crust appeared, ‘we have the King’s party. Now our young prince is not yet of age, but followers like Hussey would love to break the power of the Regent and replace him with their good selves. Then we have the Great Community of the Realm, the peasant leaders with their secret council and mysterious leader named Ira Dei. Finally, we have the unknown. Was Mountjoy killed for personal rather than political reasons?’
Cranston lowered his voice. ‘Who knows? It could have been Boscombe or, indeed, anyone in London. I wager if you called a meeting of those who hated the Sheriff, there wouldn’t even be standing room in St Paul’s Cathedral and the line of those waiting to get in would stretch all the way down to the Thames.’
‘But, Sir John, the knife bore the name Ira Dei?’
‘Oh, come, come, clever friar,’ Sir John boomed.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I am sure some assassin turned up when all those notables were gathered in the Guildhall and asked for directions so he could kill the Sheriff! It’s obvious,’ Cranston stated, drawing himself up, his white whiskers quivering. ‘I only speak aloud what that double-faced group of bastards secretly know. The assassin was
already
in the Guildhall. Neither the Regent nor that fat slob Goodman reported any stranger being seen in or around their blessed Guildhall.’
Athelstan grinned. ‘
Concedo
, O most perceptive of Coroners. So this matter becomes more tangled?’
‘Of course.’ Cranston picked up the morsels of bread.
‘And what if,’ he speculated, ‘there’s an alliance between all these groups? An unholy conjunction, as between Pilate and Herod?’
‘If that’s the case,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we have a list of complexities which defies logical analysis. The Guildmasters may not be united. They may be divided or even treacherous, paying court to both Gaunt and the peasant faction.’
‘Or worse still,’ Cranston intervened, ‘the Guildmasters could be courting Gaunt, the King and the peasant leaders.’ He waved one podgy hand. ‘Perhaps only one of the Guildmasters is a traitor? Or did Gaunt have Mountjoy killed because he was the one worm in their rose?’ Athelstan put up both hands ‘I agree, Sir John. How Sir Gerard was murdered is a mystery. Who murdered
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