him . . . well, it could be anyone? So, we are left with one question: why?’
‘And we have already answered that.’ Cranston got up, patted his stomach and beamed down at his clerk. ‘Perhaps Sir Gerard was too much trouble for Gaunt? One thing we do know.’ He drummed his fat fingers on the table top. ‘The object of this game is power and the prize is to be king of the castle and watch the destruction of your enemies. All I can say is, we must trust no one.’
‘My own belief,’ Athelstan replied, ‘is that as this murder occurred on the very day Gaunt cemented his alliance with the city of London, I must conclude Sir Gerard’s death was not the result of a personal feud but a bid to wreck that alliance and sow the seeds of dissension and mistrust. In which case . . .’
‘In which case, what?’ Cranston snapped.
‘In which case, my dear Coroner, before either of us is much older, there will be another murder.’
Cranston, cursing softly, swept the bread from the table and watched as Gog and Magog lumbered over to discover what their master was offering them. The bells of St Mary Le Bow began to chime. Sir John looked up at the darkening sky.
‘Come on, Friar, we are invited to the Regent’s banquet at the Guildhall.’
‘Sir John, I should return to my parish.’
Cranston grinned. ‘The devil’s tits! The Regent has invited you, you have to go!’
Cranston strode back to the house, bellowing for Boscombe. Whilst Athelstan washed and cleaned himself in a bowl of water in the scullery, Sir John went up to his own chamber and dressed in a gown of murrey sarcanet, edged with gold, changing his boots for a more courtly, ornate pair. He came back to the kitchen, red face gleaming, smelling as fragrant as any rose from the ointment he had rubbed into his hands and cheeks.
‘Sir John, you look every inch the Lord Coroner. I am afraid,’ Athelstan looked down at his dusty gown, ‘I have no fresh robe.’
‘You look what you are,’ Cranston retorted, patting him gently on the shoulder. ‘A poor priest, a man of God, Christ’s servant. Believe me, Athelstan, you can wrap a dog’s turd in a cloth of gold but it remains a dog’s turd.’
And, with that pithy piece of homespun wisdom, Cranston roared to the maids, whispered instructions to Boscombe about the dogs, collected his miraculous wineskin and marched down the passageway, Athelstan hurrying behind. Sir John opened the door.
‘Oh, bugger off!’ he roared at red-haired, one-legged Leif the beggar who leaned against the door lintel, his shabby tray slung round his neck. Leif looked as if he was on the verge of collapsing from fatigue and hunger but Athelstan knew he was a consummate actor who ate and drank as heartily as Sir John.
‘Oh,’ whined Leif, ‘my belly’s empty.’
‘Then it suits your head!’
‘Sir John, a crumb of bread, a cup of water?’
‘Pigskins!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You’ve already eaten my supper! You are a hungry, lean-faced villain, Leif.’
‘Sir John, I am a poor man.’
‘Oh, get in,’ muttered Cranston. ‘See Boscombe, he’s my new steward. No, on second thoughts – Boscombe!’ he roared.
The little fellow appeared, as silent as a shadow.
‘This is Leif,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘He’ll eat me out of house and home. Give him some wine but not my claret. There’s bread, soup, and Lady Maude has left a pie in the larder.’
‘Oh, thank you, Sir John.’ Leif hopped down the passageway as nimbly as any squirrel.
‘Oh, by the way.’ Cranston smiled evilly. ‘Leif, my friend, go into the garden. I have two new guests who would love to meet you.’ Then, slamming the door behind him, he went down Cheapside laughing softly.
‘Sir John, was that wise?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about Leif, Athelstan,’ Cranston shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s nimble as a flea, can move faster than you or I. And often has!’ he added.
Cheapside was deserted now except for the dung carts, the
‘And we have already answered that.’ Cranston got up, patted his stomach and beamed down at his clerk. ‘Perhaps Sir Gerard was too much trouble for Gaunt? One thing we do know.’ He drummed his fat fingers on the table top. ‘The object of this game is power and the prize is to be king of the castle and watch the destruction of your enemies. All I can say is, we must trust no one.’
‘My own belief,’ Athelstan replied, ‘is that as this murder occurred on the very day Gaunt cemented his alliance with the city of London, I must conclude Sir Gerard’s death was not the result of a personal feud but a bid to wreck that alliance and sow the seeds of dissension and mistrust. In which case . . .’
‘In which case, what?’ Cranston snapped.
‘In which case, my dear Coroner, before either of us is much older, there will be another murder.’
Cranston, cursing softly, swept the bread from the table and watched as Gog and Magog lumbered over to discover what their master was offering them. The bells of St Mary Le Bow began to chime. Sir John looked up at the darkening sky.
‘Come on, Friar, we are invited to the Regent’s banquet at the Guildhall.’
‘Sir John, I should return to my parish.’
Cranston grinned. ‘The devil’s tits! The Regent has invited you, you have to go!’
Cranston strode back to the house, bellowing for Boscombe. Whilst Athelstan washed and cleaned himself in a bowl of water in the scullery, Sir John went up to his own chamber and dressed in a gown of murrey sarcanet, edged with gold, changing his boots for a more courtly, ornate pair. He came back to the kitchen, red face gleaming, smelling as fragrant as any rose from the ointment he had rubbed into his hands and cheeks.
‘Sir John, you look every inch the Lord Coroner. I am afraid,’ Athelstan looked down at his dusty gown, ‘I have no fresh robe.’
‘You look what you are,’ Cranston retorted, patting him gently on the shoulder. ‘A poor priest, a man of God, Christ’s servant. Believe me, Athelstan, you can wrap a dog’s turd in a cloth of gold but it remains a dog’s turd.’
And, with that pithy piece of homespun wisdom, Cranston roared to the maids, whispered instructions to Boscombe about the dogs, collected his miraculous wineskin and marched down the passageway, Athelstan hurrying behind. Sir John opened the door.
‘Oh, bugger off!’ he roared at red-haired, one-legged Leif the beggar who leaned against the door lintel, his shabby tray slung round his neck. Leif looked as if he was on the verge of collapsing from fatigue and hunger but Athelstan knew he was a consummate actor who ate and drank as heartily as Sir John.
‘Oh,’ whined Leif, ‘my belly’s empty.’
‘Then it suits your head!’
‘Sir John, a crumb of bread, a cup of water?’
‘Pigskins!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You’ve already eaten my supper! You are a hungry, lean-faced villain, Leif.’
‘Sir John, I am a poor man.’
‘Oh, get in,’ muttered Cranston. ‘See Boscombe, he’s my new steward. No, on second thoughts – Boscombe!’ he roared.
The little fellow appeared, as silent as a shadow.
‘This is Leif,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘He’ll eat me out of house and home. Give him some wine but not my claret. There’s bread, soup, and Lady Maude has left a pie in the larder.’
‘Oh, thank you, Sir John.’ Leif hopped down the passageway as nimbly as any squirrel.
‘Oh, by the way.’ Cranston smiled evilly. ‘Leif, my friend, go into the garden. I have two new guests who would love to meet you.’ Then, slamming the door behind him, he went down Cheapside laughing softly.
‘Sir John, was that wise?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about Leif, Athelstan,’ Cranston shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’s nimble as a flea, can move faster than you or I. And often has!’ he added.
Cheapside was deserted now except for the dung carts, the
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