‘What do you mean?’ Martha asked, all flustered.
‘You know about him, don’t you?’ Foulkes asked, turning in his chair to face Athelstan, who’d now returned to his own seat. ‘You know?’ he repeated.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What?’ Cranston barked.
‘Sparwell was not denounced by an enemy,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I doubt if that poor tailor had any. He was betrayed by a traitor at the heart of the Lollard conventicle here in London. I believe that Judas to be Mooncalf. He went to the shriving pew at St Mary-le-Bow and gave Sparwell’s name, trade and house to a priest. This priest did not hear it in confession so he had no choice but to pass such information on to the Bishop of London’s curia. Mooncalf tried to remain anonymous, though the priest clearly recalls a coarse voice and the stench of the stableyard. Mooncalf would fit such a description. Now, on the evening the murders took place, he didn’t take you to a meeting of the conventicle but to some lonely place outside this tavern. I am correct?’
‘Yes,’ Foulkes replied, ignoring Martha’s cry of protest. ‘I am committed to the truth. Mooncalf houses a wicked spirit. He informed us that he had denounced Sparwell and, unless we paid him good silver, he would betray us and others.’
‘Did he make a similar threat to Sparwell?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, he did not.’ Athelstan answered the coroner’s question. ‘Master Foulkes is correct. Mooncalf is possessed by a nasty spirit. Sparwell was the innocent lamb of sacrifice. He was both a warning and proof of what Mooncalf could do, that his threats, his blackmail, were potent and real. Yes, Master Foulkes?’
The clerk nodded his head.
‘Many a man,’ Cranston asked quietly, ‘would have killed Mooncalf on the spot. He was a villain who not only threatened you but your beloved as well.’
‘The Lollards are not like that, are they?’ Athelstan offered. ‘They are quietists. They reject violence of any sort.’
‘Yes, we are,’ Foulkes agreed. ‘I once served as a crossbowman. I saw service in Brabant, where my mother comes from. I have killed and seen killing. I confess,’ he hurried on, ‘when Mooncalf made his threat my hand fell to …’ Foulkes smiled thinly, ‘where my dagger should have been.’
‘But Mooncalf had prepared for that, hadn’t he?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes,’ Foulkes admitted. ‘He certainly had. He informed us how he had invested good silver in drawing up a bill of indictment which he had lodged with a notable serjeant of law at the Inns Court. He assured us that if anything happened to him, Mooncalf, the lawyer would immediately send the bill of indictment to the Bishop of London’s curia. He told us that we each had to make a payment and he would never raise the matter again. He gave us until the end of this month. If we had not paid by St David’s Day, he would denounce us as he had Sparwell.’ Foulkes shrugged and stared at Sir Robert, who had sat through the questioning, hands on the table, staring down at the Book of the Gospels.
‘Mooncalf,’ Foulkes added slowly, ‘said we would have to make a third payment for Sir Robert, not for any heresy but for lechery.’
‘I confess,’ Sir Robert raised a hand, ‘that neither my daughter nor Master William told me any of this directly, though I suspected.’
‘Did Marsen know?’ Cranston asked.
‘I cannot say and I don’t really care,’ Sir Robert whispered. He lifted his head. ‘My daughter thinks I may be responsible for his murder and that of the others.’ He turned to face his daughter. ‘You said as much with your eyes …’ His voice trailed off and he sat as if deaf to his daughter’s heated denials.
‘You are Lollards,’ Athelstan declared. ‘You face harassment and persecution. Now tell me something. Whom do you fear, I mean, apart from the likes of Mooncalf?’
‘The Bishop of London.’
‘What about the Papal Inquisitor? Have you or your conventicle had any dealings with him?’
‘No we have not. We raised this matter with Mooncalf. He simply replied that the Inquisitor meant nothing to him.’ Foulkes spread his hands. ‘What will happen to us?’
‘Wait and see,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for we have not finished.’ He summoned Tiptoft and asked him to bring Mooncalf from where he had been detained in one of the loft chambers. A short while later the sweaty-faced ostler was pushed into the room. Mooncalf was all a-tremble as Athelstan indicated he sit on the stool at the other end of the table facing him. The friar then rose, picked up the Book of the Gospels and walked round, placing it before the terrified ostler. Athelstan demanded that Mooncalf put his hand on the book and repeat the oath he administered. The ostler did so in a harsh, stuttering voice. Once he had finished, Athelstan put the book back and returned to place his hand on Mooncalf’s shoulder. The ostler was trembling so much he couldn’t sit still.
‘Sir John.’ The friar winked at Cranston. ‘What is the punishment for a blackmailer convicted on at least three or four counts?’
‘Strangling.’ Cranston’s blunt reply rang through the chamber. ‘Strangling on a special gibbet. However, according to ancient custom, blackmail ranks with heresy so it can mean hanging over a slow-burning fire.’ Mooncalf moaned a long, drawn-out sound which came from the heart.
‘You are a blackmailer,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly. ‘Three of your planned victims sit close by. Death, however, draws near. It stretches out its cold, skeletal fingers to seize you by the nape of your neck.’ Athelstan moved his own hand accordingly. ‘You are going to die, Mooncalf, just as horribly as Sparwell, whose innocent soul you sent for judgement.’ Athelstan walked back to his own place. He warned Cranston with his eyes to let the silence deepen. They needed Mooncalf. If he cooperated, Cranston would inflict just punishment. ‘You want to escape the rigours of the law?’ Athelstan eventually asked. Mooncalf, half-choking, grunted his assent. ‘Master Foulkes, you too want to assist me?’
‘Of course,’ the clerk replied.
‘Good.’ Athelstan rose and took a piece of parchment from his chancery satchel. ‘You and Mooncalf will be taken to a private chamber. You will ask him the questions listed here. You will carefully write his responses. Mooncalf, I want the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. No additions or subtractions, just honest and accurate replies to very simple questions. Do you understand?’ Mooncalf nodded, rubbing his hands together and peering nervously over his shoulder. Athelstan summoned Tiptoft and Sir Simon, giving them strict instructions how the Pastons should be kept under close guard. Foulkes and Mooncalf were to be given a separate chamber and the clerk furnished with all the writing necessaries he would require.
Once the door closed behind them all, Cranston rose, stretched and walked across to the side table. He filled a goblet with the sweet white wine and, at Athelstan’s request, half a cup for the friar.
‘Very good.’ Cranston smacked his lips. ‘I must remember that. The Piebald holds wine as good as its ale.’ The coroner drank again. ‘So the Pastons have nothing to do with Marsen’s murder?’ he asked.
‘All things are still possible, Sir John. Until we have a full confession nothing is certain. I have certainly made mistakes.’
‘Such as?’
‘Foulkes is a learned scribe, a clerk from the schools …’
‘And a former crossbowman? A possible suspect, like Beowulf?’
‘Precisely, Sir John. Foulkes may now be a Lollard but,’ Athelstan laughed sharply, ‘in my brief and sheltered life I have met priests, monks and friars who have killed, killed and killed again. The old proverb is true: “The cowl does not make the monk nor the tonsure the saint”, which brings us to our next guest, Brother Marcel.’
The Inquisitor was full of himself as he strode into the Dark Parlour. Even from where he sat Athelstan could smell the perfumed oil rubbed into Marcel’s smooth, shaven face. His robes were spotless, the strapped sandals a gleaming oaken brown. Athelstan offered him the Book of Gospels but he pushed it away, quoting certain clauses from canon law. Both the coroner and friar had met similar clerical recalcitrance before.