When the heavy door creaked open, the dim light from the guttering flames of small oil lamps set in niches in the passage walls seeped into the chamber. The soldier took two of these lights and held them high so that the Constable and his guests could see the contents of the room. There were now about a dozen boxes ranged against the walls, some on top of each other.
‘That’s the one, cursed by Satan, I reckon!’ snarled de Mandeville, for his reputation, liberty and possibly his very life had been put at risk by the trouble the chest had caused.
The object of his dislike had been set slightly apart from the others since the loss had been discovered and John recognised it by the different spacing of the iron bands that encircled it. The two padlocks were firmly in place and the box looked innocent enough, in spite of the Constable’s claim that it was cursed.
De Mandeville now brandished another key, which he had brought from his chamber. ‘Here’s mine, try it if you like — but you’ll still not open the damned chest without someone from the Exchequer being present with his key.’
More out of curiosity than necessity, John took the key and inserted it into the padlock, which was as large as his hand. The mechanism operated surprisingly smoothly and the hoop of the lock hinged back easily. John withdrew it from the heavy hasp, but as expected the lid would not lift a hair’s-breadth without the other lock being removed. He replaced the first one and stood up, handing the key back to the Constable.
‘It’s all just as you claimed, Sir Herbert,’ he said sombrely. ‘There’s no way in which this chest could have been opened except by the use of the two keys at the same time.’
‘Maybe there’s a hidden trapdoor in the bottom,’ rumbled Gwyn, meaning to be facetious, but raising a scowl of derision from de Mandeville. However, de Wolfe was determined to leave no possibility unexplored.
‘Is there anything in the chest now?’ he demanded. The Constable assured him that the remaining contents had been locked in another chest, as the security of this one was now in doubt.
‘Right, let’s turn it over,’ he snapped, and with the Constable looking on in surprise he and Gwyn strained to turn the large box first on to its back, then right over on to its top. John carefully examined the whole surface, running his hand over it to look for cracks and tapped it for soundness. He did the same to the sides and ends, then turned it back on to its base and checked the lid. Satisfied, he stood up and smacked dirt from his fingers.
‘Nothing! It had to be opened by the keys. And someone must have had both keys, unless it was a conspiracy between at least two thieves,’ he announced.
De Mandeville glared at him. ‘I trust you are not suggesting that I was involved, de Wolfe?’ he snarled.
John shook his head. ‘I am suggesting nothing. I am just stating the inevitable conclusion that this chest was opened by unlocking it.’
There was nothing more to be gained in the chamber and they retreated, the Constable securing the door and stalking ahead of them. John refused his rather stilted offer of refreshment and they were seen out of the Tower, where they collected their mounts and made their way back into the city. They went past heaving crowds around the markets at Poultry, into Cheapside and on via the great church of St Paul to Ludgate. Here, with some relief, they left the city walls behind and rode more easily along the less congested Strand to Charing and then to Westminster. Thomas hurried off to his beloved abbey and Gwyn vanished to an alehouse, leaving John to enjoy his dinner alone. The afternoon was enlivened by the coroner being called to a knife-fight between two cooks in the palace kitchens, but as neither was badly injured, John decided not to make an official case of assault, but consigned both men to the custody of the Master at Arms, instructing him to lock them up for a week.
Next day, Thomas forsook the abbey refectory and ate with de Wolfe and Gwyn in Long Ditch. Over fat bacon with onions and carrots, followed by a blancmange of almond milk and shredded chicken, flavoured with spices, Thomas enquired what the next move was in his master’s investigation.
‘We’ve talked to one key-holder, so the obvious thing is to speak to the other,’ replied the coroner, digging bacon strands from between his teeth. ‘I understand that Simon Basset lives in one of those houses in King Street, but first we’ll see if he’s in the Treasury this afternoon.’
When they had finished their dinner with maslin bread and a hunk of hard yellow cheese, washed down with cider, they walked back to the palace. The day was still hot and sultry with a distant rumble of thunder coming from the Kentish Weald. At the entrance to the Receipt of Exchequer building, the sentry saluted John with a fist across his chest, the other hand holding the shaft of a long pike. Inside it was cooler under the high ceiling, below which a dozen clerks worked at desks and tables, penning lists of accounts on a multitude of parchments.
Thomas recognised an elderly clerk sitting alone at a table facing the doorway and went across to make enquiries. After a short conversation, he came back to de Wolfe.
‘Simon Basset is not here, Crowner. He was expected this morning to deal with certain matters, but has not appeared.’
‘Did you learn where we might find him?’
‘The chief clerk suggests that we try him at home. He might be indisposed, which is why he did not appear,’ said Thomas.
‘Maybe he’s quit the realm, with a bagful of gold trinkets!’ suggested Gwyn, with his usual black humour. John scowled, such jokes might be too near the truth to be funny.
‘Let’s find the bloody man, then. We can walk that far, even in this damned heat.’
They walked across New Palace Yard to the main gate into King Street and went back along the road that they had ridden down a couple of hours earlier.
‘Did that clerk give you exact directions, Thomas?’
‘He said it was the last dwelling on the left side of the road, before the bridge over the Clowson Brook.’ This was a branch of the Tyburn, running northwards through the abbey grounds, one of the many brooks that drained the marshes.
They passed a row of dwellings, some with shopfronts, the shutters on the downstairs windows folding down to act as display counters for merchandise — shoes, harness, candles, leather belts and a host of other things. Most of the buildings here were two-storeyed, some with upper floors projecting into the street. The little bridge was a single small arch and beyond it the houses were larger and grander, all stone-built. On the opposite side, even larger houses lined the street, where the more exalted members of the Westminster community lived.
‘This must be the one, it has a Madonna over the door,’ said Thomas, crossing himself at the sight of a small gaudily painted statue of the Virgin in a niche above the front entrance. The house was well kept but not ostentatiously large. It was a narrow building of whitewashed cob between heavy oak frames, roofed with stone slates. A small yard with a hitching rail for horses lay between the edge of King Street and the house. A narrow path ran around each side to the backyard, the stream being on one side in a deep culvert.
Gwyn banged on the heavy front door and soon the shaven scalp of a young man in lower holy orders appeared, looking rather nervously through the gap.
‘We seek your master, is he at home?’ demanded de Wolfe, after identifying himself as the Coroner of the Verge.
The door opened wider and the thin shape of the servant stood in his black tunic, rubbing his hands anxiously.
‘He is not here, sir. Have you any news of him?’
John stared at the fellow. ‘What do you mean? Why should I have news of him?’
Another figure appeared in the short passage behind the door, this time another cleric, but a man of early middle age and portly appearance. His fleshy face looked troubled as John explained that he was looking for Canon Basset.