But of treasure there was no sign, apart from Simon Basset’s own possessions. The documents that Thomas scanned revealed nothing suspicious — they were either detailed household accounts or letters on ecclesiastical topics from other priests, especially in Lichfield. Some of the parchments related to his duties in the Exchequer, but there was nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion of involvement in an audacious robbery.
After a last half-hearted scanning of the backyard and paths surrounding the house to see if there was any disturbed soil that might indicate something having been buried, de Wolfe admitted defeat. He made his peace with the chaplain and steward before leaving.
‘There will probably be an inquest in the next day or so,’ he announced. ‘I will require your presence for the formalities.’
‘His poor body was brought back from St Bartholomew’s last evening,’ said Gilbert, crossing himself, which of course set off Thomas in copying his actions. ‘He now lies before a side altar in the abbey until he can be buried. In this weather, it is not practicable to take him home to Lichfield, but we have sent word by courier and in the fullness of time maybe his family or the Chapter there may wish to have his coffin translated there.’
There was nothing more to be done and the coroner’s trio began walking back to the palace. Suddenly, Thomas de Peyne stopped so suddenly that Gwyn, walking behind him, stumbled against the little clerk.
‘Surely there is something odd, Crowner?’ said Thomas, looking quizzically at de Wolfe.
‘Yes, you are bloody odd, stopping in my path like that!’ complained Gwyn, but John silenced him with a gesture. He had learned long ago that any thoughts of his clerk were usually worth listening to. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘We found no keys in the house. The canon still had his normal duties with the Exchequer, so where are his precious keys, including those for any chests still in the Tower?’
There was a silence while the others digested this.
‘Important keys such as those should have been on his person for safe keeping,’ said John. ‘Just as I did when we travelled from Winchester — they never left my pouch, thank St Michael and all his archangels!’
‘So where are Basset’s keys?’ grunted Gwyn.
John punched a fist into his other hand. ‘Damn! He was dressed in a hospital gown when we saw his body. I never thought to ask for his clothing. We must get back there at once and enquire. Let’s hope they’ve not been destroyed or given away to the poor.’
The astute brain of their clerk saw a flaw in this. ‘They would hardly give a priest’s cassock away nor send him back to the abbey dressed in an infirmary shroud. I’m sure the Austin canons would have more respect for one of their own and include his personal belongings when they dispatched the corpse back to Westminster.’
Gwyn slapped his diminutive friend on the back. ‘Clever little sod, aren’t you! Are we to try at the abbey, Crowner?’
De Wolfe had no doubt that they should and in a few minutes they were in the lofty nave of Edward the Confessor’s great church. They found Simon Basset on a bier before a shrine in the north transept, still with the contented expression on his round face, confounding the common misapprehension that those who died an unnatural death had contorted features.
Tall candles burned at his head and feet and a fellow Benedictine knelt in prayer on a prie-dieu nearby.
Thomas gently interrupted him to ask where they might enquire about the canon’s personal belongings and the monk directed them to a deacon who sat in an alcove near the west door. He in turn took them into the wide cloisters south of the church where a side room contained all manner of odds and ends, including broken furniture, processional banners and incense censers. The old man opened a battered chest and lifted out a cloth tied in a knot at the top. It had a scrap of parchment attached which Thomas checked, confirming that it belonged to Simon Basset.
‘We are waiting to hear from his chaplain as to whether it needs to be sent to Lichfield,’ explained the deacon, handing it over. John untied the knot and spread the contents on to the lid of the chest. A belt, a rosary and several kerchiefs were of no interest, but there was a bulky scrip, a leather pouch attached to the belt. John undid the small strap and buckle and tipped out the contents. There were about twenty silver pennies, a medal of St Christopher and two bunches of keys. One of these immediately caught the coroner’s attention, being several large keys on an iron loop.
‘Two of these have got those spots of coloured paint we saw before,’ he said. ‘The codes for the locks on the treasure chests.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they,’ said Gwyn gruffly. ‘He’s one of the key-holders, he should have them.’
‘But he shouldn’t have two, he should only have one,’ squeaked Thomas excitedly.
‘Possibly, but we can’t be sure that these keys relate to the chest from which the objects were stolen.’
De Wolfe gnawed his lip in indecision. ‘I need to make sure! This could either confirm or exonerate Simon Basset as the culprit. We owe it to his memory to clear any suspicion, if he is innocent.’
The other bunch was an assortment without spots and some may have been his house keys. However, John took them along with the two larger ones and left the abbey. It was now approaching noon and surrendering to the rumblings of Gwyn’s stomach, he reluctantly delayed their journey to the city so that they could all eat their dinner at Long Ditch. After swallowing Osanna’s potage of vegetables and shreds of some unidentifiable meat, followed by boiled pork knuckles, they collected their horses from the marshal’s stables and rode to London.
At the Great Tower, the production of his royal warrant, with the impressive seal of the Chief Justiciar dangling from it, immediately gained them admission and they were conducted at once to the Constable’s chamber. Once again, Herbert de Mandeville was not pleased to see them, as a visit from the dark, gaunt Coroner of the Verge was a reminder of the failure of his responsibility as guardian of the Tower. In addition, there was the lingering suspicion of his own involvement, as one of the two key-holders.
After an abrupt greeting, John went straight to the heart of the matter. ‘Have you heard yet of the death of Simon Basset?’
De Mandeville nodded. ‘Only that he had some kind of seizure and died in St Bartholomew’s. I suppose he was too fat and well fed for his own health.’
The coroner saw no reason not to tell the Constable the truth, though he left out the part about the brothel, as it seemed an unnecessary darkening of the canon’s memory.
‘He was murdered — poisoned with foxglove.’ John watched Herbert keenly, to see how he took this news. The Constable’s brows came together in surprise, but he seemed not too dismayed by the canon’s death. ‘And is this connected in any way with the theft of that treasure?’ he asked evenly, giving away nothing in his manner.
The coroner reached into his scrip and produced the two large keys with the painted spots.
‘This is why I am here, de Mandeville. I need to know if these keys found on Basset’s person fit the locks on that damned chest.’
The older man took the keys from him and examined them.
‘They carry coloured marks, like those on that box — but that is not unique, it is often done for other chests.’
‘I want you to check these, either on the locks themselves or by comparing the shapes of the wards with those you keep in that secure cupboard there.’ He pointed to the large flat cabinet on the wall of the chamber.
Herbert de Mandeville glared at the coroner almost triumphantly. ‘Can’t be done!’ he declared complacently. ‘The strongroom below is completely empty, for once. That chest, with what remained of its contents, was yesterday dispatched with the other boxes by ship to Normandy. It was needed to carry some additional coinage that had been in the care of the Templars — and, naturally, its keys went with it, in the care of another Treasury official.’