‘Yes,’ Cheyne agreed.
‘How was he during his stay?’
‘Deeply troubled, Brother. Highly anxious and greatly agitated. He talked, when sober, of the coming doom which hovers like a cloud of deep night over the city. He was terrified that when London was stormed, he would be hunted like a coney through the streets, caught, trapped, mocked and ridiculed before suffering the cruellest death, and what could we say?’ Cheyne shrugged. ‘He spoke the truth. Amaury Whitfield, in the eyes of the Great Community, was a tainted traitor worthy of death. He would have been hauled through the city on a sledge, barbarously executed, his head poled, his mouth stuffed with straw to face that of his dead master.’
‘So he was frightened even until death and thought to immerse himself in the soft pleasures of this house?’
‘In truth, Sir John.’
‘Did he manifest or betray in any way a desire to take his own life?’
‘Sir John, in his terror, in his fear, Whitfield might have, though he did relax. Joycelina took care of him.’
Athelstan glanced at the maid, who winked mischievously back. The friar smiled.
‘And last night?’ he asked.
‘Everyone was tired, the festivities were over. Whitfield and Lebarge were to leave after breaking their fast this morning. Amaury went upstairs, Joycelina was with him.’
‘And?’ Athelstan glanced at the maid.
‘He was tired. He pulled back the sheets of the bed and fondled me for a while. I do remember he made sure the shutters were closed and barred. He did the same for the window, ensuring the latch was firmly down. I asked him if he was fearful, and he replied, “Only of the sweating terrors of the night.” I kissed him, said I would see him in the morning and left. I recall, very distinctly, him locking and bolting the door behind me. I came down immediately. Ask the others. I didn’t tarry long.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘He stayed below stairs conversing with some of the guests.’
‘Who?’ Cranston snapped.
‘Odo Gray, Captain of the Leaping Horse, and the mailed clerk Adam Stretton.’
Elizabeth Cheyne paused as Cranston chortled with laughter, rocking backwards and forwards in his chair.
‘Sir John?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know these worthies?’
‘Oh, Brother, I certainly do. Gray is a man involved in so many pies he has to use his toes as well as his fingers: pirate and smuggler, merchant and mercenary, he would sell his mother for any price.’
‘And Stretton?’
‘A mailed clerk, a graduate of St Paul’s and the Halls of Oxford. A man of peace and war who has performed military service on land and sea; the destrier in the stables must belong to him. Stretton is the most trusted retainer of Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel.’
‘John of Gaunt’s great rival?’
‘John of Gaunt’s great enemy,’ Cranston confirmed. ‘So, this precious pair were also revellers?’
‘Oh, yes, Sir John,’ Cheyne replied. ‘There were five in alclass="underline" Whitfield, Lebarge, Stretton, Gray and, to a certain extent, Matthias Camoys.’
‘To a certain extent?’ Athelstan queried.
‘Matthias comes here to drink and lust but he nourishes a great ambition to discover the whereabouts of the Cross of Lothar.’ Cheyne rubbed her brow. ‘He is so importunate with his questions. He believes the Golden Oliphant retains some subtle device or secret cipher which will reveal the whereabouts of Lothar’s Cross. I thank God that he also believes the same is true of the chantry chapel at St Mary Le Bow, where my beloved Reginald lies buried. Matthias divides his time between both places.’
For a mere heartbeat Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice softened. Athelstan glimpsed the great beauty which must have captivated Reginald Camoys.
‘You never married?’
‘No, Brother Athelstan, never. Reginald, well,’ she smiled, ‘Reginald was Reginald: irreligious, a true devotee of the world and the Land of Cokayne.’
‘Yet he lies buried in a chantry chapel?’
‘Reginald maintained, better there next to his shield comrade Penchen than anywhere else. If chanting masses would help his soul he would surely profit. However, if there was nothing but eternal night after death, then he’d lost nothing.’
‘I have heard the same argument before,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘But to leave the Cross of Lothar for the moment. Do you know of anything during Whitfield’s stay here which would explain his mysterious death?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He was well furnished with monies?’
‘And still is,’ Cheyne retorted. ‘Brother, you will find nothing stolen or borrowed from Master Amaury’s possessions, be it his chancery satchel or his purse. This house enjoys a reputation for honesty. We are not naps, foists or pickpockets. Any girl found stealing is handed over to the sheriff’s bailiffs. Sir John, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Not from personal experience,’ he quipped. ‘But I know enough of your dealings, Mistress Cheyne.’
Athelstan caught the sarcasm in Cranston’s voice. The coroner was well versed in the secret affairs of London’s grim and gruesome underworld; the Halls of Hades and the Mansions of Midnight, as the coroner described the seedy twilight life of the city.
‘Did Whitfield mention that he had been visited by the Herald of Hell?’
‘Yes, both he and Lebarge referred to it. It apparently happened some days before they arrived here and, certainly, both men were terrified.’
‘Did they know who it was?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘Has the Herald visited your establishment?’
‘Of course not. Why should he?’
‘Why should he indeed?’ Cranston soothed. ‘I am sure you pay the Upright Men as well as pass on any information you glean from this customer or that, juicy morsels the Great Community might find interesting and yet,’ Cranston jabbed a finger, ‘when it suits you, you’re also of great assistance to Master Thibault. Is that not so?’
‘Sir John,’ Cheyne fluttered her eyelids, ‘we live in a true vale of tears, in the very shadow of the Valley of Death. So, what can a poor wench do to survive, earn a crust for her belly and keep a roof over her head?’
‘Whitfield brought a great deal of baggage here, didn’t he?’ Athelstan asked sharply. ‘Clothes, possessions?’
Cheyne pulled a face. ‘God knows,’ she murmured.
‘And the letter he wrote despairing of his life?’
‘Again, Brother, God knows. Perhaps Amaury realized he was about to return to the Chancery in the Tower and all that entailed. Lebarge was no better, deep in his cups most of the time, furtive, withdrawn though he revelled merrily enough with some of the maids.’
‘Did either describe a certain memorandum taken from a wolfshead, Reynard?’
‘I have heard the name.’ Joycelina spoke up quickly. ‘A courier for the Upright Men. A travelling tinker who visited here declared how a certain Reynard had been taken up and thrown into Newgate.’ She forced a smile. ‘Brother Athelstan, with all due respect, men come here to forget their lives, their woes and tribulations. Master Amaury and Oliver Lebarge were no different.’
‘Was Lebarge ever talkative?’
‘No, he was taciturn, even in his cups, very much in the shadow of Master Amaury.’
‘And whom did they talk to?’
‘The other customers, the maids, the servants.’ Joycelina waved her hands airily. ‘But about what? You must ask them, not us. I suppose,’ she added, ‘they discussed the revels.’
‘Which were?’
‘Hodman’s bluff, mummer’s games, dances and masques, and, of course,’ Joycelina glanced slyly at her mistress, ‘antics in the bedchamber. Some men like to partake with two, others like to watch.’
‘To watch!’ Athelstan exclaimed, ignoring Cranston’s boot pressing on his foot.
‘Yes, Brother, to watch,’ Mistress Cheyne replied. ‘Each of our chambers has a small eyehole; of course, it can be closed from the inside. This allows someone in the gallery outside to watch what is happening on the bed. In the end,’ she sighed, ‘we strive to please all our customers. Why, Brother, does it shock you?’