The two labourers reminded Athelstan of Watkin the Dung Collector in their muddy rags, leather aprons and cracked, shabby boots, though their bearded faces and dull-eyed looks were in stark contrast with Watkin’s cunning wit, devious ways and mordant sense of humour. Both men, in deep, gruff accents, confirmed what Athelstan had already been told. Mistress Cheyne had come out into the garden with Master Foxley; they had collected the battering ram and climbed to the top gallery. It was dark and narrow, difficult to swing the ram, but they had succeeded. The door collapsed, their mistress told them to take the log downstairs and inform Master Griffin to confine all the guests to the refectory, though they understood Lebarge had already fled. Despite the poor light they had glimpsed the corpse dangling.
Throughout the labourers’ blunt speech, Foxley and Griffin nodded like two wise men. The Master of the Hall then explained that he had stayed downstairs looking after those who were breaking their fast. They had heard the pounding but he had insisted, on Mistress Cheyne’s instructions, that everyone remain at table.
‘Except Lebarge,’ he concluded. ‘He pushed by me and went through the door.’
‘And you, Master Foxley?’ Athelstan turned to the Master of Horse.
‘I was all troubled. I’d drunk deeply the night before. Anyway, I helped batter the door; it was securely locked and bolted. Eventually it collapsed. Mistress Cheyne ordered me into the room. It was very dark and smelly, all the candles and lamps had burnt out.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Master Whitfield’s corpse just hung like a black shadow. I was, I was,’ he stumbled, shaking his head, ‘deeply frightened.’
‘Did you see anything else amiss in the chamber?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, except that Master Whitfield looked not so fat in death.’
‘Not so fat?’
‘Slimmer, Brother Athelstan, his belly not so swollen, but, there again, that could have been a trick of the poor light.’
‘And what next?’
‘Mistress Cheyne asked me to open both shutters and window.’
‘Did you notice anything wrong?’
‘No, Brother Athelstan, the shutters, both within and without, were firmly closed. I had to remove the bar from the inside.’
‘That’s right,’ one of the labourers broke in. ‘Just before I left, I saw Master Foxley lift the bar and place it on the ground.’
‘And the window itself?’ Cranston asked.
‘Securely latched.’
‘And the pigskin covering?’
‘Tightly in place.’
‘When we took the battering ram back downstairs,’ one of the labourers affirmed, ‘we went outside and looked at the flower bed beneath the window, but nothing had been disturbed.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Cranston asked. ‘I mean, if the window was shuttered and barred …’
‘You don’t recognize me, Sir John?’ The burly labourer stepped closer. ‘Until Master Foxley hired us, we worked in the Candle-Flame tavern, now in Master Thibault’s hands. I remember the murders there.’ He grinned. ‘The way the window was breached. Everybody discussed how clever you were.’ Cranston, flattered, nodded in agreement.
‘So,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you, Master Foxley, opened both shutters and window and then what?’
‘I turned away. Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were standing in the room looking at poor Whitfield.’ He spread his hands. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, that’s what I saw.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘Brother, by the time I had returned to the refectory he was gone. Joycelina and I went looking for him. Mistress Cheyne was concerned. We found him in Whitfield’s chamber, all tearful and trembling.’
‘He said nothing?’
‘No, he pushed past us and left, that’s the last I saw of him.’
Athelstan whispered to Sir John, who had the chamber cleared. Odo Gray was summoned next. The sea captain swaggered into the room. He was weatherbeaten, sloe-eyed under a mop of white hair, his hard-skinned face set in a cynical smile as if he knew the world and all it contained. Dressed in a cote-hardie which hung just above low-heeled boots, he bowed perfunctorily and sat on the settle before Cranston and Athelstan.
‘Well, well, well.’ The coroner rubbed his hands together. ‘Odo Gray, Master of the Leaping Horse, a high-masted cog. Odo Gray, pirate, smuggler and merchant in all kinds of mischief.’
‘Sir John, I am equally pleased to meet you.’ Gray bowed sardonically at Athelstan. ‘Greetings also to the noble Dominican of whom I have heard so much.’
‘Have you now?’ Athelstan smiled. ‘And why is that?’
‘Whispers, Brother Athelstan, amongst your parishioners. How, when the Great Revolt occurs, your little flock wish me to kidnap you and spirit you away from all the bloodletting.’ He grinned as Athelstan gaped in surprise while Cranston swore beneath his breath.
‘Oh yes, it’s been mooted, Brother. Moleskin the Bargeman would call you away from your church, saying that the Lord High Coroner here wanted words with you. In truth you would be bundled aboard the Leaping Horse and taken out of harm’s way.’
‘And what came of this clever plan?’
‘Brother, I pointed out that once the revolt breaks out …’
‘The Thames will be sealed,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Thibault has already deployed fighting cogs, and he is hiring Breton galleys – wolves of the sea – to prowl the estuary and prevent all ships from leaving.’
‘And you refused?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Of course, what was the use? The Leaping Horse is well known to harbour masters from the Thames to Berwick …’
‘And with good cause,’ Cranston retorted. ‘You’ve sailed under the black flag of piracy.’
‘Jealous rivals, Sir John.’
‘And you are known to make landfall with tuns of Bordeaux which the customs collectors never stamp.’
‘Fables, Sir John!’
‘And you are reputed to excel at spiriting away any fugitives who can afford it, before the sheriff’s men arrive.’
‘Tittle-tattle fit for fools, Sir John.’
‘So what were you doing at the Golden Oliphant?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Why, Brother, God forgive me, indulging in the Cokayne revelry. I am,’ Odo crossed himself swiftly, ‘a man of fleshly desires. Often away from hearth and home.’
‘Which is where?’
‘Barnstaple in Devon.’
‘And you frequent this place often?’
‘I am well known to Mistress Cheyne and her moppets in every sense of the word.’
‘And Master Whitfield?’
‘Oh, the clerk who hanged himself?’ Gray shrugged. ‘I talked to him, as I did other guests, but I hardly knew the man or his shadow, the scrivener Lebarge.’
‘Do you know any reason why Whitfield should hang himself and Lebarge flee for sanctuary?’
‘None.’
Athelstan gazed quickly at the hour candle under its metal cap on a stand in the far corner. Lebarge needed to be questioned as swiftly as possible to corroborate all of this. Athelstan was certain that the ship’s master, this wily fox of the sea, was concealing something: his replies were too glib, and why inform Athelstan about some madcap scheme of his parishioners? Athelstan felt warmed by their deep affection, the determination that he would not be caught up in the coming violence. They had discussed what he should do and he had heard rumours about all kinds of stratagems and ploys to protect him. On reflection, what Odo Gray had told him was not so startling. Athelstan was now more intrigued as to why the captain had brought it up in the first place. To distract him, but from what?
‘Brother?’ Cranston’s voice broke into Athelstan’s thoughts. He turned and smiled at the coroner.
‘Sir John, I believe Master Odo Gray is lying.’ The sea captain’s jovial demeanour promptly disappeared – the twinkling eye, the ready grin and the relaxed pose – almost as if the man’s true soul had thrust its way through, aggressive and surly, fingers slipping to the hilt of his dagger. Cranston coughed and the hand fell away.