‘Have you asked Mistress Cheyne about them?’
‘Of course, Sir John, but she just laughs. She claims she never really understood my uncle’s absorption with the Cross of Lothar. She does not care for it.’
‘And St Mary Le Bow?’ Athelstan held a hand up for silence as he recalled Thibault’s remark about Reynard, the envoy of the Upright Men, who had been arrested for the slaying of Edmund Lacy, bell clerk at the same church.
‘Brother?’
‘Yes, Matthias.’ Athelstan edged a little closer. ‘St Mary Le Bow?’
‘I go there when the church is empty. But,’ Matthias pulled a face, ‘it is haunted.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Cranston interjected. ‘About a hundred years ago, when gang violence in the city was rife during the reign of Edward, ancestor of our present king, a murder took place in St Mary Le Bow.’ Cranston sat back in his chair. ‘I make reference to it in my magnum opus, my great work on the history of this city …’
Athelstan closed his eyes in exasperation. Sir John’s absorption with the history of London was famous, and nothing could stop the coroner from delivering a long, unsolicited lecture on any aspect of city life. Cranston was already preparing himself with a swig from the miraculous wineskin, which he offered to Athelstan. The friar bluntly refused.
‘Sir John, the hour passes. Time is short, pleasure is brief. I think I know …’
‘Laurence Duket,’ Cranston jabbed a finger at Athelstan, ‘as I have said, about a hundred years ago he was a gang leader in London. He met his rival Ralph Crepyn in Cheapside and there was the usual dagger play. Anyway, Duket wounded Crepyn and fled for sanctuary in St Mary Le Bow. Yes, Master Matthias?’ The young man, fascinated by Cranston, just nodded. ‘The church was locked and sealed for the night,’ Cranston continued blithely, ‘yet when the priest opened the church the following morning, Duket was found hanging from a wall bracket. Of course, such a mystery swept the city. The King sent a royal clerk to investigate. The mystery was solved and ended up with a woman, Alice atte Bowe, being burned alive at Smithfield. Other members of the gang were hanged, either by the neck or the purse.’
‘Duket’s ghost is supposed to haunt St Mary Le Bow,’ Matthias took up the story. ‘I can well believe it. I go in when it falls quiet after the morning masses, when the market bell has sounded …’
‘You said haunted?’
‘Oh, I am sure, Brother, that the ghost of Laurence Duket glides the gloomy nave. The light is always dappled there, the shadows ever present, growing longer as the day dies.’ Matthias paused. ‘Strange sounds echo. You know the church is built over a Roman temple to a god called Mithras? I have been down into the crypt and seen some of the ancient ruins, but they don’t concern me; my uncle’s chantry chapel does. Duket’s ghost,’ Matthias shrugged, ‘has probably been joined by that of Edmund Lacy, slain in a tavern brawl.’
‘By the villain Reynard, who,’ Cranston peered at the hour candle standing in the corner, ‘should be meeting God above Tyburn stream. Now, young man, Whitfield and Lebarge – whom did they carouse with?’
Matthias scratched the side of his face. ‘They revelled and drank deep in their cups. They had conversations with, well,’ he shrugged, ‘with everyone. Though, for the life of me, I cannot recall specific occasions.’
‘And the wenches – whom did they favour?’
‘Whitfield, Joycelina; Lebarge, Hawisa – a pert little doxy with a swan-like neck, sweet-faced and full-bosomed.’ Matthias abruptly rose. ‘If you are finished with me,’ he stammered, ‘can I go?’
‘For the time being,’ Athelstan replied, asking Matthias to fetch the two women he’d named.
Joycelina and Hawisa arrived, the former looking cold-eyed and solemn, though Hawisa, pretty as any spring maid, seemed eager to please; yet neither was forthcoming, claiming that they had entertained their clients and knew next to nothing about their business affairs. Exasperated, Athelstan dismissed them.
‘You know more than what you have told us,’ he declared. ‘We will undoubtedly talk to you ladies again. So, until then.’ He swung open the door and gestured them through, then closed it behind them and leaned against it. ‘Sir John, we certainly do not have the truth about all this.’
‘Murder, little friar?’
‘Murder, Grand Coroner! Oh, yes! Murder has taken up residence here, along with a whole coven of mischief. Now, Sir John, let us return to …’
Athelstan stopped at a pounding at the door. It was flung open and Sir Everard Camoys, white beard and moustache bristling, stormed into the chamber.
‘Why, my good friend …’
‘Don’t good friend me, Sir John.’ Everard unclasped his cloak and threw it to the settle. ‘My feckless son is here, in this den of iniquity, this haven of harlots. I …’
Cranston swept round the table and clasped Sir Everard’s hand, drawing him into a full embrace before stepping away, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Fiery as always, Everard, but we are not charging the French. I have business here and, I admit, so have you. Now come.’ Cranston made the goldsmith sit down and served him a blackjack of fresh ale and a platter of bread and cheese. Athelstan introduced himself. Sir Everard, now slightly embarrassed, offered his apologies. Athelstan just smiled and sketched a cross in the air above the goldsmith’s head.
‘I am sorry,’ Sir Everard repeated, ‘but my waking hours were disturbed by the Herald of Hell. I sent you a message, Sir John.’
The coroner nodded.
‘Tell me more about this Herald,’ Athelstan said. ‘I know …’
‘Brother, a true will-o’-the-wisp, a night walker cloaked in the deepest dark. He appears, delivers his proclamation and vanishes.’
‘What did he say?’
Everard closed his eyes. ‘Lord Camoys,’ he began,
‘And all who with you dwell,
Harken to this warning from the Herald of Hell,
Judgement is coming, it will not be late,
Vengeance already knocks on your gate.’
Everard opened his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Doggerel verse! When I went down to investigate, out in the street, I could see no one. The watchman Poulter also reported the same, yet I heard that horn, those threats. I saw and held that beaker of blood with two sticks, small onions spiked on them like traitors’ heads poled above London Bridge.’
‘He is appearing all over the city,’ Cranston declared. ‘No one knows who he is or how he can come and go with such impunity.’
‘And yet,’ Sir Everard broke in, ‘I am sure …’
‘About what?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I recognized that voice, I am certain of it. Oh, I know they say the Herald of Hell is the leader of the Upright Men in London, and that he has the power to turn invisible and be in many places at the one time.’ Everard shook his head. ‘I am more a believer in human wickedness and cunning tricks. I recognized that voice but I cannot place it.’ He turned toward Cranston. ‘Remember, John, when we were in France? You and I were regularly despatched forward towards the enemy lines.’
‘I remember.’ Cranston smiled dreamily. ‘Warm nights, the air rich with the fragrance of apples. Do you remember that night outside Crotoy?’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan warned.
‘Ah yes.’ The coroner recollected himself.
‘They used to call us the King’s eyes and ears,’ Everard declared. ‘You with your sharp sight.’
‘And you, my friend, with an ear for the faintest sound.’
‘So you recognized the Herald’s voice?’
‘Yes, Brother, but, the angels be my witness, I cannot place it. I have done some searches. You are correct, Sir John. The Herald appears all over the city from Farringdon to Cripplegate.’ The goldsmith shook his head. ‘He knows where people live; he appears, then, like some will-o’-the-wisp, he vanishes into thin air.’
‘And the Cross of Lothar?’ Athelstan asked. ‘We know its origins …’