‘I am sure you do.’ Sir Everard waved a hand. ‘I could understand my brother’s absorption with it. What I find difficult to accept is that he soaked my son’s mind and soul with stories about that cross; the legends surrounding it, the richness of its jewellery, its dazzling appearance.’
‘Why didn’t Reginald just leave it to his nephew?’
Sir Everard sighed noisily. ‘Oh, Reginald eventually realized what he had done. Matthias was totally obsessed by that cross.’ The goldsmith blew his cheeks out. ‘About the only thing Matthias was interested in, apart from wenching and drinking. Anyway, my brother decided he would not make it easy for his nephew. He would force Matthias to use his wits. After all, he is an intelligent scholar; he could discover its whereabouts for himself. Ah, well,’ Sir Everard struggled to his feet. ‘I came to rescue my son from this house of stews with its filthy fleshpots. Sir John, if that is acceptable?’
‘As long as you stand guarantor for him. Matthias must not leave London and be ready to be questioned by us at any hour of the day. Everard, my old friend …’ Cranston came round the table. ‘One final question about the Cross of Lothar: do you have any idea of its whereabouts? Could it lie buried with your brother?’
‘No, I am sure it is not. Matthias is correct. I would wager a pound of pure gold that the Lothar Cross lies hidden, either here or in St Mary Le Bow. But now I must go.’
‘And so shall we.’ Athelstan gathered up his chancery bag. ‘Sir John, we must visit Whitfield’s chamber.’
Everard turned, his hand on the door latch. ‘Did Thibault’s clerk commit suicide?’
Athelstan smiled faintly. ‘For now, God only knows, but come, Sir John, I want Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina to join us. Sir Everard, I bid you good day.’
They left, and Athelstan went ahead, up the steep, narrow stairs to the top gallery and what he now called ‘The Murder Chamber’. He walked into the musty room and crossed to the window, noticing how the floorboards creaked. He scrutinized everything most carefully: the inner shutters, the window, the tattered oiled pigskin. He could detect nothing out of place except that the latch on the door window was rather stiff and creaked when moved. He opened it, leaned over and peered either side.
‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘According to Foxley, this was all sealed and locked.’ He tapped a sandalled foot against the floor. ‘The window is big enough for someone to enter, but how could they?’ He turned away. ‘There is no ladder long enough to reach it, and even if there was, the guard dogs roaming the gardens below would have been alerted. The soil has not been disturbed, and anyone climbing up to this window on the top gallery could easily be noticed from any window overlooking the garden.’ He paused. ‘I wonder,’ he whispered, ‘why Whitfield, not the fittest of men, should have a chamber on the top gallery? Why not a more comfortable one below? So …’ He moved over to the door propped against the wall and carefully inspected the dark stained oak, the bolts at top and bottom, both savagely ruptured, the torn hinges and the bulging, cracked lock with the key still twisted inside. He examined the lintel – slivers of wood had broken away – then stepped back into the chamber. The door was built into the wall with a recess on either side. He glanced to the left where robes and cloaks still hung on pegs and then to the right where the lavarium and hour candle stood. He walked around scrutinizing the floor, walls and ceilings, but the chamber was enclosed, with no traces of any secret door or passageway. He crossed himself and went to gaze at where Whitfield’s corpse had hung so eerily, swaying slightly on the end of that tarred rope.
‘Impossible,’ Athelstan breathed, staring up at the beam. ‘Did you commit suicide? Does your spirit still hover here? Has Satan appeared with his hellish mirror so that you can gaze forever on your immortal soul stained with sin, or has God sent this great angel of mercy to comfort you? I pray that he has …’ He stopped as he heard a harsh clatter on the stairs and Sir John’s booming voice assuring the ladies that they could soon return to their normal business.
The coroner led Mistress Cheyne, Joycelina and Foxley into the chamber. The Master of Horse looked a little tipsy, the two women rather anxious, the usual arrogance drained from their faces. Athelstan ushered them out to the gallery and asked them to repeat exactly what had happened earlier in the day when the door was forced. Mistress Cheyne immediately described how she had been busy in the refectory with guests and servants who were breaking their fast. Griffin had gone to rouse everybody, but Whitfield’s absence was eventually noted and Joycelina despatched to fetch him. The maid then took up the story, explaining how she had knocked on the door, tried it, then peered through the eyelet, but this had been blocked, whilst the key had definitely been in the lock. She had then hurried down to the refectory to raise the alarm. Mistress Cheyne, now seated on one of the coffers, described how Foxley had gone out into the garden to bring the battering ram, along with the two labourers, whilst Joycelina had been despatched to tell the maids not to be disturbed by what they heard. The labourers had brought the ram; they had mounted the stairs and begun pounding the door, Foxley assisting them. The Master of Horse intervened and explained that he had also examined the door and found both eyelet and lock blocked. He had helped the labourers while Mistress Cheyne had shouted for Joycelina to join her, which she had done.
‘So you are gathered here,’ Athelstan declared, ‘in this dark gallery, then what happened?’
‘The door gave way, it collapsed. Immediately we saw Whitfield’s corpse swaying in the poor light.’ Mistress Cheyne wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘We were very frightened. I told Foxley to go in.’
‘I entered,’ the Master of Horse explained. ‘I passed the corpse. I was terrified. The shadows seemed to dance. I wondered if pig-faced demons …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘then what happened?’
‘You went straight to the window?’ Athelstan gently insisted. ‘And?’
‘I lifted the bar on the inner shutters and pulled at the window latch.’
‘Was that easy?’
‘No, it stuck a little, as if it had been clamped shut for some time. I pushed the door window back and lifted the hooks on the outer shutters.’
‘Tell me,’ Athelstan demanded, ‘did you notice anything amiss about either the shutters or the window?’
‘No.’
Athelstan studied Foxley’s face. ‘You may not have told me everything,’ he murmured, ‘or even the full truth behind other matters, but I believe you are telling me the truth about this.’ He turned. ‘Sir John, inform all those whom we have questioned to make themselves readily available if we wish to question them again.’ Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Or we shall have them put to the horn as utlegati – outlaws …’
Athelstan and Cranston left the Golden Oliphant, pausing beneath the huge, exquisitely painted sign to decide what to do next. Athelstan stared up. With its hidden sexual connotations, the curved, beautifully decorated drinking horn, its goblet sealed by a cross, struck him as a most accurate depiction of the house he was leaving. All fair in form, but what was its essence, the very substance of the place? A house of murder. Pondering how he could resolve the mysteries confronting him, the friar was tempted to return immediately to St Erconwald’s and question Lebarge, yet he sensed Whitfield’s scrivener would claim sanctuary in all its rights and refuse to talk. Why had Lebarge fled there? What was he so frightened of? Athelstan put these questions to Cranston, who simply rubbed his face and stared up at the gorgeously painted Oliphant.
‘The day is passing quickly enough,’ the coroner grunted. ‘We have other places to visit before we cross the river. Let us leave Lebarge for a while and thread these murderous alleyways to a house of even greater ill-repute, the Tavern of Lost Souls.’