‘We like to remind our customers that life is short, judgement imminent and punishment eternal; this concentrates the mind something wonderful.’ He paused as Cranston strolled across, Flaxwith trailing behind him. ‘My Lord Coroner, a great pleasure!’
‘I wish I could return the compliment, Master Mephistopheles, but we must have words.’
‘And so we shall.’ Mephistopheles nodded towards Flaxwith. ‘But first ask your bully boys to stand by the door; they make me nervous.’
Cranston looked as if he were about to refuse.
‘Please,’ Athelstan murmured.
Cranston assented and Mephistopheles led them across to one of the cubicles. He opened the door and grandly gestured them to sit on one side of the table whilst he took the bench opposite. He asked if they wanted refreshment. Cranston was about to agree when Athelstan pressed his sandalled foot hard on the toe of Cranston’s boot. Mephistopheles grinned and rubbed white, fleshy hands together.
‘Sir John?’
‘Amaury Whitfield, Thibault’s clerk, has been found hanging in his chamber at the Golden Oliphant.’
‘So I have heard.’
‘He visited you?’
‘So it would appear; otherwise you wouldn’t be visiting me!’
‘Why did Whitfield come here and why did he intend to return this evening?’
‘You are right that he intended to return.’
‘What was his business?’
‘His business.’
Swifter than any dagger man, Cranston whipped out his knife and pressed the blade against Mephistopheles’ throat.
‘You will slit me, Sir John?’
‘Of course, defending myself, a royal officer, the King’s own Coroner in the City of London against a notorious miscreant resisting arrest.’
‘On what charge?’ Mephistopheles held his head rigidly still.
‘Oh, I can think of quite a few after Flaxwith and my bully boys, as you call them, have ransacked this house of ill-repute from cellar to garret. Now come, Master of the Minions, the truth.’
Mephistopheles nodded and Cranston resheathed his dagger.
‘He came here yesterday,’ Mephistopheles said carefully. ‘He met me. He held certain goods he wished to trade and enquired if I would inspect them and offer a price.’
‘What goods?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mephistopheles rubbed his throat where Cranston’s dagger had rested. ‘But he seemed satisfied and said he would return here later today, towards the evening, but …’ Mephistopheles spread his hands.
‘Was he frightened?’ Cranston asked.
‘Certainly. He mumbled something about the Herald of Hell, the sinister doom threatening the city, and his desire to escape the coming fury.’
‘Did he seem frightened enough to commit suicide?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Perhaps.’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘Oh, he came with him but remained as silent as a nun in vows.’
‘And Master Camoys?’
Mephistopheles pulled a face.
‘A callow youth whose uncle executed the sign outside. He has been here before to ask me what I knew about his dead uncle, which,’ Mephistopheles sniffed, ‘wasn’t much.’
‘Did you know why he should meet Whitfield here?’
‘No, Sir John.’ Mephistopheles leaned forward. ‘But for the love of God, you know what is coming.’ He indicated with his head. ‘The river is not far from here. As soon as the revolt begins, I intend to flee; half of London will follow me.’
‘So?’
‘Whitfield was the same. He was a coney caught in a trap. He was Thibault’s creature, marked down for capture, humiliation and a gruesome death.’ Mephistopheles lowered his voice, a look of pity in those strange eyes. ‘As you are, my portly friend …’
Cranston and Athelstan left the Tavern of Lost Souls. Mephistopheles had remained enigmatic and Cranston, as he informed Athelstan, had no real evidence of any wrongdoing by this most sinister of characters. They made their way along the busy runnels and alleyways towards the river. They were now in the heart of the stews of Southwark, where the bath houses and brothels did a thriving trade. Wandering food sellers pushed their moveable grills and ovens on barrows or pulled them on roughly made sleds. Water sellers, ale men and beer wives hovered close by, ever ready to sell drink to those who bought the rancid meats, their taste and smell carefully hidden beneath bitter spices and rich sauces. Whores, their heads and faces almost hidden by thick horse-hair wigs dyed orange or green, thronged in doorways and at the mouth of alleyways, or leaned from windows offering blandishments to all and sundry. Nearby their hooded, sharp-eyed pimps, needle-thin daggers pushed through rings on their tattered belts, kept an eye on business. Sailors, wharfmen and those who lived off the river thronged in to visit the stews and bath houses, taverns and ale cottages.
Cranston’s party was given a wide berth by all of these as they swept down to the quayside, where the coroner, using his seal of office, managed to commandeer a royal barge which had just berthed. They clambered in, followed by Flaxwith and his bailiffs. Cranston roared his orders and the grinning bargemen, who knew the coroner of old, pushed away, turning their craft into the swell, oars rising and falling to the sing-song voice of their master. The barge, its pennants fluttering, ploughed into the slow moving river. Athelstan was relieved; they would have gentle passage. He sat under the leather canopy in the stern, clutching his chancery satchel. Feeling more relaxed, he closed his eyes and quietly recited a psalm from the office of the day. He felt the salty, fishy breeze catch his face. Athelstan opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky; the sun was strong, the clouds mere white tendrils. He recalled the words of the poet, ‘How nature mirrored the shimmering mind of God.’ He murmured a prayer and turned to what he had seen, heard and felt that busy morning. Deep in his heart the friar realized that he and Cranston faced a truly cunning mystery. He thought again about Lebarge, sheltering in sanctuary. Had the scrivener fled the Golden Oliphant so precipitately because he feared that he also would die a mysterious death which would be depicted as an accident or a suicide? Athelstan turned and glimpsed a royal war cog in full-bellied sail making its way down to the estuary.
‘Sir John?’ He tapped the coroner’s arm.
‘Yes, Brother?’
‘The Leaping Horse, Odo Gray’s ship, is berthed at Queenshithe. Let us seek it out.’ Cranston had a word with the master and the barge swung slightly and made its way past the ships moored close to the north bank of the Thames. The Leaping Horse came into view, its name scrolled on the high stern and gilded bow strip, a powerful, two-masted, big-bellied war cog. Cranston stood and peered up.
‘It’s ready for sea,’ he murmured, ‘on the evening tide. Wouldn’t you say so, barge master?’
The fellow agreed, pointing out how the sails were loosened, and crew men were scurrying about the deck whilst others were busy in the rigging.
‘Sir John, should we approach and board?’
‘No, no.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘Interesting, however, isn’t it, my floating friar? How Captain Odo Gray believed he would be up and away before this day was out? Well, he won’t be, so let’s continue.’
The barge master shouted at the oarsmen and the craft pulled away before turning to run alongside the landing place at Queen’s Steps. Cranston told Flaxwith and his bailiffs that he no longer needed them before leading Athelstan up one of the alleyways into Cheapside. The afternoon was drawing on yet the heat in the narrow streets was stifling. Worthy burgesses pushed by, sweating heavily in their high-necked shirts, ermine-lined robes and fur-edged caps. Their wives were equally splendid in gorgeous coloured gowns and robes, faces almost hidden by the studded pomanders pressed to their noses against the ever pervasive stench. Traders and stall-holders, tinkers and costermongers shouted the cries of their trade. Nips, foists and other petty thieves slunk amongst the crowd looking for prey or plunder only to flee at the sight of Cranston. The dung carts were out, the self-important rakers shoving people aside so as to empty laystalls and cesspits. Tavern doors hung open, ale fumes and cooking smells wafting into the streets to mingle with the myriad of odours swirling about.