‘Brother, he exists! Sir Everard is a trusted friend and veteran soldier, he does not suffer from such imaginings.’
Athelstan sighed. ‘I agree, but this herald appears here and there, never glimpsed, never caught. The Herald of Hell plays a game of mystery, just as mysterious as the Cross of Lothar. Indeed, Sir John, I am truly intrigued why Mistress Cheyne is not interested in its whereabouts. Or perhaps she is, yet she seems almost to dismiss the relic as some cheap trinket, not worth bothering about. Matthias Camoys searches for it, she doesn’t, and, despite her late paramour leaving enigmatic devices and signs for others to follow, she shows no interest whatsoever. I do wonder about that as I do about a terrified clerk like Whitfield offering to help Matthias Camoys discover the whereabouts of this precious treasure. I mean, at a time when Whitfield was fleeing for his life and couldn’t give a fig about anything.’ Athelstan paused as Mine Hostess, like a war cog in full sail, came charging out of the buttery. She came across and filled Sir John’s goblet, but Athelstan put a hand over his as she offered a cup against what she called, ‘the weariness of the day’. Cranston thanked her and toasted Athelstan with his brimming goblet.
‘And all this,’ the coroner murmured, ‘shrouds what you truly suspect: that Whitfield did not commit suicide but was murdered. True,’ he nodded, ‘I can see the logic of your argument. Whitfield was dressed, ready to go, he had promised to meet young Matthias, and that’s another mystery: Whitfield was to meet Camoys in the early evening, so why was he already dressed to go out before dawn even broke?’ Cranston cradled his goblet. ‘Satan’s tits, Athelstan! We have overlooked something very important.’
‘Which is?’
‘If Whitfield and Lebarge cleared their chambers and later disappeared, leaving the possibility that Whitfield was dead due to an accident or possible suicide, Thibault would eventually discover the truth. He’d realize that Whitfield had fled or died trying to. Indeed he probably has. Albinus visited those chambers in Fairlop Lane; it would be obvious that those who’d lived there had left for good.’
‘Sir John, Sir John,’ Athelstan smiled bleakly, ‘Whitfield didn’t care about what might happen later: all he needed was a little time to throw Thibault off the pursuit, to block his master for a while.’
‘Of course,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Whitfield knew a storm was imminent which would engulf Thibault, who would have other, more pressing matters to worry about. Whitfield expected that Thibault would not survive. By then he would be long gone into hiding where he could lie quiet for many a day, begin a new life and even return to a London greatly changed from the city of today.’
‘Exactly, Sir John, a London possibly with no Thibault, no secret chancery, no threat. Whitfield was gambling on that. All Whitfield wanted was to put as much distance between himself and London as possible until the season of slaughter came and went.’
‘And yet, Brother, we need more evidence to justify our suspicions.’
‘Sir John, I concede: all I nourish is a deep and jabbing suspicion. I also admit that the obstacles to a logical conclusion about Whitfield’s death appear unsurmountable.’ Athelstan spread his fingers to emphasize his points. ‘Primo: Joycelina reported the door was locked and bolted. We know from the testimony of others and the scrutiny I made of the door, that this is correct. Secundo: entry to and from that chamber was nigh impossible. Tertio: every scrap of evidence collected demonstrates that entry from the garden through the window must be ruled out for many sound reasons which I accept. Quarto: there are no other secret entrances. Quinto: we can account for the movements of all the possible suspects being outside that chamber when its door was broken down. Sexto: we have a man hanging by his neck. I suspect he was murdered, but how did he get himself placed on that stool with a noose around his throat? How did the assassin gain entry and, more importantly, leave as both door and window were clearly sealed, locked and barred? Oh, very, very clever,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Sir John, we are confronting a most subtle assassin but …’ He gathered up his chancery satchel. ‘The day is drawing on, the hour passes. Soon, my large friend, we shall be for the dark.’
PART THREE
‘Murdrum – Murder.’
Cranston and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace and the friar left Sir John to his reflections and his wine and made his way out into Cheapside. The crowds had now broken up as the sun began to set. The market horns were blowing and the stall-beadles insisting that the day’s trading be completed. The denizens of the night were also slinking out: nightwalkers and shapeshifters in tattered clothes and cheap hoods with their harsh, pocked faces, glittering eyes and fingers which constantly hovered over the wooden hilts of stabbing daggers and dirks. Beggars whined for alms. Children, enjoying the last hours of daylight, screamed and chased each other, causing the skinny street dogs to yip and bark. Athelstan, his cowl covering both head and face, turned down an alleyway. He had to stand aside for a funeral party making its way down to one of the churches to conduct the death watch, the vigil of prayer before the requiem Mass was sung the following morning.
He retreated into a shabby tavern and was immediately accosted by the ale wife, an ugly-looking harridan with a hooked, dripping nose and skin rough as a sack. Bleary-eyed, she munched on her gums as she glared at Athelstan, one hand on her waist, the knuckles of her fingers glistening with grease. Beside her another woman, face wrinkled as a pig’s ear, blowsy and hot-eyed: Athelstan pulled back his cowl, smiled and sketched a blessing in their direction. The ale wife nodded and pointed to a greasy stool where the friar could sit while the noisy funeral party, which had stopped to drink, and already had done so deeply, organized itself to continue. Athelstan took his seat and stared round the dingy taproom. Hens roosted on the open ale-tubs; his stomach pitched as he saw droppings from the birds fall into the drink, but this did not concern the ale wife, who began to strain the dung through a hair net.
Customers came and went. Many had no money but brought a rabbit, a pot of honey, a spoon or a skillet in lieu of payment. One woman carried a jug but she first sat down to cut a piece of leather off the sole of her tallow-smeared shoe to stop a hole in the jug. Athelstan watched all this with deepening unease. Just a walk away rose the stately mansions of Cheapside hung with silks and brightly coloured cloths, chambers crammed with precious objects. Outside of these stood stalls heaped with goods imported from abroad: oranges, barrels of fruit, glass goblets, rolls of damask and satin, pipes of wine, ornamental needles, mantles of leopard skin. Yet here thrived a different world, one which plotted the bloody destruction of everything Cheapside represented. Athelstan pulled his cowl back over his head as he swiftly scrutinized the other customers grouped around the overturned ale casks and wine tuns, shadowy figures in the poor light from the smelly tallow candles. Here undoubtedly thronged the Upright Men of the ward with their foot soldiers the Earthworms. Here, once the hush of evening descended and the dark gathered, so would the plotters. When the day of the Great Slaughter dawned and the strongholds began to fall, the flame of rebellion would burst out in places such as this. Hidden caches of bows, arrows, spears, clubs and swords would be opened and the inhabitants of this narrow lane would burst out to plunder the wealth of Cheapside.
‘In the name of the King and the esteemed council of this city,’ a voice roared from outside, ‘move on and move away.’