First, the Cross of Lothar was a great treasure, stolen from a powerful religious military order. Yet there was not a shred of evidence to show that the Teutonic Knights tried to secure its return. Why not? Secondly, Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne, God bless her, had a heart of steel, a grasping woman who would never allow profit to escape her, yet she seemed totally impervious to Lothar’s Cross and its whereabouts. Surely she of all people knew the mind of her dead lover, yet she showed no interest in the riddles he had left or the possibility that a priceless treasure, hidden in her own house, might be seized by young Matthias. Or was she just waiting for him to complete the hunt and then claim the cross as rightfully hers? Thirdly, why had Amaury Whitfield, desperately trying to escape all the snares around him, offered to help Matthias resolve the enigmas bequeathed by his uncle? Finally, what did the letters ‘IHSV’ really refer to? Why was it linked to the rising sun? Athelstan recalled all he knew about Reginald Camoys as he watched a shaft of light pour through one of the stained-glass windows and shimmer on the great spread eagle, carved out of bronze, on a lectern further down the library. He stared, then started to laugh at the solution which now emerged. Elated, he rose to his feet and paced up and down the empty library, revelling in the sweet odours and the beautiful light, the companionship of written treasures piled high on the shelves around him.
‘So,’ he whispered, ‘if what I think is true, and I am sure it is, why did Whitfield try and help Matthias Camoys; what is the connection?’ He paused, recalling what Grindcobbe had told him, then thought of Whitfield’s shabby, empty chambers: those small caskets and coffers, broken up and thrown on the rubbish heap in that derelict garden.
‘I wonder …’ he murmured. ‘Matthias Camoys was determined to find the cross and Amuary Whitfield was equally determined to escape. What would unite them? What would motivate this feckless clerk – gold, or threats?’
He decided to calm his mind by joining the brothers in the friary church for divine office. He walked across and borrowed a psalter, then took his place in a stall, leaning back against the wood and gazing at the great cross above the high altar. The cantor began the hymn of praise, ‘He is happy, who is blessed by Jacob’s God.’ The brothers in the stalls replied, ‘My soul give praise to the Lord.’ Athelstan tried to concentrate on the responses, but every time he lifted his head he glimpsed the contorted faces of the babewyns and gargoyles carved on the rim of a nearby pillar. Each carried a standard and a trumpet and reminded Athelstan of the Herald of Hell. The identity of that miscreant, the friar reflected, had nothing to do with the mysterious deaths at the Golden Oliphant or St Erconwald’s. Nevertheless, if he could discover who the Herald was, it might make it easier to persuade Sir Everard Camoys to cooperate over Athelstan’s deepening suspicions about the goldsmith’s son.
Once divine office was over Athelstan returned to the library. He took a scrap of parchment and drew a rough sketch of London Bridge.
‘Herald of Hell,’ he whispered, ‘you appeared here at the dead of night even though the bridge is sealed and closely guarded after curfew. So how did you get on to the bridge then leave?’ He stared at his rough drawing. He could not imagine anyone swimming the treacherous Thames in the dead of night, climbing the slippery starlings and supports beneath the bridge and then, marvellous to say, leaving the bridge in the same fashion. ‘So,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘perhaps you live on the bridge? However, if you wish to appear in this ward and that long after the chimes of midnight, the same problems have to be confronted.’ He paused, fingers to his lips as he recalled Sir Everard’s assertion that he had recognized the bawling voice, just as those men in that alehouse had recognized the voice of Meryen the bailiff. Athelstan tapped the parchment. There was only one logical conclusion, surely? He reviewed his evidence. ‘If there is only one possible conclusion,’ he whispered to himself, ‘then that conclusion must be the correct one.’
Chewing the corner of his lip, he reflected on the murders of Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina. He was convinced all three deaths were connected, and possibly the work of the same assassin. However, he could not detect a pattern in anything he had seen, heard or felt. Nevertheless, somewhere hidden in all of this there might be a mistake by the murderer which he could seize on. Athelstan returned, once more, to the laborious task of listing everything he could recall about Whitfield, Lebarge and Joycelina, though by the time the bells chimed for compline he had made little headway. At last he admitted defeat and left the library to its keeper, who was anxious to douse the lights and lock the doors. Athelstan crossed to the refectory for a bowl of hot stew and some bread. He decided he would need to rise early the next morning, so he visited the church, said a few prayers, then adjourned to the cloister cell assigned to him.
Athelstan reached the Golden Oliphant at least an hour before dawn and was admitted by a tousle-haired Foxley, who complained of the early hour. Athelstan simply smiled his thanks and said he wished to walk the tavern. Foxley, sighing with annoyance, said he would kennel the mastiffs in the garden and open doors for the friar so he could go where he wished. Athelstan accepted this as well as some bread, cheese and dried meat to break his fast. For a while he sat in the refectory facing the window, watching the darkness dissipate. He had celebrated an early mass at Blackfriars and despatched a courier with urgent messages for Sir John, though of course his enquiries also depended on what he discovered here. Time was passing! He went out of the main door and stared up at the sign. The insignia of the huge Golden Oliphant was reproduced on both sides, the curved drinking cup capped with a lid on which a silver-green cross stood. The sign itself was a perfect square, the casing on each side about four to five inches wide, though it was difficult to be accurate as the sign hung high from the projecting arm of a soaring post. Despite the poor light and height, Athelstan noticed that both the white background and the Oliphant were clear of dirt and dust, probably due to the costly sealing paint used. As he had suspected, he realized that for a brief moment the sign would hang directly in the path of the rising sun which, according to the fiery-red glow in the eastern sky, was imminent.
He returned to the brothel along the passageways, through the Golden Hall and the spread of chambers beyond: the refectory, buttery, kitchens, scullery, pantry and bakery. The household were now stirring. Mistress Elizabeth Cheyne and the moppets, together with slatterns, scullions and tapboys, all milled about preparing for a new day. Mistress Cheyne, supervising the firing of the ovens, smiled with her lips and half raised a hand. Others just scuttled away from this sharp-eyed friar who seemed to be hunting someone or something in their house. Athelstan reached the back door. Master Griffin was in the garden with a basket of herbs. He assured Athelstan that the dogs were kennelled and pointed to the wooden palisade jutting out from the rear of the building.
‘They will be fed and then sleep there for the rest of the day,’ Griffin muttered. ‘Don’t you worry, Father, I wouldn’t be out here with those savage beasts on the loose.’ Athelstan thanked him and walked across the garden to where the workmen had been setting up the trellis fencing. He was now moving to the front of the Golden Oliphant and he could see the sign clearly. He walked a little further and smiled at sight of the flower-covered arbour with its turfed seat. He sat down.
‘Of course,’ he breathed, ‘Reginald Camoys used this arbour and I shall do the same.’