After they had left, Athelstan ate a little breakfast and walked back to the deserted church to say his office. He then cleared the table in the kitchen, laid out his writing implements: quill, ink horn, pumice stone and the roll of new parchment Cranston had given him. Once ready, Athelstan sat and wrote everything he and the Coroner had learnt about the Ira Dei: Mountjoy’s stabbing, Fitzroy’s poisoning and Sturmey’s sudden and violent death in Billingsgate. The day wore on. Athelstan paused to eat a little soup, some dried meat and bread. He crossed to the church to say prayers then walked through the graveyard reflecting on what he had written. He drew a fresh diagram of the Guildhall garden, a seating plan of the banquet where Fitzroy had died. Now and again he remembered some other items and made a neat insertion.
By dusk Athelstan believed he had written down everything he and Cranston had learnt and began studying his notes carefully. He smiled as he remembered his mother looking for a thread in an old cloak and, once she did, carefully teasing it out, unravelling the precious wool. However, there was no loose thread here.
‘Cold-blooded murder,’ Athelstan muttered to himself. ‘No crime of passion, no impetuous gesture which would betray the assassin.’ He listed no less than eight possible culprits whilst the identity of Ira Dei remained a mystery. Athelstan got up and stretched, lit the candles and built up the fire as Bonaventure slipped through the open window.
‘Good evening, my prince of the alleyways.’
The great tom cat stretched in front of the hearth, his little pink tongue darting in and out. He purred with pleasure as Athelstan brought out a pitcher of milk from the buttery and filled his battered, pewter bowl. The friar crouched down and stroked the one-eyed torn cat between the ears.
‘I wish you animals could talk,’ he muttered. ‘I wish I was like the great St Francis of Assissi and had the gift of conversing with God’s little creatures. What mysteries do you see, eh, Bonaventure? What wickedness do you glimpse as you hunt amongst the alleyways and runnels?’
Bonaventure kept lapping the milk, his tail twitching with pleasure. Athelstan rose, sipped from his tankard of beer and went back to his problem. Darkness fell, owls hooted from the cemetery and the friar’s irritation grew. He went back upstairs and collected the scroll he had taken from Cranston’s house about the investigation some fifteen years ago in which Sturmey had been involved. He went downstairs and carefully scrutinized the document, using his ruler so as to study each line.
‘Oh, Lord help me!’ he whispered. ‘Please, just one loose thread!’ Athelstan read on and then, in a corner of the margin of the manuscript where the scribe had made a little annotation, he found it. ‘Oh, Lord save us!’ he whispered. ‘Oh, of course!’
The friar extinguished the candle and trudged upstairs, lay down on the cot bed and stared up at the ceiling. On such a beautiful autumn evening, particularly a Sunday, he would usually be at the top of the church tower, scanning the stars and talking to Bonaventure about the theories of Roger Bacon. He had to confess, however, that a study of the human heart was more fascinating as he began to build a logical explanation which might flush out the murderer into God’s own light. His mind sifted the possibilities till his eyes grew heavy. He drifted into a troubled sleep and a recurring nightmare of standing under the moonlight in the Guildhall garden.
He was sitting where Mountjoy had been and could see the assassin moving behind the fence paling. He tried to get up but realized he was fastened and unable to move. He knew the assassin was going to strike. Then Athelstan would turn, conscious of someone beside him, and see the greyish faces and red-rimmed eyes of a line of corpses: Mountjoy, Fitzroy, Sarah Hobden, whilst on a spike in the centre of the garden was the decapitated head of Jacques Larue, the French pirate. The corpses pressed against him, mouths gaping. Athelstan wanted to shove them away but was terrified of taking his eyes off the assassin lurking behind the fence.
At last he awoke, sweating and moaning. He swung his legs off the bed, breathing deeply to control his thudding heart. He looked through the window. The sky was already shot with red so he washed, changed and went down to the kitchen for something to eat. Eventually the terrors of the night faded as he sat before the rekindled fire, gently rocking in the chair with Bonaventure curled in his lap. Then he went back to his writing. At first slowly, then with greater vigour and speed as he drew up what he termed his bill of indictment against the assassin.
Outside the birds stirred, swooping and singing; the sun rose higher and stronger. Athelstan put down his pen and went across to the church to celebrate Mass. No one came. Crim, heavy-eyed, burst through the door just as he finished, shouting his apologies. The lad explained how both his family and that of Pike the ditcher had spent the previous evening celebrating the forthcoming betrothal. Athelstan reassured him all was well, took a penny from his pouch and led Crim out on to the porch of the church.
‘You know the Lord Coroner, Crim?’
‘You mean old Horse Crusher?’
‘No, Crim!’
‘Yes, Father, I know the Lord Coroner and where he lives.’
‘Well, go across and see him. Deliver this message. He is to meet me at The Holy Lamb of God.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Yes, just as the market opens. Also tell him to ask my Lord of Gaunt and the other nobles to meet us at the Guildhall at noon.’ He slipped the penny into the boy’s grimy hand and made him repeat his message three times. Crim faithfully did so, eyes closed in concentration, and then was off, running like a hare down the alleyway.
Athelstan went back into the church and crouched at the foot of one of the pillars. He’d be glad to have this business finished. He only hoped he was right. He had some proof but not enough: that would come when they were all assembled in the Guildhall though he would have to confess that the identity of Ira Dei was a mystery that had eluded him.
Athelstan stared round the church. He really would have to catch up on parish business. Huddle had not finished his painting above the baptismal font, whilst Cecily had not cleaned the church for days. Athelstan closed his eyes. If only he could persuade someone to buy stained glass for one of the windows. Some brilliant picture like those he had seen in the well-patronized London churches. A story from the life of Christ or even that of St Erconwald, portrayed in great detail so he could refer to it when he gave his sermons.
His mind wandered. He hoped Elizabeth Hobden would be safe with the Minoresses, and had Cranston issued the warrants for the arrest of her father and stepmother? Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. Returning to the priest’s house he cleared the table, packed the leather bag with his writing implements and went out to saddle a rather surly Philomel.
He rode down to London Bridge, past the one-storied tenements of many of his parishioners. He resisted the temptation to ride directly at Ursula’s great sow which was lumbering up the street, its ears flapping, probably heading direct for Athelstan’s garden patch. The friar stopped beside a small ale-house where Cecily sat, legs pertly crossed, deep in conversation with Pike the ditcher. Athelstan handed him the keys to the church.
‘Cecily,’ he pleaded, ‘the church needs a good clean and I have paid you to do it.’
The girl’s child-like blue eyes filled with tears.
‘Oh, Father, I am sorry but…’
‘Cecily has been busy,’ Pike interrupted. ‘With Alberto.’
‘Who?’
‘A sailor from a Geneose cog berthed at Dowgate.’ Pike’s grin widened. ‘Now he has gone, Cecily is back with us and the church will be clean.’