The Mayor suddenly sprang to his feet.
‘Cranston.’ he yelled, ‘you’re a fool!’
Sir Christopher, ‘Athelstan intervened softly, ‘explain yourself.’
The Mayor advanced into the centre of the room, his fat face wreathed in a smug smile, ‘Can’t you see My Lord’ he addressed Gaunt. ‘Mountjoy was murdered. Fitzroy was murdered. Sturmey was murdered. But let’s not forget the vicious attack on my Lord Clifford!’
‘Oh, no,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s not forget that. Bruises and cuts! Nothing very serious. I am sure Lord Adam knows this.’
Goodman stepped back, gnawing his lip as he realized the stupidity of his outburst.
‘You mean?’ he began.
‘I mean,’ Athelstan replied quietly, ‘that when Lord Adam is taken into custody and examined, the bruises and so-called wounds will be found to be merely superficial.’
Goodman hurried back to his seat.
‘What a marvellous ploy,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But think of it. If Ira Dei had meant to kill Clifford, he would have done so.’
‘The ambush was arranged!’ the Coroner roared at Goodman. ‘A mere distraction!’ He jabbed his finger at Clifford. ‘You know that, My Lord. If you disagree, remove your shirt and let’s see those terrible wounds.’
Clifford glared back.
‘And My Lord of Gaunt is right,’ the Coroner continued. ‘You knew where each of us would sit that night!’
‘I was elsewhere,’ Clifford muttered.
‘You’re a liar!’ Cranston barked.
Clifford shook his head but his eyes betrayed him.
‘A clever ploy,’ Cranston continued. ‘So when Fitzroy died, you were elsewhere. But how, my Lord Clifford, could you go wrong? If Fitzroy took another seat, someone else may have eaten the sweetmeat. Don’t you see?’ Cranston grinned wickedly at the Guildmasters. ‘It wasn’t necessary for Mountjoy and Fitzroy to die, so long as some of you did, murdered in mysterious circumstances, causing enough chaos and confusion to destroy any schemes devised by His Grace the Regent.’
‘And the gold? And Sturmey’s death?’ Nicholas Hussey spoke up as the Regent leaned forward in his chair and glared at the traitor at the other end of the room.
‘Oh, the gold,’ Cranston murmured. ‘Of course, that really set the seal on matters, didn’t it? You see, unfortunately, My Lord Mayor and the late Sheriff chose Peter Sturmey, a famous locksmith, to fashion a new chest which was to be secured by six locks. However, what you, Sir Christopher, had either forgotten or not realized was that our Master Sturmey had a secret life. He was a lover of young boys. Indeed, fifteen years ago he, like many great ones in this city, was involved in a scandal. Nothing was proved against Sturmey but I am sure he became more secretive, cautious in his secret passions.’ Cranston stopped speaking and looked at the King’s tutor. ‘Sir Nicholas, I believe you were a scholar at St Paul’s school at the time?’
Hussey nodded, his eyes hooded, the bottom part of his face hidden behind his hands.
I remember the scandal,’ he murmured, ‘but I knew nothing of it. I was a mere boy at the time.’
‘Yes,’ Sir John murmured, ‘you were only a boy, as were you, My Lord Clifford, a page in a powerful London household — Sir Raymond Bragley’s, then Sheriff of the city. Bragley, as My Lord Mayor remembers, was investigating the scandal and you, My Lord Clifford, must have been well aware of the important messages you carried hither and thither round the city. I suspect you knew about Sturmey’s secret vices and that he continued them. Who knows? He may even have made advances to you, and so you blackmailed him: either he made you duplicate keys or else suffered the supreme penalty for being a sodomist — being burnt alive at Smithfield.’
Clifford stared down at the table, hands spread. He didn’t resist as Gaunt nodded to the captain of his guard to pull Clifford’s dagger out of its sheath.
‘Of course, Sturmey had to die,’ Cranston continued. ‘So you lured him down to Billingsgate where he waited for you at the quayside. A clear target for you to strike at from some shadowy alleyway.’ Cranston shrugged.
‘What more can I say?’
Clifford’s head shot up. ‘You could produce some proof! This is all conjecture, mere hypothesis. You haven’t a shred of evidence to convince one of the King’s Justices. Anyone could have killed Mountjoy. Anyone could have put the poisoned sweetmeat on Fitzroy’s table. And as for Sturmey — yes, I remember the incident, but you saw his secret workshop! Anyone could have forced him to go there and make six keys.’
Cranston drummed his fingers on the table top, trying to conceal his panic. He looked under his bushy eyebrows at Athelstan who still seemed composed.
‘Lord Adam is correct,’ the Mayor asserted. ‘I agree with you, Sir John, but have you proof positive that Clifford shot the dagger and left the sweetmeat?’
‘We have,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘We have the gold. That number of precious bars cannot be easily transported round the city or sold on the open market.’ He looked at the Regent. ‘Your Grace, if you send your soldiers to My Lord Clifford’s house, I will wager you’ll find the evidence. You have to look for a hunting bow or more likely a specially constructed arbalest. Daggers of the sort used against Mountjoy and Sturmey. And, above all, the six gold bars my Lord Clifford so deftly removed from the chest. The theft went unnoticed. No one would even dream that someone could hold duplicates of six keys so, when the robbery was discovered, poor Sturmey would carry the blame. But the problem with gold is, once you remove it, what do you do with it? You can only hide it somewhere safe.’
Athelstan went to stand over Clifford. ‘Why?’ he asked.
The young man stared back.
‘In logic,’ the friar continued, ‘and in mathematics, the first principle is to search for the common factor. You see, you were involved in Sturmey’s scandal. You had the skill to kill Mountjoy. Only you knew the seating arrangement on the night Fitzroy died.’ Athelstan steeled his features for what he knew was sheer bluff.
‘Finally, Ira Dei himself has betrayed you.’
Clifford started. ‘How?’
Then he groaned as he realized the terrible mistake he had made.
Gaunt clicked his fingers at the captain of the guard. ‘Take ten archers, tear Clifford’s house apart! Imprison his servants! If necessary, use torture!’
‘There’s no need.’ Clifford, white as a ghost, drew himself up. ‘What’s the use?’ he murmured. ‘The game’s been played and it’s over.’ He licked his lips. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, you must think I am a traitor, but no more than any other man in this room. A few merchants who squeeze the poor as they would some damp cloth. Good men strutting down the nave on Sundays, but on Mondays they involve themselves in every filthy sin. Whited sepulchres!’
‘And what about me?’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘I trusted you.’
‘My Lord Regent, you trust no man. And can’t you see the storm coming?’ He jabbed a finger at Gaunt. ‘Don’t go hunting, My Lord. Instead, ride the filthy streets of Southwark or visit the villages of South Essex. The people will watch you ride by, eyes blazing with fury. The storm’s coming!’ Clifford made a sweeping movement with his hand. ‘This house of cards will tumble, burnt from cellar to garret!’ He wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted at Gaunt. ‘Do you think I am the only one? Don’t you realize there are men in this room who already plan to trim their sails when the storm comes?’ Clifford paused, swallowed up in his own fury.
Athelstan glanced quickly round at the sly, secretive faces of the Guildmasters. Clifford was a murderer but he was right. Gaunt was a fool to trust any of these men.
‘You are a traitor!’ Goodman shrieked, getting to his feet. ‘A traitor and a felon! A silent assassin!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Clifford roared, rising to his own feet, shaking off the hand of one of Gaunt’s soldiers. ‘Mountjoy was a grasping demon. Fitzroy a corrupt glutton. As for Sturmey — you chose him, My Lord Mayor, not I.’