‘Nothing,’ the coroner declared, ‘he had nothing to report. Fulchard of Richmond appears to be genuine enough. It would seem a miracle has occurred and he was cured. No lookalike had been seen by any of my searchers and the same is reported by the Harrower of the Dead and the Fisher of Men.’
Athelstan whistled in surprise. He had confided in Cranston that the only way the Great Miracle could be disproved was to demonstrate that someone, however they did it, had taken the place of Fulchard of Richmond, whilst the real cripple had, even though it was nigh impossible to prove, been spirited away. Such a theory, however, lacked any form of evidence. The Fisher of Men had searched the river, the Harrower of the Dead all the lanes, laystalls and alleyways of Southwark – nothing had been found.
‘And the same goes for Reginald Vanner,’ Cranston added. ‘Brother, you are correct. Vanner is dead, but by whose hand, why and how or where his corpse is hidden: all are a mystery.’
‘Then come, Sir John.’ Athelstan undid his chancery satchel. ‘The household have returned?’
‘Aye, and have resigned themselves to further questioning.’
‘Then let’s begin. If it’s to be done,’ he smiled at the coroner, ‘it’s best done swiftly and ruthlessly. We shall take Sir Henry and Lady Rohesia first.’
Cranston asked Mortice, who’d been appointed usher, to fetch both of these. They arrived looking very ill at ease and sat down at the buttery table opposite the coroner and his secretarius.
‘We have answered your questions,’ Sir Henry bleated.
‘Then answer them again,’ Athelstan snapped. He had slept well but the memory of the violence earlier in the day still affected him.
‘You are a merchant, Sir Henry. You deal in cannon, culverins, fire, missiles and gunpowder. You and your brother hold a commission for this from the Crown. You own foundries, warehouses and all the impedimenta of a great merchant. Yes?’
Sir Henry agreed.
‘You also own “The Book of Fires” by Mark the Greek?’
‘I don’t, Brother. I never held it. Sir Walter kept it very close. Of course, he talked about it being in a coffer or casket in his own bedchamber. I don’t think it was ever there. In all the years I worked with Sir Walter I swear I never opened it, let alone read it.’
‘Yet Sir Walter dealt in fiery liquids, he distilled oils and ground powders which could inflict great damage?’
‘Yes, but on certain special creations my brother insisted on working by himself. All our craftsmen and their apprentices would fetch things, go here and there or do this and that but, in these matters, Sir Walter acted by himself. Of course,’ Sir Henry hurried on, ‘this was when he was hale and hearty. As he sickened, he withdrew from the trade. Sometimes, perhaps he was preparing for death, he openly regretted what he had done, the wealth he had accumulated and the way he had done it. He declared that the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” was a matter of revelation, safe on the island of Patmos. Of course, I didn’t know what he was referring to. Patmos is a Greek island, perhaps he visited it as a young man or something happened to him there. I assure you, “The Book of Fires” was Sir Walter’s great secret. He once informed me that the mysteries it held should be left hidden. Sir Walter believed we human beings have a hunger to discover new ways of destroying each other.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied tartly, ‘and that would include himself? As the scripture says, “What doth it profit a man if he gain the whole world but suffer the loss of his immortal soul?”’
‘Perhaps.’ Sir Henry refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.
‘But “The Book of Fires” definitely exists?’
‘Certainly, Brother, though I have no knowledge of its whereabouts.’
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Rohesia leaned forward, ‘we are not lying. We want that book, as others do. It holds secrets which could provide even greater wealth.’
‘Where did it come from?’ Cranston asked.
‘Another mystery.’ Sir Henry took a deep breath. ‘In our youth Walter and I were apprentices, traders, craftsmen. I was content with that but my brother had a wanderlust, a deep curiosity which pricked and spurred him on. He left London and travelled abroad to Outremer, then on to Constantinople. There are rumours he even journeyed along the Great Silk Road to the fabulous kingdoms of the East, but in truth I know little about that.’
‘How long was he absent?’
‘Oh, about fifteen summers. He left a young man and returned a veteran soldier, a warrior and a most cunning and skilful trader and merchant. He was hardly home a year when I realized how much he had learnt. We began to produce fine powder, better culverins, bombards and cannon. We could manufacture a substance to be used in mining a wall, attacking a gate or defending a castle against besiegers: a fire with horrendous effect, easy to ignite, devastating once lit and most difficult to douse. Only then did we discover that Sir Walter nursed great secrets and had a copy of “The Book of Fires”.’
‘And its origins?’ Athelstan repeated Cranston’s original question.
‘Brother, I do not really know. Search Sir Walter’s manuscripts – everything about his years abroad still remains a mystery. I learnt only a few facts; he was here, there, everywhere. He learnt different languages and used these to disguise and hide even more cleverly all he knew about fire and its use in war. Sometimes in his cups he’d betray a few facts. He apparently led a troop of mercenaries, like the famous White Company in France or Hawkmoor’s in Italy. He called them the “Luciferi” – the “Light Bearers”, his own private army. Walter became a peritus, highly skilled in cannon, powder and fire, all the impedimenta of war. He led a comitatus similarly trained.’
‘Did any of his present household serve with him?’
‘No. Buckholt, Mortice and the rest were hired on his return, I believe Buckholt’s father was a member of his company but he died abroad.’
‘Did your brother’s past,’ Athelstan asked, ‘ever surface to confront and threaten him?’
‘The warnings just over a year ago. I did wonder …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan replied, ‘how did they go, “As I and ours burnt, so shall ye and yours”? Yet these abruptly ended. Anything else?’
‘Occasionally,’ Sir Henry declared, ‘we would have visitors – Greeks: men muffled, cowled and cloaked. They came here to meet my brother but what their business was he wouldn’t tell me. Occasionally my brother would go into the city and elsewhere; he would insist on being by himself. Again, I cannot help.’
Athelstan stared at this plump merchant prince, the sweat glistening on his thinning pate and rubicund cheeks, the constant shifting eyes, the stubby fingers never still, whilst beside him Lady Rohesia sat as if carved out of stone. You are not telling the full truth, Athelstan thought, but, there again, you are a weak man. Your brother ignored you. Athelstan glanced at Lady Rohesia, who probably was the source of any strength her husband showed. Athelstan drummed his fingers on the tabletop, aware of Sir John moving restlessly beside him.