‘Athelstan, for the sake of Satan’s tits, little friar, you are freezing to death.’
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan gripped his chancery satchel tighter, ‘I need your assistance to let me think There are certain tasks to be done.’ He got to his feet. ‘It’s time we left. We will give our condolences and adjourn to Blackfriars. Our refectorium, Brother Wilfred, brews a tangy ale. They say it’s the best in London, whilst our cook, Brother Geoffrey, creates a meat stew pie second to none.’
‘Brother, you have bought me body and soul!’
‘Sir John, be my guest. Whilst you eat I will be busy in our library and scriptorium, then I must hasten back to St Erconwald’s to ensure that calm has returned. I also need to talk to my little altar boy, Crim. Yes, that’s very important.’
Mystified, the coroner agreed. They left Lady Anne’s house, out through the noisy streets of Poultry and down to the city now cloaked in one of those thick river fogs. Cranston made sure their escort kept close. Athelstan, however, was not concerned about this, his mind tumbling like dice in a cup. They reached Blackfriars and entered the hallowed serenity of its cloisters. Athelstan relaxed. He ensured Sir John was safely ensconced in the prior’s parlour where the cook and refectoriam were eager to serve the coroner their tastiest achievements and listen once again to Sir John’s amazing exploits in France.
Athelstan excused himself and retreated into the comfortable darkness of the library and scriptorium. On a polished oaken desk lighted by candles he laid out his writing materials, weighed down a neatly cut square of vellum, and sat staring into the darkness. His gaze was caught by the lectern, carved in the shape of a soaring eagle, on which rested the priory’s principal Bible – a work of art copied out by the Benedictines of Glastonbury and presented to the Dominicans when they first set up house in London. Athelstan rose and walked over to it. He opened the Bible and turned to the place where he had read that extract from the scorched piece of parchment. He went back to his desk, grasped his sharpest quill pen and began to itemize certain salient points in a series of questions to himself. Item: the attacks by the Ignifer on himself and others were easy enough – all his victims had been taken by surprise. Who had been where and when? Item: apparently the Ignifer had also communicated his secrets to Parson Garman and the Upright Men. Why? Item: those letters, ‘SFSM’, scrawled on the walls of Isolda’s death cell – what did they mean? Item: what did Isolda have when she died apart from food and drink? Item: why did Isolda have that heated dispute with Lady Anne, who was doing nothing but trying to comfort her? Item: who had been a member of the Luciferi? Item: why had Sir Walter constantly boasted that the secrets of ‘The Book of Fires’ would be a revelation to anyone who ever found them and that they were safe on Patmos? Item: the Ignifer was someone passionately devoted to Isolda. At the same time this assassin was apparently the holder of the secret of Greek fire, so why didn’t the Ignifer try to trade such secrets for a pardon for Isolda? Item: a man claiming to be Vanner came to Smithfield to collect the charred remains of Lady Isolda. Who was this? Why did he call himself Vanner when that clerk lay murdered, his corpse deep in the mere at Firecrest Manor? Item: why did the Ignifer give off the fragrance of a rather costly perfume, the scent of crushed lilies? Item: what was the true source of the poison given to Sir Walter used first in those figs coated with an almond sauce and later in that fateful cup of posset? Item: Isolda went into the city to meet Nicephorus but also someone else. Who was this? Why the secrecy? Item: on the night he, Cranston and Lady Anne had been attacked, Turgot had been trailing behind them. Why had Turgot now been killed? Was there a connection between Turgot’s death and that of Lady Anne’s ostler? Item: the Ignifer certainly had a relationship with the Upright Men. Who favoured them – Buckholt, Sir Henry? Did Master Falke? Item: why was it so important for the Ignifer that Gaunt’s barges be burnt? Why was the Ignifer so determined to remove both Cranston and himself from this investigation?
Athelstan paused in his writing. He closed his eyes, recalling different images and occasions. Walking the streets of Poultry after that meeting at Lady Anne’s house, the attack on them near Aldgate. He opened his eyes and studied the list he’d made, emphasizing each point in his mind like a preacher memorizing a sermon. ‘There are still gaps,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t have enough … too many gaps.’ He took a fresh square of parchment and hastily wrote out a number of requests for the coroner. Once finished, he studied both manuscripts. He was still lacking one vital piece of evidence and Crim would supply that. A floorboard creaked behind him. Athelstan whirled around. Cranston had tiptoed through the door.
‘Brother, are you finished?’
‘For the moment, Sir John.’ The friar picked up the second piece of parchment and held it out for the coroner to take. ‘We must go our separate ways, but I need answers to these questions before the vespers bell rings.’
‘And what then, little friar?’
‘Oh, we shall meet. Yes, perhaps the most appropriate place would be Newgate Prison. I need to have words with certain individuals there. But first,’ Athelstan rose to his feet, ‘my quarry is Crim …’
Athelstan stared around the cell where Lady Isolda Beaumont had spent her last days. He had re-examined the graffiti on the wall and paced that sombre chamber, measuring his footsteps and half-listening to the sounds from outside. He had spent the previous day, once he had left Blackfriars, in the priest’s house at St Erconwald’s as he gently questioned Crim and Benedicta and received Cranston’s replies through his messenger, Tiptoft. The coroner had simply confirmed what Athelstan had suspected, turning a strong probability into a virtual certainty. Athelstan believed he had trapped the killer; now he prepared for that fateful confrontation. He stopped his pacing as Cranston, swathed in his cloak, strode into the cell. He took off his beaver hat, stamping his booted feet against the cold.
‘Have you set up court, little friar? Those questions you sent me …?’
‘And you will soon learn the answers, Sir John. I ask for your patience-’ Athelstan broke off at a knock at the door. He strode across, opened it and ushered Parson Garman into the death cell. Almost immediately there was a second knock and the Carnifex swaggered in, breathing noisily, bowing and bobbing to both coroner and friar.