‘Nonsense.’ Lady Anne quivered with anger but Athelstan could see it was pretence.
‘Listen, now,’ he insisted. ‘Beaumont was very devious. “The Book of Fires” was not copied on fresh vellum but in a specially purchased copy of the Novum Testamentum - the New Testament. Beaumont had the copyist turn to the last book of the Testament which, as we know, is the Apocalypse or Book of Revelation, written by St John the Apostle when he was in exile on the island of Patmos. In Beaumont’s Novum Testamentum the lines were specially spaced. It was simply a matter of copying “The Book of Fires” into those spaces as well as using the generous margins on all four sides of each page and the blank pages found at the back of any book. Naturally, written in Latin by a clerkly hand with the usual chancery abbreviations, it would look like what it was meant to be-’
‘A commentary,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Scholars do that in Bibles, books of hours, a psalter, a missal.’
‘And Beaumont entrusted that with me?’ Lady Anne jibed. ‘So I could read it …’
‘Hush, now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘Beaumont was arrogant, with the most disdainful attitude towards women. He probably thought you couldn’t even read, certainly not Latin or the clever abbreviations of the scriptorium and chancery. And if you did read it, what comprehension would you have?’ He turned to the coroner. ‘Think, Sir John.’ He urged. ‘What better place to hide “The Book of Fires” than amongst the lines of the New Testament? Especially the Apocalypse or Book of Revelation written by the Apostle John on the island of Patmos, which describes the end of creation when Christ comes again with fire and sword? Beaumont would see the humour in it. He thought he was very clever that no one would discover the secret which explains his sly illusions of the whereabouts of “The Book of Fires” being a “revelation”, “safe on the island of Patmos”.’
Cranston was now beside himself with excitement. He snapped his fingers, now and again gesturing at Lady Anne.
‘Beaumont,’ the coroner declared. ‘Yes, didn’t he say that Lady Anne’s house was the safest place in London? It would be a sanctuary of peace when the revolt comes because of her good work in Newgate and elsewhere? The Upright Men would not place her house under the ban.’ Cranston whistled softly, shaking his head.
‘A shrewd move,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘When the revolt does come, Firecrest Manor will be high on the list of mansions to be pillaged and burnt. It would be foolish to hide “The Book of Fires” there. Now,’ he paused to collect his thoughts, ‘Lady Anne, you are, despite what Beaumont thought, an educated, highly intelligent guild woman. You mix potions and powders. You consult leech books, medical treatises and works of physic. You are acquainted with the works of Galen and Bartholomew the Englishman. You are both literate and numerate, just as skilled and experienced as any Cheapside mercer, and so was Turgot, your familiar. Remember, you told me how you had him educated in the chapel school at Westminster Abbey?’
‘If I had “The Book of Fires”, why did I not use it to negotiate Isolda’s life?’
‘Sharp, very sharp,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sharp as a serpent’s tooth! A very good question. So I return to circumstance and coincidence. It’s a matter of logic, isn’t it?’
Lady Anne just glared back.
‘Some people are in the right place at the right time or,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘some people are in the wrong place at the right time and so on. To be brief, you never discovered the secret until after Isolda’s execution. God knows why and how. Was it mere chance? Did you sit brooding and realize all you had left from your complex plotting was Sir Walter’s copy of the New Testament? Did you wonder what to do with it? Take it out and leaf through the pages, or did you reflect on all you knew about Black Beaumont? The years abroad, his sly illusions to the book’s whereabouts being a revelation safe on the island of Patmos? I cannot say, but you certainly discovered the secret and used it to deadly effect.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘At the same time you continued the pretence of condemning Isolda. You had no choice but to mask your true intentions.’
‘You will produce proof for all this?’ Lady Anne asked. ‘You can evidence what you say?’
‘You and your familiar Turgot became very busy,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You are an apothecary – you can easily buy the different components and constituents. You also had the Keep in which to distil them. Turgot was young, skilled and able. Once ready, you strike. First, Turgot attacks Sutler and Gavelkind. An easy enough task. Go out on to any London street and you will find someone carrying a pot, a pail, a pan and sometimes a lantern or candle. Turgot acted this out. A pot of Greek fire in one hand, a flame in the other. Vengeance was inflicted on Sutler, Gavelkind and Pynchon, foreman of the jury. The latter was not caught out on a London street. He made it easy for you, a bachelor locked in his strong room in the cellars. All Turgot had to do, using a pair of bellows, was pump Greek fire through that grille, followed by a flame. Pynchon was drunk, clumsy on his feet and, of course, he had sealed himself in. Even for someone with a fresh mind, unlocking and unbarring a heavy door could be frustrating. You also turned on us. You knew our reputation. You feared discovery and you wished to deepen the mystery. Twice you attacked Sir John and me and, on a separate occasion, the coroner in his own house.’
‘Turgot and I were with you when you were attacked on our way to Firecrest Manor!’
‘Oh, you were.’ Athelstan emphasized his words. ‘You were with us and Turgot was allegedly following to protect us. It was all a pretence. You wished to create an illusion.’ He paused. ‘On reflection, there was no need for you to accompany us so late in the evening. You did give us your judgement on Isolda, but you could have said that in the privacy of your own house. You simply wanted to take us out into the dark, wasting time so Turgot could prepare himself. On that night Turgot did not leave the house behind us, Wickham the ostler did. All we saw was a cloaked, cowled figure following us. Wickham was given strict instructions on what to do, whilst Turgot sped ahead. He launched his assault and then disappeared, fleeing through the maze of streets. Remember what you told us, how Turgot knew that warren of alleyways? Your accomplice hurled the missile then slipped back to act his part. Wickham was dismissed. The ostler was simple-minded, yet even the most sharp-witted might not have suspected. To all intents and purposes, Turgot had apparently caught up with him and assumed his usual duty of protecting his mistress. Wickham was instructed to keep silent. You, Lady Anne, clearly used that assault to show the Ignifer had nothing to do with you or yours. You played the same game when we were attacked in Aldgate. We left Pynchon’s house. Turgot followed us. He waited for his opportunity and perpetrated that assault. An easy enough task, you realized we’d be summoned there and be vulnerable afterwards. You created the pretence that Turgot was busy on your affairs in Southwark. He was not. You sent a mute, cowled and cloaked, that strange creature who suffers the same as Turgot, Didymus. Remember him? The twin who constantly makes signs to a so-called brother invisible to everyone else? We human beings, Lady Anne, as you well know, treat cripples and the maimed as if they don’t exist. You sent a mute to St Erconwald’s with a letter. Didymus, not Turgot, was your emissary, but who would care about a mute beggar’s individual characteristics? I did, only because of a boy.’
‘Evidence!’ Lady Anne beat her fists on the table.
‘Children are different. Crim, my altar boy, was fascinated by the way Didymus, after he delivered the letter to my house, wandered off busy with his sign language, as if someone else was present. That wasn’t Turgot but Didymus.’