Cranston grinned at the sheer effrontery of such a claim as he continued to inspect the crowd he pushed through. The legion of pickpockets and petty thieves had already seen the coroner and slunk away. Cranston had a habit of recognizing the likes of Fairy Fingers, Robber Red Breast and Peter the Pilferer and bellowing a warning about them to all and sundry. Cranston was equally vigilant over a more sinister enemy, the Upright Men, whose assassins were known to seek out Crown officials and strike with sword or dagger. Cranston drew comfort that his friendship with Brother Athelstan tempered resentment against him. Nevertheless, the coroner was wary. The Upright Men were plotting furiously, though Cranston was growing mystified as he sensed an unexpected abeyance in the dread creeping through the city. The Earthworms, the fantastically garbed horsemen despatched by the Upright Men into Cheapside or elsewhere to cause chaos and mock the power of the Regent, had abruptly ceased their attacks. Cranston’s spies had also reported a lack of activity by the Upright Men in those bastions of the city underworld around Whitefriars and elsewhere.
Cranston wondered why as he turned into Parsnip Lane, where Justice Gavelkind had his town house squeezed between a tavern, the Hoop in Splendour, and the St Mary Magdalene, the workshop of one of London’s leading perfumers. Cranston had agreed to meet Gavelkind outside the latter and strode down the long, narrow lane. He glimpsed the justice leave his house then the coroner stopped in astonishment. A figure, shrouded in black like a Benedictine monk, stepped out of an alley mouth holding a bucket. Gavelkind paused and turned as if greeted by this mysterious figure, who then hurled the contents of the bucket over him. Gavelkind staggered back. The black-garbed figure followed; dropping the bucket, he opened a lanthorn hanging on a door post, took out the flaming tallow candle and hurled it at the justice. For a few heartbeats nothing happened. Gavelkind was beating at the mess covering him until blue-gold sparks appeared. These flickered momentarily before erupting into tongues of flame which overwhelmed him. Cranston raced forward but it was too late. The lane was deserted. Gavelkind, engulfed in the raging fire, staggered to the right and left blocking the path. The fire-thrower had disappeared. Cranston could only stare in disbelief as Gavelkind, no more than a mass of flame, stumbled screaming towards him. Customers from the tavern hurried out to view the horror as Cranston took off his cloak and tried to douse the blazing inferno …
The market horn was sounding the end of trading and the bells of the city churches clanged for vespers when Athelstan, summoned by Cranston’s messenger, the green-garbed Tiptoft, slipped into the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside. This was, in the coroner’s own words, Cranston’s ‘private chantry chapel’. Sir John was determined to bring Athelstan into the gruesome mysteries confronting him. The coroner had already seen off the two beggars lurking as usual near the door: Leif the one-legged and Leif’s constant companion, Rawbum. Now he rose to exchange the kiss of peace with Athelstan before asking the buxom Mine Hostess to serve fresh pots of ale and a dish of cold meat for both himself and, as he joked, ‘his Father Confessor’. For a while, Athelstan and Cranston ate and drank in silence. Once finished, the coroner sat back, polishing his horn-spoon on a snow-white napkin.
‘Thank you for coming, Brother.’ He turned to face the friar, who had become such an important part of his life.
‘Sir John, you have a tale for me; I certainly have one for you.’
‘Fire!’ Cranston replied. ‘A tangled tale about fire and how it can be used. First let me regale you with what you will define as the facts.’ He took a sip from his tankard and made himself more comfortable in the deep window seat of the tavern. ‘Listen, Brother, and listen well. Walter Beaumont was born in York, the son of a mercer. He left the family home and served as a soldier beyond the Narrow Seas. He travelled to Florence, ostensibly involved in the wool trade; secretly he wanted to become a peritus, an expert in the use of cannon and culverins. More importantly, he strove to learn the secrets of the different powders which fire these machines of war. He became a captain of one of those mercenary companies, they called themselves the “Luciferi”, or the “Light Bearers”. Beaumont’s free company was different from the rest, they brought cannon fire to the battlefield.’
‘I saw the same in France,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘such machines are becoming more numerous …’
‘And more deadly, Brother. Three years ago, at the siege of St Malo, Gaunt mustered more than four hundred cannon; some, weighing over a hundredweight, could cast heavy stone balls, quarrels or even lead bullets. The old king and the Black Prince,’ Cranston sniffed, ‘loved these machines of war. They held a dreadful fascination for our royal princes.’
‘They were used at the battle of Crecy?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, yes they were. Now, from a very early age, Walter Beaumont recognized the value of such terrible machines and steeped himself in their use. He acquired the name of “Black Beaumont” for his love, knowledge and skill of gunpowder. On his return to England, he imported great supplies of saltpetre, sulphur, colophony, amber powder and turpentine. He established foundries to manufacture cannon and create the powder and missiles they would need. Beaumont became Master of the King’s Cannon, Master of the Royal Ordnance at the Tower and elsewhere. He served with great distinction in the royal array. The Black Prince himself knighted Beaumont outside Calais.’ Cranston waved a hand. ‘You can guess how such a life story unfolds. Beaumont married, his wife died in childbirth. A childless widower, Sir Walter married again, a great beauty, the Lady Isolda. I suppose Sir Walter thought he lived in some romance; wealthy, well patronized with a beautiful wife. Sir Walter, as you may know, owned an extensive and well-endowed manor – a veritable mansion.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Firecrest Manor, lying between the city and Westminster. It possesses spacious meadows, gardens and orchards which front the river. I have seen its majestic water gate with its own wharf and quay.’
‘The same,’ Cranston agreed. ‘A veritable Eden, a seeming paradise.’
‘And the serpent?’
‘Sir Walter fell ill. He was a goodly age. Nothing serious. A flux in the bowels, bile in the stomach. He had no children: his brother, Sir Henry, also a merchant, together with Henry’s young wife, Rohesia, live with him.’
‘And there are others?’
‘Thomas Buckholt, Sir Walter’s steward, a man devoted to his master. Reginald Vanner, mark that name, Sir Walter’s chancery clerk, of the same age, or thereabouts, as Lady Isolda. Oh, yes, and Rosamund Clifford, Lady Isolda’s waiting maid. Now, suspicion began to hint, whisper, even gossip that Sir Walter was being poisoned.’ Cranston paused, staring round the warm taproom savouring the mouth-watering odours seeping out of the kitchens where Mine Hostess was preparing strips of ham glazed with mustard. ‘Lovely place.’ Cranston smacked his lips just as a cohort of corpse-bearers bustled in, doffing their dark worsted cloaks and peeling off white face masks decorated with small black crosses.