‘This is preposterous,’ Sir Maurice broke in. ‘You have no proof.’
‘You don’t deny it,’ Cranston barked, ‘you simply ask for evidence.’
‘I’ll supply that soon enough.’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘We’ll find the corpses, then there’s Mother Veritable: she’ll be about to take the oath now, provide the Crown and its lawyers with all the proof they need.’
‘But this treasure. .’ Sir Reginald Branson spoke up.
‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’ll come to it by and by. What were you planning to do with that treasure? Break it up, hide it away until you returned?’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile. ‘But you couldn’t do that, could you? In the end all you had to do was hide the corpses, and let those poor men take the blame. The perfect crime, except for Mother Veritable. She has already confessed to killing Guinevere the Golden. She was supposed to destroy all that poor woman’s possessions, make it look as though she had packed all her bags and vanished without a trace, but she was greedy. She kept a small coffer owned by Guinevere.’ Athelstan leaned under the table, brought out the small casket and placed it carefully in front of him. ‘The years passed, the casket became tawdry. Mother Veritable grew careless or her conscience pricked her. She gave the casket to Beatrice and Clarice, not realising the terrible mistake she was making.’ Athelstan tapped the broken clasps. ‘Look at that, gentlemen, do you see the insignia? Dark blue Celtic crosses on a tawny background. Don’t you remember whose insignia it was?’
‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice leaned forward, hands shaking.
‘Ah, Sir Maurice, you have reached the same conclusion as I have, hasn’t he, Brother Malachi?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Aren’t those the personal insignia of your brother, as opposed to your family escutcheon? A dark blue Celtic cross on a tawny background. I noticed that in the Tower when I scrutinised the indenture. Your brother Richard always signed a cross like this next to his name, while Mortimer used a lion, the heraldic device of his family. You had forgotten that, but the Misericord didn’t. He became very friendly with Beatrice and Clarice. One day he saw this coffer and, being keen of eye and sharp of wit, realised it must have been a personal gift from Sir Richard, a fact Mother Veritable had overlooked. The Misericord would wonder why their mother Guinevere, supposedly so devoted to Sir Richard, would vanish but leave that here. He began to reflect, racking his memory, recalling the events of that night. Did he remember something amiss? An item he had glimpsed? Did he grow suspicious of the accepted story? Eventually he shared his secret with Beatrice and Clarice whilst enigmatically hinting to his own sister what he had found. Something which could also be found on Edith’s person, namely a cross. When I visited Edith at the convent of the Minoresses she was wearing a cross similar to this one.’ Athelstan tapped the casket. ‘The Misericord must have told those two young women to be careful, to entrust the casket to someone else, which they did, their friend Donata. After their murder, Donata suspected something was wrong and decided to flee Mother Veritable’s, entrusting this to me.’
‘Is this true?’ Sir Reginald Branson shouted, glaring at Brother Malachi.
‘You know it is,’ the Benedictine spat back.
‘Of course you do,’ Athelstan declared, pushing the casket further down the table.
Malachi’s hand went out, as if by caressing it he could somehow touch his dead brother.
‘Let me continue my story,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Once the vile deed was done, you warriors of Christ went to Outremer, Master Rolles returned to looking after his tavern, whilst Mother Veritable followed her own evil path. But sin, like a beast at the door, crouches and waits, doesn’t it, Brother Malachi? You see,’ Athelstan chose his words carefully, ‘Brother Malachi was very anxious about his brother. For a while he believed the accepted story, that his brother, with Mortimer, had stolen the Lombard treasure, and disappeared with his leman, Guinevere the Golden. Now the Crown, not to mention the Lombard bankers, had circulated a list of the missing treasure to the goldsmiths’ guilds in all the principal cities of the kingdom. Brother Malachi did likewise.’
Athelstan opened his writing satchel and took out the two documents Cranston had given him the night before.
‘There are two lists here, one circulated by the Crown, the other by Brother Malachi. There’s one difference. On yours, Malachi, you added an item not found on the other.’ Athelstan undid his wallet and brought out the small velvet-lined box which held the Erconwald ring. ‘Your brother owned this. It may be Saxon but I suspect he bought it because the crosses inside the ring are very similar to those of his personal insignia. Did he buy it in London, Brother Malachi? He certainly showed it to you before he gave it to Guinevere the Golden as a token of his love.’ Athelstan paused. The silence now weighed so heavily that every sound from the garden echoed through to the solar. ‘None of the treasure ever reappeared,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but this ring did. A goldsmith contacted Brother Malachi. Once he saw the ring, he realised that Guinevere was dead, and so was his brother. When Mother Veritable killed Guinevere, greedy as ever and disappointed at what was found in the Lombard treasure chest, she kept the casket, but sold the ring. It was only a matter of time before some goldsmith recognised it and, hoping to claim the reward, wrote to Brother Malachi. This ring has already made Mother Veritable confess.’
‘I told you!’
Master Rolles’ outburst surprised even Cranston. The taverner leaped to his feet, dagger already drawn, and lunged across the table, the point of the blade narrowly missing Sir Maurice’s face. The knight pushed his chair back, hand going to his own dagger, but Rolles, face white and tight, eyes glaring, now lunged at Athelstan, his tormentor. Cranston, even swifter, lashed out with his hand and knocked Rolles’ wrist, sending the dagger flying. Athelstan could only sit as the taverner, backing away, drew the evil-looking Welsh dagger from the top of his boot. He turned on Cranston, lips moving soundlessly, one hand going to brush the sweat from his cheek.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ Cranston rose, drawing his own sword in a hiss of steel, his other hand expertly plucking a dagger from its sheath. ‘Come, Master Rolles, this is no way forward, whatever charges you face.’
‘Charges?’
Rolles wiped his face with the back of his hand. He had lost all sense of where he was and what was happening, trapped by the mistakes of the past.
‘You stupid bastard.’ Rolles turned on Sir Maurice. ‘It was your scheme from the start. I should have known better. And what for? All that blood, for what? And that stupid bitch Veritable, greedy as a jackdaw.’
Sir Maurice still sat in his chair, slightly pushed back from the table. Sir Reginald’s hand edged slowly towards his own dagger.
‘All this,’ Rolles shouted so loudly the guards outside became alarmed and burst in, only to be waved away by Cranston, ‘all this,’ he screamed again, a white froth appearing at the corner of his mouth, ‘lost because of you.’
‘Master Rolles,’ Cranston warned, ‘put down your knife.’
‘And you,’ Rolles took a step forward, ‘fat Jack Cranston, come to take my profits, have you? I never did like you, with your prying eyes, all bluff and merry, ever righteous.’
Cranston took a step back, raising both sword and dagger. Rolles was lost in his own fury, mad with rage at what was about to be revealed. Athelstan had calculated that the disappearance of Mother Veritable would disconcert Rolles, but not to this extent.