‘In a while,’ he murmured, ‘all will be revealed. By now. .’ he continued. Sir Maurice seemed not to be listening, leaning on the table, head in hands, whilst Branson gazed at the wall like a man who had taken a blow to the head. ‘By now you had decided on other deaths. The Judas Man was a danger, narrow of soul but with a razor-sharp wit. He grew suspicious; indeed, anyone would have. During those long hours in St Erconwald’s cemetery, he would ask himself questions like, why the Misericord? Who had hired him? Why the great secrecy? He would learn about the Lombard treasure and the mysterious events of twenty years ago, and, of course, he was a suspect over the killings of Beatrice and Clarice, even though he was involved in a brawl on the night they were murdered. I searched his chamber and found a scrap of parchment where he had written “4 not 5”.’
‘He was talking about this present company, wasn’t he?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, he was,’ Athelstan agreed.
‘He had met you, hadn’t he, Sir Maurice? He knew all about the five knights and their chaplain. He was keen-eyed, and on the night of the Great Ratting, he came down into the tap room. He must have met you, did he not?’
Sir Maurice refused to look up.
‘He noticed one of you was missing around the very time that those two young women were murdered. He noticed Chandler wasn’t there. This is pure deduction,’ Athelstan conceded, ‘but the Judas Man would be intrigued: what important event where only four of the knights, not five, were present? The only significant occasion, the only murders which occurred when he was close by, were those of Beatrice and Clarice. He must have heard the gossip about Sir Stephen quarrelling with those women as well as being seen in the yard afterwards. Above all,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the corpse stiffening beside him, ‘he wondered why Master Rolles never interfered with his confrontation with that poor miscreant Toadflax. Was Rolles so busy in the kitchen he couldn’t come out? The Judas Man started asking questions, so one of you killed him, very close, with a crossbow bolt. The Judas Man was a soldier, a hunter; he would have to be caught unawares. I could imagine Master Rolles tapping on his door, the primed arbalest well concealed. The Judas Man flings the door open, and in a few heartbeats he is dead.’
Athelstan glanced at Malachi, lost in his own thoughts, beating his fingers against the table edge.
‘Master Rolles must have been involved. You would need his cart. The Judas Man’s corpse, stripped naked, was concealed under mounds of rubbish. At dusk Master Rolles took it out to the lay stall, the great refuse mound on London Bridge. Nobody lingers to watch refuse, ordure and other unmentionables be unloaded. The Judas Man’s corpse became part of the midden heap, and along with the rest was tipped into the Thames.’
He paused at the furious knocking at the door, and Flaxwith came in. The bailiff stood fascinated by the corpse sprawled on the floor.
‘What is it, Henry?’ Cranston asked.
Flaxwith whispered hoarsely in the coroner’s ear. Athelstan overheard a few words: something had been found in the garden.
‘Let it wait, Sir John.’
Cranston agreed, but ordered Flaxwith to remove the taverner’s corpse. A sheet was hastily brought, the body rolled in it, and taken out into the passageway. Athelstan heard the cries and groans of the servants and maids, now gathering, horrorstruck at what was happening. He rose and closed the door firmly against the noise.
‘Brother Malachi, we come to you. You were attacked in my church by a dagger man. One of the knives used belonged to the Judas Man, but of course, that was just to muddy the water. That poor unfortunate had already gone to God. Master Rolles, a prime mover in all these matters, was your assailant.’ Athelstan pointed at the coroner. ‘When Sir John first described Rolles, he called him a sicarius, “dagger man”; the knights sent him to silence you.’
‘And why should they do that?’ Malachi’s voice was rich with sarcasm.
‘You know why.’ Athelstan held the Benedictine’s gaze. ‘Once you had that ring,’ he continued, ‘you realised your brother was dead. On the day of the great robbery you had been absent across the river; for all I know, that may have been arranged by Rolles, Sir Maurice and the other conspirators. You returned and, like the rest, were mystified at what had happened. In the end you reluctantly accepted that your brother was a thief and a fugitive. You had no reason to suspect otherwise. The crusading fleet left the Thames; never once did you see or hear anything to arouse your suspicions, until that ring came into your possession. It was a matter of logic. Who else would have known about that treasure? Who else had the means to carry out the deed? Did you reflect upon Guinevere the Golden, on the possibility that she may not have loved your brother as he loved her? And, of course, the treasure. Have you been to see His Grace, John of Gaunt?’
Malachi gazed coolly back.
‘What was it, Brother?’ Athelstan urged. ‘What made you decide to carry out God’s judgement on these murderers?’
‘Did I?’ Malachi taunted back. He scraped back his chair, smiling to himself. ‘Tell Sir Maurice how I did it, Athelstan.’
‘You decided Chandler should die first,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That fat knight was all a-quiver, still disturbed by the events of the previous night, hot and sweaty and agitated. He wanted to sip at claret and soothe himself in a hot tub. You saw the taverner take it up. You waited until he had gone and then, carrying an identical cup, of claret, tapped on Sir Stephen’s door. The knight, all in a fluster, admitted you. He was in a state of undress, and when he realised that you had come to talk about nothing of significance, he wanted you to go.’
‘But only after Malachi had exchanged one cup for another,’ Cranston replied.
‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘The goblet Malachi brought was heavily laced with poison. How many times do we put a cup down and pick up the wrong one? Chandler didn’t even notice. He let Malachi out, placed his boots to be cleaned, locked and barred the door, climbed into that hot bath and swallowed his own death. The rheums in his nose would dull the taste of poison.’
‘And Sir Laurence Broomhill?’ Cranston asked. ‘You lured him into that cellar, lit the candle at the far end and he stumbled into that repulsive mantrap.’
‘God knows,’ Athelstan added, ‘how you did it. A message that Broomhill was to come alone to learn something? You know all about this tavern, the cellar and what it holds.’
‘I now realise,’ Cranston tapped the table, ‘why we were not summoned when Broomhill was first found. You, Sir Maurice, delayed, you didn’t want us to hear the dangerous babbling of a dying man who might ask Athelstan to shrive him.’
‘You are truly evil men,’ Athelstan accused. ‘You didn’t give a fig for Broomhill’s soul or Chandler’s reputation. If matters were pressed, Chandler could be blamed for the deaths in the hay barn, the result of too much wine and hot lust. After all, he’d touched the corpses and bloodied his hands. You claimed Chandler’s crossbow was missing, I doubt very much if he had one. You were more concerned about your chaplain being your nemesis.’
‘And you accuse me of Davenport’s death?’ Malachi asked.
‘I do!’ Sir Maurice seemed to have recovered his wits. He tried to shake Branson from his reverie, but Sir Reginald turned away like a frightened child. ‘I do!’ Clinton repeated, pushing back his long grey hair. ‘Whatever he says.’ He pointed at Athelstan.
‘Are you confessing, Sir Maurice?’ Cranston asked.
‘I’ll confess to nothing until I have a meeting with His Grace.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Yet no one killed Sir Thomas Davenport. He committed suicide. You, Sir Maurice, lied about him, you tried to depict Davenport as a jovial, merry man, eager for a goblet of wine and the sweet embraces of the fair Rosamund. It was you or Master Rolles who sent for her to divert Sir Thomas. He had lived with his sin for twenty years; every time he came here was a sharp reminder. Indeed, it was the real reason you gathered here every year. Under the pretext of celebrating a past triumph, the conspirators met to reaffirm their loyalty to each other. That’s why Chandler brought his chancery coffer with him. I don’t think any of you feared God or man. Sir Thomas may have been different. He realised that one sin begets another. The murders of Beatrice and Clarice, the Misericord, the Judas Man, and of course when you sent Master Rolles to dispose of Brother Malachi. . Sir Thomas realised that the conspiracy was crumbling away. The Beast of Sin no longer lurked by the door; it was hunting him. Davenport went out in the garden and, like Sir Stephen Chandler, begged God to forgive him. He asked for pardon but, like Judas Iscariot, guilt consumed him. He sat in that garden and thought of the corpses mouldering there, the other victims, their blood shrieking for God’s vengeance. He could take no more. He returned to his chamber, locked himself in and died in the Roman fashion. He took the candle pricket and thrust it up into his own heart.’