Murder Most Holy (26 page)

Cranston stood, legs apart, thumbs stuck in his belt, revelling in the expectant silence.

‘Sir John,’ snapped Gaunt, ‘how can a bed be a killer?’

‘Many a man has died in bed, My Lord.’

‘We await your explanation,’ came the caustic reply.

Cranston walked to the table, picked up his goblet of wine and slurped from it noisily.

‘That bed,’ he began, turning to address the hall, ‘was different from any other. Now a bolster or mattress is stuffed with straw – at least for the poor. For the rich, swans’ feathers.’ Cranston suddenly walked back to the dais and picked up his cloak which he had slung on the floor. He rolled it into a bundle ‘If I hit my cloak, dust arises. See – a common occurrence In springtime the good burgesses of London take their carpets and hangings out to dust them vigorously. You, sir,’ Cranston pointed to a soldier, ‘take your sword.’ Cranston grinned at Gaunt. ‘With my Lord’s permission, hit the arras behind you as vigorously as you can with the flat of your sword.’

The soldier, his hand on the sword hilt, looked askance a Gaunt.

‘Tell him, Uncle,’ the king ordered.

Gaunt made a supercilious sign with his fingers. Athelstan watched, for Cranston had chosen a soldier and an arras which could be seen by all, brightly illumined by the sconce torches on the wall and the dozens of tall candles down the tables. The soldier hit the arras.

‘Harder, man!’ Cranston bellowed.

The soldier happily obliged and, even from where he sat, Athelstan could see puffs of dust moving across the hall.

‘Now,’ Cranston continued, ‘the bed in the scarlet chamber was similar. It was packed with some poisonous dust. Anyone who stood in the room was safe.’ Cranston grinned and spread his hands. ‘But we all know what happens in bed, even when you are alone.’

Faint laughter greeted his words.

‘The first victim lay on the bed tossing and turning, unaware at first of the dust clogging his nostrils and mouth. Finally he realised something was wrong, that he was dying and went to open the window. But of course the chamber hadn’t been used for years. The latch and handles were stiff and the young man died where he stood.’ Cranston turned and looked at the Italian. The nobleman just gazed back, open-mouthed, a look of resignation in his dark eyes.

‘And the priest?’ Gaunt asked.

‘Well, My Lord, just think of it. He comes up to the chamber. He does what he has to but he is tired and cold. He has just walked through drifts of deep snow. So what does he do?’

‘Lies on the bed! Lies on the bed!’ the young king shouted.

Cranston sketched a bow. ‘Your Grace, you are most perceptive. He, too, lies there, forcing the toxin out. He wakes, he even makes the situation worse by thrashing about. He climbs off the bed, collapses, and dies on the floor.’

‘And the two soldiers?’ Cremona spoke up despairingly. ‘Remember, Sir John, only one of them lay on the bed.’

Cranston spread his hands. ‘My Lord, you did say that the archer lay on the bed, the bolt in his crossbow, yes?’

The Italian nodded.

‘He was a skilled bowman?’

Again Cremona nodded. Cranston turned to the rest of the guests.

‘Imagine, therefore, the scene. In the middle of the night this expert bowman, this veteran soldier, awakes, choking to death. He makes a sound, rouses his companion, but the archer is dying. He cannot understand why he cannot breathe. He sees a dark shape move and in his last dying seconds, like the bom archer he is,’ Cranston turned, revelling in the ripple of applause which greeted his conclusion, ‘the archer shoots. His companion is killed, and the archer staggers off the bed to die beside him.’

Cranston turned, bowed to the king, and a wave of loud applause broke out, the courtiers now clapping vigorously and stamping the floor with their feet. Cremona leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. Gaunt, chin in hand, stared down the hall, but the young king was so excited he could hardly keep still. His hand fluttered above the white scroll on the scarlet cushion. Cremona stood up.

‘Sir John, how could a bed contain such a poison?’

The coroner shrugged. ‘My Lord, that was not the question However, there are poisons, potions, powders strong enough to kill a man if he breathes them in.’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘What I say is true. Any of the toxic poisons – digitalis, belladonna or arsenic – if ground into fine dust, will be just as lethal. The only problem lies in collecting sufficient. I suspect the mattress of that bed was stuffed with a fortune in poisons.’

Cranston’s words were greeted by a chorus of approval. The Italian nobleman picked up the scroll and handed it to the king.

‘Your Grace, you may open that, though there is little need. Sir John has won his wager.’ Cremona suddenly leaned forward. ‘My Lord, your hand.’

Athelstan watched as Cremona, followed by Gaunt, the king and their courtiers, shook Sir John’s hand. After the hubbub died down the sealed scroll was opened and Gaunt read out a solution almost chillingly identical in words to that given by Cranston.

‘Sir John!’ Cremona shouted above the din. ‘The thousand crowns! They will be delivered on Monday. I wish you well.’

The Italian lord, putting a brave face on his disappointment, swept out of the hall. Gaunt, after a few more congratulatory words, followed suit and the other courtiers drifted away. The young king, however, remained and gestured at Cranston to bend down so he could whisper in his ear. The joy on Cranston’s face disappeared. He just nodded and looked sad as young Richard left the hall. Athelstan, who had deliberately kept at a distance, now rose and looped his arm through that of Cranston’s.

‘Congratulations, Sir John!’

Cranston looked slyly at him. ‘Don’t be sardonic, Brother. We both know who resolved the mystery.’

‘No, no.’ Athelstan squeezed the coroner’s arm. ‘Sir John, you were magnificent.’

‘The thousand crowns are yours.’

Athelstan stepped away. ‘Sir John, why do I need a thousand crowns?’

The coroner pulled a face. ‘There’s the poor.’

‘The poor will always be with us, Sir John. After all, you are not a wealthy man.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Your fees are small. You never take a bribe. Your wealth is Lady Maude’s dowry, isn’t it?’

Cranston just shook his head and looked away.

‘Listen, My Lord Coroner.’ Athelstan guided him out of the hall. ‘Give a hundred crowns to the poor, buy Lady Maude whatever she wants and a new robe for yourself, and invest the rest with the bankers in Lombard Street. Don’t forget, there are the two poppets. As they grow older they’ll need education. The halls of Oxford and Cambridge await them.’

‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston roared. ‘My two sons are going to become Dominicans!’

Athelstan burst out laughing and they made their way out through the gardens down to the riverside.

The good-natured banter continued as the boatmen ferried them along the choppy waters of the Thames to the Eastgate Wharf just where the Fleet disgorged its filth into the Thames.

As they clambered out of the boat and paid the oarsman they had to cover their mouths and nostrils against the stench. Even in the gathering darkness Athelstan glimpsed the bloated bodies of dogs and cats as well as the human excrement and filth which covered the surface of the river with a thick greasy sludge.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston whispered. ‘In my treatise on the governance of the city, I will put an end to that.’

‘How, Sir John?’

Cranston pointed along Thames Street. ‘I have studied the ancient maps, Brother. Do you know the Romans built sewers in the city, cleansed by underwater streams? I can’t see why we don’t do the same.’

Arguing over the finer points of Sir John’s treatise, they made their way up Knightrider Street, turning left into Friday Street and into a now quiet Cheapside. The sun had set, the beacon light in St Mary Le Bow flared against the darkening sky, the stalls were removed and dogs and cats nosed amongst the rubbish. Lantern horns had been put out on their hooks beside every door and the city settled down, giving way to the dark work of London’s nights. Already the beggars were congregating at the mouth of alleyways, keeping a wary eye on the beadles. A group of young fops, already half-drunk, swayed arm-in-arm towards the brothels and tenements of the doxies in Cock Lane.

‘You’ll tell the Lady Maude?’ Athelstan asked as they stopped near the steps of St Mary Le Bow.

Cranston shook his head. ‘First things first, Brother. I have a raging thirst. To the victor the spoils and I am going to have the biggest cup of claret the Holy Lamb can boast of.’

Athelstan stifled his protests. He had to concede that Sir John needed both reward and refreshment, and idly wondered if in the excitement the coroner had forgotten to fill the miraculous wineskin. Sir John swept into the Holy Lamb like the north wind, throwing pennies to the beggars outside. He also bought a drink for every one of the customers, pressing a coin into each servant’s hand. The landlord and his plump wife, who always seemed to cling together, were each embraced and kissed roundly on the cheeks. A space was cleared round the best table and a dish of lamb, cooked gently over charcoal and heavily spiced, was served with leeks and onions covered in a sauce drawn from the meat. Athelstan realised how hungry he was and ordered the same, but kept to watered wine while Sir John purchased the best claret in the deepest cup the Holy Lamb possessed.

Sir John ate ravenously, wiping the pewter plate clean with chunks of the whitest, sweetest bread; he finished Athelstan’s half-emptied goblet, burped, and leaned back, eyes half-closed.

‘I was magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘For an Italian, Cremona wasn’t a bad man – but did you see Gaunt’s face? He’s a cool one, that. Only once did I see the mask slip.’ Cranston tapped his stomach. ‘If looks could kill, my head would have bounced from my shoulders.’

‘What did King Richard say?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know, at the end, when he whispered in your ear?’

Cranston sat forward, his face grave. He looked round carefully for Gaunt’s spies were everywhere. ‘Have you ever studied the young king’s eyes?’ he whispered. ‘They are like flints of ice. Such a light blue they are almost colourless. I knew a physician once. He described such a stare as that of a man whose mind is disturbed.’

Athelstan drew closer. ‘You think the young king is mad, Sir John?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘No, no, but there’s madness in him. As he grows older, Richard could become one of the greatest kings this realm has ever seen. But in the wrong hands, given the wrong wife or evil counsel, he could be a tyrant who will brook no opposition.’ Cranston wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘But that’s for the future, Brother. What he said tonight was that he, too, thought it was the bed because he had considered killing his uncle that way!’ Cranston picked up his wine cup. ‘Before God, Brother,’ he whispered, ‘I couldn’t believe it. The king just said it so coldly, as anyone else would remark on the weather or purchasing a pair of gloves. I tell you this, Athelstan, Gaunt will not give up his power easily and the young king hates him for it. I must make sure I am not drawn into the bloodbath which is to follow.’

Athelstan refilled Cranston’s cup. ‘Come on, Sir John, forget the politics of the court. You are richer by a thousand crowns. You have brought great honour to your name. Lady Maude awaits you, and your cup’s winking at the brim.’

‘Before I sink into revelry and sin,’ Cranston replied, ‘tell me, Brother, about the business at Blackfriars.’

Athelstan ran his finger round the brim of his own cup. ‘Sir John, this case is unique. Do you realise we have no proof? Not one shred of evidence to accuse, never mind arrest, anyone. Never before have we dealt with a matter such as this I believe that everything will stand or fall by the name Hildegarde. Now, come, Sir John.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and, when they lurched out of the Holy Lamb two hours later, was roaring out a pretty ditty about a young lady’s garters which Athelstan chose to ignore. He too felt most unsteady on his feet. They both staggered across Cheapside, Cranston ignoring Athelstan’s warnings to be quiet and continuing his description of the young lady’s legs. Two beadles ran up, but as soon as they recognised Sir John, turned on their heels and fled.

Lady Maude was waiting for them.

‘Oh, Sir John!’ she wailed. ‘What is this?’

She helped her husband through the door, Sir John leering and blowing kisses at the wet nurse who stood at the foot of the stairs, each arm around one of the sleeping poppets. Cranston, now being carried by Lady Maude on one side and Athelstan on the other, staggered into the kitchen and climbed on to the table.

‘You see here,’ he slurred, ‘Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner of the City, terror of thieves, the fury of felons, the vindicator of causes, the resolver of mysteries!’

Lady Maude stood with hands clasped, looking up at her husband swaying on top of the table. She glanced sharply across at Athelstan.

‘Brother, Sir John resolved the mystery?’

‘Yes, My Lady, he did. He was magnificent. He is truly the King’s Coroner. A wealthier if not a wiser man.’

Athelstan suddenly felt the room swaying and bitterly regretted helping Cranston finish that last cup of wine. He sat down wearily as the coroner, arms still extended, beamed like a jovial Bacchus down at his wife.

‘You had no faith, woman!’ he roared.

‘Oh, Sir John,’ Lady Maude whispered, touching him gently on the knee. ‘I had every faith.’ Her face became demure. ‘As I shall bear witness later,’ she said softly.

Sir John staggered down and pointed at Athelstan. ‘Of course, my clerk helped.’ Sir John swayed dangerously and glanced at the wet nurse. ‘Oh, my poppets!’ he murmured. ‘You would have been so proud of your pater. Lovely lads!’ he continued. ‘Lovely, lovely boys! They are going to become Dominicans, do you know that?’

He then lay on the table and promptly fell fast asleep. Lady Maude made him as comfortable as possible, Athelstan gave the poppets a blessing, and the wet nurse, together with the other sleepy servants, was shooed out of the kitchen. Lady Maude served Athelstan a large tankard of coolest water and some onion soup whilst plying him with questions, not being satisfied until he had given her every detail of Sir John’s magnificent triumph at the Palace of Savoy. She listened, round-eyed, and then went across to the table where Sir John still lay, head back, arms and legs out, snoring like a thunderstorm. She bent down and kissed him gently on the brow.