Paul Doherty - The House of Shadows

‘I had forgotten that.’ Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘I meant to take the jewellery for Brother Athelstan to sell and distribute the money amongst the poor.’

‘I don’t want it.’ Athelstan spoke up. Despite this woman’s apparent harshness, he wondered if she was trying to make sense of the horror she had witnessed. ‘Sir John,’ he turned to the coroner, ‘have the jewellery returned here.’

Mother Veritable smiled with her eyes. ‘The singer not the song,’ she murmured and winked at Athelstan. ‘Not many priests would have said that. Did you pray for them, Brother?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Do you know what happened?’ Cranston insisted.

‘From what Rolles and the others described,’ Mother Veritable sighed, ‘the two girls enjoyed the evening, and quietly left to meet their customer in the hay barn.’

‘And you do not know who this was?’

‘Sir John,’ she glanced coyly at the coroner, ‘if I did, my beautiful boys would have visited him by now. Master Rolles didn’t know. Nobody saw anything.’

‘Did Master Rolles ever. .’ Athelstan searched for the words.

‘Sample such wine?’ Mother Veritable teased. ‘At his tavern? Not to my knowledge.’ She tapped the tip of her nose. ‘But he’s always welcome here.’

‘You know who resides at the Night in Jerusalem?’ Cranston asked. ‘The Judas Man.’

Mother Veritable shook her head and pulled a face.

‘And the Falconers, the Knights of the Golden Falcon.’

Mother Veritable rested her elbows on the chair and stared down at the floor.

‘Did they ever come here? Maurice Clinton, Thomas Davenport, Reginald Branson, Laurence Broomhill, Stephen Chandler? Did they come here?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Do their names mean anything to you?’

Mother Veritable turned her face away, staring into the fire. She coughed as if clearing her throat, her shoulders shook and Athelstan realised she was crying. The room had fallen deathly silent, the only sound the flames crackling, and the spluttering from one of the braziers. Mother Veritable rose, grasping a cane, and limped over to a side table on which a chaffing dish stood. She opened a small pot and sprinkled herbs, then came back to the chair, wiping the tears from her cheek.

‘My leg was broken.’ She sat down carefully, clutching her stick. ‘Sir Jack will tell you about it, Brother Athelstan. A man I didn’t please came visiting with his bully boys, but to answer your question, yes and no. No, those knights have not been here. . well, not recently. Yes, I know their names.’ She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. ‘As I said, in the glory days. . They were friends of Culpepper, weren’t they, and the other one who stole the Lombard treasure and fled.’

‘What makes you so sure they stole it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Because at the same time Guinevere disappeared. She and Culpepper were smitten with each other, her beauty had turned his head.’ Mother Veritable rested on her stick, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Glory days,’ she whispered. ‘London was full of young soldiers, knights and squires, preparing for the Great Expedition. The Thames brimmed with ships, cogs from Hainault, war vessels from Flanders, galleys from Venice — all the young lords ready to take the Cross and go out and kill the infidel for sweet Jesus’ sake.’ She paused. ‘Culpepper and the rest stayed at the Night in Jerusalem. He and Guinevere met. Of course the men came here, including Sir Maurice Clinton, who was much taken with me, at least in those days.’

‘Did Guinevere ever tell you about what was planned?’

Mother Veritable shook her head. ‘Oh, she hinted that this life was not hers, that one day things would change, that her knight, like some hero from Arthur’s court, would come galloping along and scoop her up into his arms. Culpepper was deeply in love with Guinevere; she thought she was in love with him.’

‘Thought?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Guinevere’s heart was as fickle as the moon. All she dreamed of was bettering herself, becoming the Grande Dame.’

‘And the father of her daughters?’

Mother Veritable chuckled. ‘It’s a wise man who knows his father. Guinevere made a mistake but, there again, she had many admirers. You’ve been kind, Brother, so I’ll tell you this. On the night she disappeared, well, the afternoon beforehand, she packed all her belongings and stole away. She was all excited. I asked her where she was going.’

‘And?’

‘Why, to your church, Brother.’

‘St Erconwald’s?’

‘That’s what she said. She was never seen or heard of again.’

Mother Veritable leaned over and nudged Sir John, who was beginning to fall asleep. The coroner stirred.

‘What do you think happened, Roheisa?’ He smacked his lips.

‘I’ve heard reports,’ she confessed. ‘And you can check the records, Sir Jack, that a woman fitting Guinevere’s description was seen boarding a cog, a Venetian ship, three days after the crusading fleet left for Alexandria.’ She pulled a face. ‘But that is all.’

‘And her two daughters?’

‘I reared them, two peas out of the same pod. They were so much like their mother. Sometimes I thought Guinevere had returned.’ She put the stick down beside the chair.

‘Can we search their chambers?’

‘I’ve done that already. There’s nothing much.’

‘Can we see it?’ Athelstan insisted.

‘Will their jewellery be given back to me?’ she asked.

‘You have my word,’ Cranston assured her.

Mother Veritable got to her feet and, leaning on her cane, walked towards the door. She whispered to the servants outside and returned to her chair, sitting serenely like an abbess in a convent. A short while later a young woman entered the room, her auburn hair caught up behind her. She was dressed in a Lincoln-green smock, a white girdle around her waist. If Mother Veritable was the abbess, this young woman acted as comely and coy as any novice. She brought a stool over and sat beside her mistress, cradling a small leather bag.

‘This is Donata,’ Mother Veritable explained, ‘a close friend of the two dead girls.’

Donata lifted her pale face; her almond-shaped eyes gave her a serene, calm look.

‘Donata is resting at the moment,’ Mother Veritable continued, ‘which is why her face and lips aren’t painted. She is also in mourning.’ She touched the black ribbon tied round the girl’s swan-like neck. ‘Donata, this is Sir John Cranston and Brother Athelstan. No, don’t be afraid, Sir Jack has no authority here.’ Mother Veritable smiled. ‘Whilst I have powerful patrons. Tell them what you know.’

‘Beatrice and Clarice. .’ Donata began.

Athelstan detected a West Country accent. He noticed how long and slim the girl’s fingers were. He wondered what such a beautiful maid was doing in a house like this, until he recalled the droves of young men and women who trudged in from the countryside looking for work.

‘What about them?’ Brother Athelstan asked.

Donata took a deep breath, her beautiful butterfly eyes dancing prettily.

‘We are meant to give every penny we earn to Mother Veritable who looks after us so well,’ she added hastily. ‘But one night, in their cups, they said, well, they said they could earn more gold and silver than I could imagine, that’s all they’d say.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought it was a jest, wine words.’

‘Who were their customers?’ Athelstan asked.

Donata stared serenely back.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Mother Veritable laughed, ‘our customers don’t wear placards around their necks, they come and go like shadows.’

‘That’s all they said,’ the girl pleaded. She handed the small sack over to Athelstan. ‘They kept their precious things in there.’