Paul Doherty: Murder Most Holy

Cranston burped again and tapped his ponderous girth, a contented man. His Lady Maude had recently been delivered of two fine boys, Francis and Stephen. Cranston had been confirmed in his office of coroner by the Regent, who had invited him to this banquet to sit at his right hand, a significant honour for a Justice of the Peace.

‘I wish the Lady Maude could see me now,’ Cranston murmured to himself. Yet the invitation had not included his good wife. Not that she minded.

‘God forgive me, Sir John,’ she said, ‘but I do not like the Duke of Lancaster. He has the eyes of a snake — dead and cold. His ambition is like Lucifer’s and I fear for the young king.’

Sir John had been surprised. Lady Maude was prudent. She kept her own secret counsel but, when she spoke, her words were like well-aimed arrows shot direct at the heart of the target. Cranston stirred uneasily, placed his cup on the table and turned to his left. Gaunt’s olive-skinned face with its neatly clipped golden beard and moustache looked complacent as he gazed from heavy-lidded eyes at his hall’s magnificence. On Gaunt’s left sat the young king. The boy, thought Cranston, has the looks of an angel with his pale face, clear blue eyes, sensitive features and shoulder-length golden hair. The young king appeared to be schooling himself to listen attentively to the dark-bearded, swarthy-faced Italian lord sitting on his left. Cranston leaned back in his chair and glanced sideways at this Italian lord, renowned for the cunning astuteness which had made him as wealthy as Croesus and turned his small city state into one of the great powers of Italy.

The Lord of Cremona controlled banks, ports, fertile vineyards, fields and manor houses. His ships ranged from the Adriatic to fabled Constantinople and the golden shores of Trebizond. Cranston knew why he was in England. The English exchequer was empty. Parliament was unruly; the peasants seething with such discontent, that tax collectors were fearful of moving into any village without a powerful military escort. Gaunt had invited Cremona to England in order to raise loans and consequently had not stinted in his lavish hospitality. Pageants had greeted him at Southampton; Gaunt and his brothers, dressed in pure cloth of gold, escorting him to London to be greeted by more lavish shows, colourful spectacles, banquets and speeches. These may have impressed Cremona but only increased bad feeling in the city as Londoners saw Gaunt accrue more power to himself than any emperor, pope or king.

Cranston picked up his goblet and slurped noisily from it, relishing the way the wine’s full-bodied taste drenched his mouth with sweetness. His good humour began to fade. Should he be party to these junketings? And why exactly had Gaunt invited him? Cranston stirred restlessly. The banquet was over, and what a meal! Swan, venison, boar’s meat, beef, veal, fish fresh from the river, lampreys cooked in a cream sauce, marchpane, jellies carved and sculpted in the most extraordinary forms. The jugglers had come and gone, as had the acrobats, the fire-eaters and the dwarfs who made everyone laugh. The musicians in the gallery at the far end of the hall were now half-asleep and the pure-voiced choir of young boys had long been dismissed. Cranston shook himself alert and looked down the hall with its two tables set side by side. There must be no fewer than sixty great lords attending this banquet. Why was he among their select number?

Before the banquet, Gaunt had spoken to the Italian lord of Cranston’s skill in solving notorious cases of murder.

‘Is no such problem beyond your grasp?’ Cremona had asked.

‘None!’ Cranston had drunkenly boasted, beaming round at a group of gaping bystanders. Now Sir John began to regret his own vainglory.

‘Sir John, you are well?’

Cranston turned. Gaunt was looking at him speculatively as if trying to discern Cranston’s frame of mind.

‘My Lord, I am happy to be here,’ he replied. ‘You do me great honour.’

Both he and Gaunt suddenly looked down the hall at the tumult which broke out as a large rat, startled by one of the greyhounds, scampered on to the table. The guests rose in uproar, stabbing at the rodent with their knives until it jumped off the table into the jaws of a waiting dog. A general fracas then occurred amongst the pack, only broken up by huntsmen with whips who drove both dogs and their mangled quarry out of the hall.

‘Enough is enough,’ Gaunt whispered.

He rose and gestured to the heralds standing in the gallery who raised their silver trumpets and issued three long blasts which stilled the clamour in the hall. All eyes turned towards Gaunt.

‘Your Grace. .’

Gaunt nodded imperceptibly at his stony-faced nephew.

‘. . My Lord of Cremona, and you, my friends and guests, this day we have been honoured at our humble feast with the presence of one of Italy’s great rulers — Signor Gian Galeazzo, Lord of Cremona and Duke of the surrounding territories.’

Gaunt paused to allow a ripple of applause which he stilled with one beringed hand.

‘But my Lord of Cremona has a problem which he wishes to share with us. A great mystery which no one can solve. And that is why I have asked for the august presence of our noble Coroner of the City, Sir John Cranston.’

Gaunt paused and Cranston gazed quickly down the hall. He saw the suppressed smiles, the grins hidden behind raised hands, and sensed the waiting trap. He was no friend of Gaunt’s, tolerated by him but not liked, for he had no time to emulate the Regent’s court dandies and fops who lavished the nation’s wealth on their own soft, white bodies. Nevertheless, he smiled and nodded at Gaunt’s words, wary of what was to come.

‘Sir John Cranston,’ Gaunt continued, ‘is well known in the city and in the courts of law for his deductive reasoning, his subtle questioning, his ruthless tracking down of criminals, and his skill in solving intriguing mysteries. My Lord of Cremona has such a mystery which has defied the best minds and most probing intellects of Europe’s courts.’ Gaunt paused and Cranston felt how still the hall had become. ‘My Lord of Cremona,’ Gaunt continued, ‘has wagered one thousand gold crowns that no one can resolve this mystery. My Lord Coroner,’ Gaunt half-turned to Cranston, ‘will you accept the wager?’

Cranston stared speechlessly. One thousand gold crowns was a fortune! If he accepted the wager and lost, it would impoverish him. If he refused the wager, he would be mocked as a coward. Moreover, if the Lord of Cremona’s subtle mystery was so intriguing, there was very little chance of his winning such a fortune. Cranston smiled whilst his mind raced through the possibilities. He wished the Lady Maude was here. Above all, he wanted Athelstan: the monk would have seen some graceful way out. Now Cranston had no choice. What could he do — publicly retract on his earlier boast?

‘My Lord Cranston,’ Gaunt repeated, ‘will you accept?’

Cranston slurped from the wine cup. ‘Of course,’ he replied boldly, to a wave of cheering, good-natured catcalls and shouts of encouragement. The coroner lumbered to his feet, half-cursing the rich wine racing through his blood and dulling his brain. After all, he was Cranston. Why should he lose face before these nincompoops, these women in men’s clothes? He was Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City of London, husband to the Lady Maude, father of Francis and Stephen. He had held castles against the French and single-handedly charged against many a foe.

‘No mystery,’ he bellowed, ‘is beyond my wits! If a problem exists,’ he added, quoting his help-meet Athelstan, ‘then it is logical that a solution must also exist.’

‘Nobody denies that!’ Gaunt slapped him on the shoulder, pushing him gently back in his chair. The coroner saw the Regent’s sly smile, glimpsed the young king’s pitying stare and the flash of triumph in Cremona’s glittering eyes.