Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘How?’ Cremona asked.

‘My Lord, the killer was the bed.’

Athelstan caught the look of surprise on the Italian’s face. Cranston was hunting along the right track.

‘Explain! Explain!’ Richard cried.

Gaunt had his hand up to his mouth, his head slightly turned sideways. The rest of the people in the hall were deathly silent, the supercilious smiles fast disappearing. Athelstan gazed round. Even the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms in their royal livery, were now staring at Cranston. The Dominican realised that he had become so involved in the business of Blackfriars and at St Erconwald’s, he had failed to comprehend the deep interest in the wager Cranston had accepted. Now, at last, he fully understood Lady Maude’s concern, not just about Cranston’s losing a thousand crowns but, far more precious, his reputation; risking the fate of dismissal as a kind of court jester rather than being recognised and respected as the King’s Coroner in the City of London.

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.’