Paul Doherty - Murder Most Holy

‘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.