Cranston got to his feet, knocking over the stool.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Vox Populi squinted up at him, ‘one last thing. The Great Community have marked you down for death.’

‘Like so many others in my long life.’

‘I know you, Jack. You’ll fight, and you’ll survive, but your monk. .?’

‘Friar, and he’s not mine.’

‘Athelstan, on him,’ Vox Populi whispered, ‘sentence has not yet been passed.

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Everyone is buying protection, Jack. Kilverby did and so has Abbot Walter. Have you ever wondered why he gave the Wyverns such comfortable lodgings?’

‘He had to, the Crown insisted.’

‘I’ve never yet met a monk who didn’t try to wriggle out of an agreement. No, Jack, Abbot Walter was only too pleased to have master bowmen in the abbey just in case the Upright Men decided not to be so upright. Can you imagine Jack, seven master archers, their bows strung, arrows notched, loosing showers of barbed shafts at any intruders?’ Vox Populi lowered his head. ‘Well then, there were six. Now there are four, that’s better than nothing. Who knows, Jack, the deaths of my comrades Hanep and Hyde could be the work of the Upright Men, removing the guard dogs before they attack.’

Cranston picked up the stool and sat down. ‘Who else would murder them? Some old blood feud?’

‘Well, I doubt if the abbot would kill his own watch dogs. The Frenchman Richer? Does he have the skill? Perhaps his infernal Grace the Regent wants the Passio Christi so badly he killed Kilverby and now he wants to annihilate the Wyverns. Who knows what in this vale of tears?’

‘Would they turn on each other?’

‘Hardly likely. Wenlock is a cripple, captured by the French. They sheared off his archer fingers. He and Mahant, according to you, were in London when Hanep was killed and still out of the abbey when Hyde was slaughtered. I used my last coins to send a message to them. I don’t know if they came to meet me. Look at me,’ he gestured around the cell, ‘a crust of bread would have been a gift from heaven.’ Vox Populi stared wistfully into his empty wine cup. ‘Now, Sir Jack, your promise?’

Cranston leaned across and seized the prisoner’s beard.

‘I’ll have a word with the keeper. You’ll be moved to the common hold. In two days time Master Flaxwith and my bailiffs will collect you, washed, shaved and clothed with a few pennies to spend. You’ll be taken down to Queenshithe. If I ever see your face again I’ll hang you myself.’ Cranston released his grip. ‘Goodnight, friend, I will not see you again.’

The coroner left Newgate intent on Cheapside. He had learnt enough. He only wished he could share his thoughts with Athelstan. Undoubtedly the Passio Christi lay at the heart of all these mysteries, but how and why? Cranston was certainly determined to question Crispin and intended do so before the end of the day. The coroner gathered his cloak about him and stared around. The harsh early frost and seeping river mist had already cleared the great concourse in front of Newgate. The Fleshers’ stalls had gone, as had all the remains and slops from the day’s trade. Torches, braziers and great bonfires flared, drawing in the poor and homeless, who gathered silently in their ragged cloaks for any warmth. Franciscans appeared, moving amongst the huddled groups, dispensing what physical or spiritual comfort they could. Cranston ignored these, more alert to the twinkling light of naked steel or the shapes flitting along the shadows’ edge. He was certainly being followed but that was normal. Life had a pattern. Cranston was very alert to that pattern being disturbed.

The city now lay silent, sinking deep into the fierce frost which already sparkled in the fading light. The night creatures were out; these kept to the murky mouth of alleyways or grouped close to the makeshift bonfires the bailiffs had kindled to burn rubbish as well as warm the homeless who brought whatever raw meat or fish they’d pilfered to roast over the flames. The Mendicants of Christ, garbed in robes of dark murrey festooned with the Five Holy Wounds, did their nightly rounds with baskets of stale bread and rejected fruit and fish. A pilgrim, absorbed in his own private devotions, came out of an alleyway dragging a cross in reparation for some sin. Cranston noticed this and trudged on, only stopping to greet bailiffs and beadles he recognized. Cranston was cold, hungry and angry. Kilverby’s family could have been more honest with him and he intended to rectify this.

The coroner reached the dead merchant’s mansion and immediately gained entrance. He strode in and demanded the household meet him in the solar. Cranston only gave the barest apology for dragging them away from their supper, though he sensed that the deep antagonism between Lady Helen and Mistress Alesia probably marred such occasions. They eventually gathered and sat in the comfortable leather-cased chairs near the fire. Cranston drained the cup of hot posset he’d been given, watching their faces, especially the furrowed, anxious-looking Crispin, who kept blinking and wetting his lips.

‘Sir John,’ Lady Helen coughed prettily, ‘you have more questions?’

‘Yes, you,’ Cranston pointed at Crispin, ‘know your master’s business. Years ago he financed the Wyvern Company through loans to the King’s son the Black Prince — yes?’

Crispin nodded.

‘He took a share of the spoils?’

Again, the nod.

‘So he was fervent in his support of such warriors?’

‘Of course, Sir John.’

‘He profited from their plundering. He held the Passio Christi in trust.’

‘Yes.’ Crispin’s nervousness deepened, ‘But that was years ago.’

‘Sir John,’ Alesia intervened, ‘your questions — they’re leading to my father’s recent change of heart.’

‘What change of heart,’ Cranston barked. ‘Why, when?’

‘In the last three years,’ Alesia’s cheeks had turned slightly red, ‘my father grew tired of his life; he wanted to change, to go on pilgrimage, to make reparation.’

‘Reparation for past sins, I presume.’

‘You presume right, Sir John,’ Lady Helen declared. ‘My good husband,’ she darted a venomous look at Alesia, ‘had grown tired of his life.’

‘And his marriage!’ Alesia snapped.

‘How dare you!’

‘Ladies!’ Cranston bellowed, turning to Crispin. ‘Tell me, why did he change now and not five years ago?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John.’

‘According to you,’ Cranston declared, ‘when he met the Wyvern Company on his journeys with the Passio Christi to St Fulcher’s, he grew to hate them, what he saw, what he heard. .’

‘That’s not entirely true,’ Crispin spluttered. ‘Yes, he had little time for the Wyvern Company but he drew close to one of them, William Chalk. Sir Robert often sought Chalk’s company. They would walk in the gardens or stroll down to the watergate.’

‘Who else was he close to — you?’

‘My master kept his own counsel. He was secretive and prudent. He never discussed his personal thoughts with either me or his family. Isn’t that true?’ Crispin appealed to the others who loudly confirmed his words.

‘So he talked to Master Chalk and who else? I mean, if Sir Robert’s thoughts had turned to judgement and death, he must have had a confidant, a confessor?’

‘Richer,’ Crispin confirmed. ‘I know that. He was often closeted with him, to be shriven, to be set penances.’

‘Such as?’

‘Crawling to the rood screen every Friday, alms for the poor, Masses for the dead.’

‘And contributions to the Upright Men and the Great Community of the Realm?’

Crispin shrugged. ‘Every powerful man in London did and does that.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Merchants are different.’ Crispin was agitated. ‘He only gave them money for the relief of the poor.’

‘You mean a bribe, so that when the doom arrived, this mansion would not be burnt around your heads. Tell me, is there anyone who wanted Sir Robert dead, who would profit from his murder?’