‘A love philtre.’

‘For what?’

‘I didn’t ask him. He also bought some poison. I asked him why. It was nothing exceptional, some henbane, a little belladonna.’

‘And did he give the reason for that?’

‘He said it was rats. In his own chamber. He asked for it as an afterthought.’ Vulpina smiled. ‘But I saw your quick-eyed Dominican friend, when you mentioned Hawkmere Manor. I’ve had visitors from there. Limbright for one, Sir Walter constantly comes here, takes a little digitalis he does, and a few other potions, St John’s wort for a start.’

Athelstan studied this woman and wondered how many secrets she held.

‘Oh, and the list goes on. The good physician Aspinall? He, too, is in my book.’ She realised what she had said and quickly tapped the side of her head. ‘My ledger is between my ears, Sir John. And, Sir John, that’s all I can tell you.’ Vulpina waggled her fingers in mock farewell.

‘Thank God we are out of there!’ Athelstan breathed as they walked back up the main alleyway out of Whitefriars. ‘Sir John, what a tangle of weeds we’ve got here.’

‘It’s a tangle all right.’ The coroner stopped and scratched his head. ‘We really should visit the Lady Angelica, but Brother…’

‘No need to apologise. My legs are tired and my belly’s empty. I want to go back and talk to Bonaventura.’

‘Not to mention Judas the goat!’

‘Thaddeus,’ Athelstan corrected him. ‘It’s Thaddeus now, Sir John. But, what about this?’

‘We frightened Vulpina. And so she threw us morsels. Don’t forget, my good friar: Lady Maude visits an apothecary up Cheapside and buys poisons for the rats in our cellars, but that doesn’t make her a murderess.’

‘Yes, but she doesn’t hide it, Sir John. Limbright, Maltravers and Aspinall have questions to answer.’

Sir John chewed on the corner of his lip then abruptly turned and stared down the alleyway.

‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

‘Vulpina’s a murdering bitch, Athelstan, but she’s no fool.’ The coroner scratched his whiskers. ‘Earlier, when we stopped to talk to the scrimperers, I had the feeling of being followed. Now I am certain of it. A shadow down the lane moved a little too slowly.’

He took a step forward but Athelstan caught at his arm.

‘Sir John, let us go home.’

Athelstan stared about at the dingy houses, the lean, pinched faces which peered out from behind shabby doors, the clusters of beggars in alleyways. He saw one of them move and caught the glint of steel.

‘Let’s go home, Sir John,’ he repeated. ‘This is all a tangled web and we have truly entered the Devil’s Domain!’

Athelstan sat at his table and moved the candle a little closer. The evening had turned surprisingly chill so he had lit a fire which now crackled merrily in the hearth. Bonaventure, not yet ready for his nightly hunt, sat on the table delicately lapping a dish of milk. Every so often he would lift his head, his one good eye fixed curiously on his strange, eccentric master. Athelstan tickled the cat’s nose with the tip of his quill. Bonaventure didn’t flinch. He blinked and turned, staring into the far corner.

‘I know what you are after,’ Athelstan said.

The friar had seen a mouse scuttle across the floor of the hearth.

‘But it’s only a small mouse, Bonaventure. A harvest one. He’s probably wandered in and will certainly wander out.’

Bonaventure purred deep in his throat.

‘Soft as a shadow,’ Athelstan went on. ‘Sleek and fast. What do you think of Thaddeus?’

Bonaventure, of course, had gone out to inspect both the goat and Godbless. He had brushed the beggar man’s leg with his body and sniffed at the goat. Athelstan, who had been present, knew that this lord of the alleyways regarded Thaddeus as beneath his attention.

Godbless had certainly made himself at home. Benedicta had kindly provided a straw-filled mattress, a bolster, two blankets, a dish and a pewter cup. Godbless now acted like a lord of the manor while Thaddeus was busy cropping the grass. Athelstan had taken him out a dish of stew from the pot Benedicta had brought together with some bread wrapped in a cloth and a jug of watered wine, a gift from Joscelyn at the Piebald Tavern.

Athelstan lifted his head and listened to the sounds of the night. Sometimes he would go out and wander the alleyways, stopping to talk to the beggars and night-walkers, the whores and drabs, the flotsam and jetsam of this decayed quarter of the city. Other times, when his mind was teeming, he would climb to the top of the church tower and stare up at the sky. Athelstan felt guilty at such indulgence but, the more he stared at the stars, the more he became aware of the power of God and the sheer beauty of this Creation. If only he could discover more. If he could only test the theories. Did the planets sing while they turned? Why did some stars gleam brighter than others? What held them in their place? They moved but, like the moon, kept their courses. What stopped them from falling to earth? And the meteors, particularly those bright ones which seared the heavens with their fiery tails, did they govern the affairs of men? Athelstan picked up his cup and sipped at it. He really must raise that matter with Prior Anselm. The Church condemned astrology but hadn’t Christ’s birth been heralded by a new star? And when the Saviour died hadn’t the skies been blotted with darkness? Or was Aquinas the great writer correct? Was Creation the reflection of God, nothing to do with the affairs of Man?

Athelstan stared down at the parchment. ‘From the sublime to the ridiculous,’ he observed. He looked at the heading, ‘Hawkmere Manor’, and the questions he had listed.

Item — Five Frenchmen were imprisoned in that solitary place waiting to be ransomed. Was one of them a traitor? Had he revealed to the English Crown the movements of the St Sulpice and the St Denis! If that was the case, why wasn’t one prisoner favoured more than the rest? It could be arranged. More comfortable quarters in the Tower. Or would that expose him? Show the truth and so make it impossible for him to return to France?

Item — How did Serriem die? He was definitely poisoned. But how, if he only ate and drank what the others did? Or had he been inveigled into eating something, a delicacy which, to such an imprisoned man, might prove irresistible? But surely that would put him on his guard? Moreover, in that atmosphere of suspicion, surely no prisoner would want to be seen favoured above the rest?

Item — Who was the murderer? One of his companions? But where would they get the poison from? And how would they administer it without provoking suspicion?

Item — Sir Walter Limbright was a bitter, resentful man who hated the French. He claimed there were no poisons in the manor. However, if Vulpina was to be believed, he had been one of her customers; the same could be said of Sir Maurice Maltravers and Master Aspinall. Was the good physician embroiled in the affairs of Hawkmere? Had he taken offence because of a possible liaison with the girl-faced Gresnay?

Item — What happened the night Serriem died? Who had locked the door? Had anyone checked on the prisoners? What was the state of the room when it was opened?

Item — Did the French know there was a traitor in their midst? Had all these men been condemned to die? Was the poisoner Gaunt? Had he instructed this traitor, if he was at Hawkmere Manor, to poison the rest? But wouldn’t that expose his agent? And what would happen to him? A simulated death, before being secretly pensioned off to some lonely manor on the Welsh marches?

Item — An unknown priest had been seen at Whitefriars. A possible customer of Vulpina? But who would that be?

Athelstan glanced up. I wonder what Sir John’s doing, he thought. He smiled to himself as he recalled the two poppets. Never had he seen two sturdy sons so resemble their father: balding heads, fat, red faces, little paunches and sturdy legs. The poppets spent most of their day telling each other off or chasing Gog and Magog around the house. Athelstan returned to the parchment.