‘I am not going back into the city. I suppose, Sir Maurice, you’ll accompany Brother Athelstan. I am going to search out my friends the scrimperers,’ the coroner said, swaying slightly on his feet. ‘I wonder if they know about some poor whore who has gone missing?’

‘Ah, the business of the Golden Cresset?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘They’ll be able to help,’ Athelstan said. I know their reputation. But, Sir John, while you are busy with that could you seek someone else who deals in poisons?’

‘Vulpina was the best,’ he grumbled. ‘But I’ll search and see.’

They walked for a while towards St Giles, where Sir John left them. Athelstan felt tired so he and Sir Maurice hired a ride in a cart which made its way down through Portsoken around the walls of the city and down to the Tower. They then walked on to the Woolquay and hired a barge to take them across the now choppy waters of the Thames into Southwark.

By the time they reached St Erconwald’s, the storm Athelstan had predicted was beginning to gather. The breeze had grown strong, the clouds, blocking out the setting sun, now massed low and threatening. They found Godbless in the church fast asleep with one arm round Thaddeus. Huddle had been busy on the wall and, in the fading light, Athelstan could make out the charcoal lines. He told Sir Maurice to wake Godbless and take him and Thaddeus back to the priest’s house while he crossed the cemetery.

The ditch Watkin and Pike had dug was growing longer. Athelstan studied the hard-packed earth around the foundations of the cemetery wall.

‘That was built to last,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that wall.’

Still slightly suspicious, Athelstan was about to climb in to examine it more closely when the first large drops of rain changed his mind. He went back, closed the death house door and returned to the kitchen where Sir Maurice had already built up the small fire. The knight tapped the cauldron hung on a tripod.

‘Someone has left you a stew.’ He sniffed at it. ‘The meat and vegetables are fresh.’

Athelstan knelt beside him.

‘It’s Benedicta,’ he said. ‘The widow woman.’ He gestured round. ‘She keeps the place clean as a pin. Where’s Godbless?’

‘He’s still in church. He says he likes it there.’

Athelstan went to the buttery where he filled a bowl of water and washed his hands and face. He went up into the bed loft and found the Dominican robes Simon the scrivener had brought back. Below the door opened and Godbless came in.

‘Stir the stew!’ Athelstan shouted down. ‘You’ll find a ladle in the buttery! When it’s piping hot, call me down!’

‘I like stews,’ Godbless called up. ‘Master Merrylegs gave me a pie free but I’m still hungry!’

‘Good.’

Athelstan lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He said a short prayer but, distracted, his mind went back to Hawkmere. How did those men die? Routier like some wretched dog out on the heathland. And Maneil with a crossbow bolt in his throat. Sir Walter and Aspinall had access to poisons but, although he had no real evidence, he believed that the physician’s explanation was satisfactory. So, where did the poisons come from? And who had the crossbow and the bolt? Surely not one of the French prisoners? He heard Sir Maurice laugh at something Godbless had said. Was Maltravers innocent? Or, despite his protestations, Limbright? Or was there someone else in the manor? Some secret assassin hidden away? Was Mercurius one of the guards?

‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan whispered, his eyes growing heavy. He fell into a deep sleep and woke confused when the knight shook him by the shoulder.

Athelstan pulled himself up.

‘Brother, Godbless has been cooking, it’s ready now.’

Athelstan savoured the sweet smell wafting up from the kitchen.

‘I am starving,’ he said and followed Sir Maurice down the ladder.

Bonaventure had returned and was nestling up to Thaddeus beside the hearth. Godbless had set the table with three bowls, horn spoons, jugs and pewter goblets and a jug of ale from the buttery. Athelstan, still half-asleep, murmured grace and they sat down. He broke the bread, blessed it and gave pieces to his companions. Outside he could hear the rain drumming and the distant rumble of thunder. He ate slowly, for the stew was delicious but boiling hot. Godbless chattered like a squirrel and Sir Maurice, rather bemused, just stared and listened as this old beggar man described how he had fought in the Low Countries, in France and even Northern Italy. Athelstan was still distracted by what had happened at Hawkmere. He could make no sense of it. Now and again he stole a look at the young knight, who could speak so elegantly about love. Was he as innocent as he claimed?

‘What are you going to do about the ghosts, Brother?’ Godbless put his spoon down and stared hungrily at the cauldron above the fire.

‘Eat some more,’ Athelstan told him. ‘And there’s another manchet loaf in the kitchen wrapped in a linen cloth.’

‘What’s this?’ Sir Maurice asked as the beggar man hurried off.

‘He believes that we have ghosts in St Erconwald’s cemetery. Now, I believe in ghosts but not in Southwark. I think it’s some game or a jest, or probably one of my parishioners up to mischief.’

‘There are ghosts.’ Godbless shook his head and returned to the table.

‘You said something else,’ Athelstan recalled. ‘About a man in Italy who should have died but you saw him alive?’

Godbless looked bleary-eyed and Athelstan wondered how much he had drunk that day.

‘Yes, yes.’ Godbless scratched his chin. ‘I don’t really remember now. It will come back to me. Are you Dominican or are you not?’ he asked Sir Maurice, abruptly changing the conversation. ‘That smirking scrivener who brought the robe back, he said it belonged to you.’

‘I was a Dominican for a short while,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘And it’s a great secret and you must not tell anyone, Godbless.’

They paused as the thunder cracked directly above them. Outside the window the lightning flashed, the rain now bouncing off the roof.

‘I had best check on my death house,’ Godbless said, putting his spoon down. ‘No, no,’ he said as Athelstan went to restrain him. ‘I want to make sure there are no holes in that roof.’ He grabbed his cloak, put it over his head and left.

‘A strange fellow.’ Maltravers filled his goblet. ‘Brother, can we return to the convent tomorrow?’

‘No. I am sorry, Sir Maurice, Lady Monica might become too suspicious. Perhaps Wednesday after I have celebrated the Guild of Rat-Catchers’ Mass.’ He jumped at a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Brother, for the love of God, please help us!’

At the door, a man stood in the darkness, supporting another, his head down, arm across his shoulder. Athelstan glimpsed an unshaven face and a brass ring glinting in an ear lobe.

‘We’ve been attacked, Brother! For the love of God, can we come in?’

Athelstan stepped back. The man, grunting and groaning, brought his companion into the house. Athelstan was closing the door when he heard Sir Maurice’s exclamation. He turned round to see both men were now on their feet, cowls back, the crossbows in their hands lowered and primed. They were both shaven-headed with lean, vicious faces, made all the more so by the brass rings hanging from their ear lobes. Athelstan glimpsed the sword and dagger belts beneath their cloaks.

‘I am a priest,’ Athelstan said, coming forward.

Both men stood back.

‘You have no right to come here! This is God’s acre and you commit the terrible sin of sacrilege!’

‘It’s years since I’ve been to church,’ the taller one declared. ‘So, no mealy-mouthed homilies though, if you wish, you may say a prayer.’

He gestured at Athelstan to move away from the door, to the far side of the table where the knight moved restlessly, his gaze straying to the inglenook where his war belt hung on a hook, the hilt of his sword glistening enticingly in the candlelight. The shaven-head leader followed his gaze.