‘Sir John, sit. We have been waiting.’

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston snapped, lowering his great weight into the seat. ‘I have been busy! The locksmith Sturmey has been…’

‘I know, I know,’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘Murdered! By person or persons unknown. His body lies in a shed in Billingsgate. And you, Brother?’ The hard, shrewd eyes stared at Athelstan. ‘The traitor Ira Dei has made his presence known to you.’ Gaunt smiled at the friar’s surprise. ‘We have the means, Brother, of discovering what is happening in our city. As for Sturmey, Sir John, I understand you sealed his workshop?’

Cranston nodded.

‘My men broke the seals,’ Gaunt retorted. ‘We have searched his house but can find no trace or mention of Sturmey making a second set of keys.’

‘But he did make them,’ Cranston replied.

‘How do you know that?’ Goodman spitefully snapped.

‘Why else would he be killed?’

Goodman pulled a face.

‘I believe,’ Cranston continued slowly, ‘Sturmey was blackmailed. Like many such men, he led a secret life.’

Athelstan glimpsed a glimmer of fear in Goodman’s eyes but the Mayor lowered his head as Cranston passed on to other matters.

‘Your Grace, I could question everyone here, with your authority of course, about their whereabouts yesterday afternoon when the Lord Sheriff and Master Sturmey were killed. However, I suspect that would be fruitless.’

‘Yes, it would be,’ Denny drawled. ‘We were all busy, My Lord Coroner. Even if Sir Gerard Mountjoy could sit sipping wine and talking to his dogs.’

Beneath the table Athelstan suddenly gripped Cranston’s wrist and the Coroner quickly bit back the question he was about to ask.

‘Then, Your Grace,’ he said instead, ‘why am I summoned here? Do you have news?’

‘Yes, of two things,’ Gaunt replied. ‘First, a proclamation has been pinned on the Guildhall door. A simple message from Ira Dei. It reads: “Death follows death”. What do you make of that, Sir John? Or should I ask Brother Athelstan who is so strangely silent?’

The friar gently tapped the top of the table. ‘A warning, Your Grace, that someone else in this room might be murdered.’ Athelstan glanced at the Guildmasters but they seemed unperturbed by his reply.

‘Has another murder occurred?’ Cranston asked. ‘Where is my Lord Clifford?’

‘A third was planned,’ Gaunt replied. ‘Lord Adam was attacked this morning by a group of malefactors near Bread Street but, thank God, managed to escape. He is now resting at his town house. I suggest you visit him there.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Oh, no.’ Gaunt rose quickly to his feet but his eyes never left those of Athelstan. ‘You are, Brother, a loyal servant of the Crown?’

‘Under God, yes.’ He tried to control his panic: he was the real reason this group of powerful men wanted to see Cranston and he half-suspected what lay behind their smug, complacent looks. Gaunt stood, smoothing his moustache between finger and thumb.

‘Brother, you have been approached by Ira Dei. You are a priest working amongst the poor of Southwark. You are, strangely enough, much loved and respected. If we asked, indeed if the King ordered, would you reply to Ira Dei, join the Great Community of the Realm and…?’

‘Betray them?’ Athelstan snapped.

‘Your Grace!’ Cranston shouted, pushing back his chair. ‘The notion is both foolish and rash. Brother Athelstan is my secretarius. I am an officer of the Crown. He would always be held suspect.’

Gaunt shook his head. ‘Sir John, you contradict yourself,’ he replied, choosing his words carefully.

‘Yesterday, both you and Brother Athelstan claimed that Ira Dei, or one of his henchmen, was present at my banquet. If this so-called Great Community of the Realm can turn even the most powerful into a traitor, why not a Dominican who works amongst the poor?’

‘Yes, why not?’ Goodman spoke up, and Cranston softly groaned at the way both he and Athelstan had slipped into this neatly laid trap.

‘After all, Sir John, what are your thoughts on this matter?’ Goodman continued. ‘Are you not for the poor? Have you not advocated reform in the city and the shires? To ease the burden of the petty traders and peasants?’

‘You cannot force me,’ Athelstan interrupted quietly. ‘My obedience is to my Father Superior and to God!’

‘And your allegiance to the Crown?’ Gaunt shouted back. ‘As for your Father Superior, I have already obtained his permission.’

‘Your Grace, you cannot force me to act against my conscience!’

Gaunt sat down and smilingly extended his beringed hands. ‘Now, now, Brother, what are we asking for? We do not wish you to be a traitor, to the Crown or to this so-called Great Community or to yourself.’

‘What is it you want?’ Cranston quietly asked.

‘Nothing much,’ Gaunt murmured. ‘Ira Dei has communicated with Brother Athelstan. Let our faithful loyal friar write back. Who knows? This mysterious traitor may reveal his hand.’ Gaunt smiled. He sat down and spread his hands. ‘I am sure this traitor is no fool and Brother Athelstan would never be trusted. But, as the old proverb puts it, Sir John: “If you shake the apple tree, it’s wonderful what might fall out”.’

Athelstan remained tight-lipped, refusing to commit himself further, and only gave vent to his anger once they had left the council chamber and were returning downstairs to the ground floor of the Guildhall. Cranston was more sanguine, aided by another swig from his wineskin.

‘Take heart, Brother.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Remember, my Lord Regent must be desperate.’

Athelstan stopped at the foot of the stairs. ‘The meeting was quite fruitful, Sir John, yes?’

Cranston grinned. ‘Yes. Two juicy morsels. First, how did Denny know that My Lord Sheriff was sipping wine and talking to his dogs? Quite a detailed observation from someone who supposedly never went near the Lord Sheriff when he was sunning himself in his private garden.’

‘And Goodman’s embarrassment?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, yes. I think our dead master locksmith had some dark secret which My Lord Mayor shares.’

Cranston looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, Brother?’

The friar looked away but Cranston glimpsed the turmoil behind his troubled eyes. Athelstan murmured something.

‘What’s that, Brother?’

‘Tell me, Sir John, my Lord Regent has a legion of spies?’

‘Legion is the correct word, Brother. More like a swarm of ants across the city. No one can be trusted, and that even includes people like Leif the beggar. Such people are not evil, it’s only that being so poor they can be quickly bought.’ Cranston stepped closer and Athelstan tried not to flinch at the gust of wine fumes.

‘Of course,’ the Coroner whispered, ‘you are wondering how Gaunt knew about Ira Dei?’

Athelstan was about to reply when they both heard a sound and turned to find Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, standing behind them.

‘My Lord Coroner, Brother Athelstan.’ The suave, silver-haired courtier bowed slightly. ‘We heard you were in the Guildhall. His Grace the King requests a moment of your time.’

Athelstan looked curiously at this dark-skinned scholar, a lawyer by profession. Hussey’s quiet control of the King, his subtle manipulation of the young boy, was now making itself felt. He noticed the bright blue of the man’s eyes, clear as a summer day. He also saw the cunning in his face and quickly concluded Hussey might be even more dangerous than the Regent they had just left. Cranston, too, stayed silent, quietly wondering how much Hussey had heard. Then the Coroner smiled.

‘It would be an honour,’ he murmured.

Hussey led them down a corridor and, surprisingly enough, into the Guildhall’s private garden where Mountjoy had been killed. The young King, dressed in a simple Lincoln green tunic, his blond hair tousled, sat on a turf seat, a leather baldrick and a pair of spurred hunting boots alongside him. A toy crossbow lay propped at his feet and, by the mud-marks on his face and hands, Cranston realized the young man had been hunting, probably in the woods and meadows north of Clerkenwell. Both he and Athelstan bowed but Richard dismissed the pleasantries and waved to the seat beside him, pushing the baldrick and boots unceremoniously aside.