Athelstan warmed to his theme. ‘You see, Sir John, such crimes originate not from bad blood but hot blood. Political assassination, however, is different. There’s no personal rancour, no malicious glee at the destruction of an enemy, just expediency. This is what we are dealing with now: Mountjoy and Fitzroy’s deaths were coldly decided, seized as a means to bring My Lord of Gaunt’s plans into confusion.’

Athelstan rubbed his lips and, before Cranston could order more wine, told the pot boy to go away. ‘Remember, Sir John, murder is like chess. You move a piece, your opponent counter moves. Sooner or later a mistake will be made or a path opened in order to discover the truth and bring the game to an end. But here our opponent could be anyone.’ Athelstan brushed crumbs from his robe. ‘Three murders,’ he muttered. ‘We know they died but little else. How was Fitzroy poisoned when he ate and drank what the rest did? How could Mountjoy be stabbed to death in the privacy of his own garden? And Sturmey? One minute on the quayside, the next floating in the Thames with a dagger in his chest.’ Athelstan paused as a loud snore greeted his words. He turned to see Sir John, head back, eyes closed, with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Sir John! Lord above!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I can’t even find your ribs, you’re so fat!’

‘Portly,’ Sir John answered, opening his eyes and licking his lips. ‘I am portly, Athelstan.’ He tapped his red, fleshy nose. ‘Remember, Brother, the Lord Coroner may doze but he never sleeps. What is it you want to know?’

‘Sturmey… you knew something from his past?’

‘God knows! I can’t place it,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ve got to visit his shop again.’

‘I thought Gaunt’s men had sealed it?’

‘Yes, they have, but I’ve received permission from the Regent to remove the seals as long as My Lord Clifford is present.’

‘I was hoping to return to Southwark.’

‘Well, you can’t. There’s God’s work to be done here. Come on, Brother.’

Athelstan followed Cranston out, noting how the Coroner deliberately knocked against the hard-drinking relic-seller.

‘I hate such bastards!’ he whispered outside the tavern. ‘If I had my way I’d clear the lot from the city. They sell enough wood from the true cross to build a fleet of ships!’

Athelstan, seeing the fat Coroner was becoming evil-tempered, linked his arm through his and gently diverted the conversation to a more even keel by asking when he thought the Lady Maude would return. They soon found Lord Clifford’s house, a handsome, three-storied building in Parchment Lane, but the young nobleman was not at home.

‘He’s gone to see the physician,’ a liveried servant explained as he ushered them into the small, comfortable solar. ‘However, he is expecting you, Sir John.’

Athelstan courteously declined the offer of refreshment but Cranston needed no second urging. He sat back in a quilted chair, sipping the claret and openly admiring the luxury of the room. Athelstan, quietly praying Sir John would not drink too much, also looked at the pieces of armour tastefully arranged around the walls. A pair of crossed gauntlets, a shield and two halberds, and a number of intricate, beautifully carved arbalests and crossbows.

‘A wealthy man,’ Athelstan observed.

‘Of course,’ Sir John replied. ‘I served with his father. He took a group of bowmen to France. A fierce soldier, God rest him, and now his son aims high.’

Athelstan glanced at the thick, woollen rugs on the shining oak floor, the silverware on the polished table glinting in the sunlight pouring through a painted glass window. Athelstan wondered why men like Lord Adam, who had so much, always wanted more. His meditations were rudely interrupted by Clifford himself bursting into the room. He tossed his cloak at a servant and strode across to shake their hands warmly. Athelstan saw the bruises and marks on the young man’s face and noticed how stiffly he moved his shoulders.

‘You were injured sorely?’ the friar asked as the greetings were finished.

Clifford grinned then grimaced. ‘Some cuts and bruises to my face. The worst is a dagger wound in my shoulder.’

‘The work of Ira Dei?’

‘Undoubtedly. I was beaten unconscious before the watch rescued me. The bastards even left a note pinned to my cloak.’

‘What did it say?’

‘“Do not provoke the Anger of God.”’ Clifford moved his shoulder gingerly. ‘I couldn’t give a fig. It will take more than those ruffians,’ he remarked drily, ‘to hinder me.’

He offered more refreshment but Athelstan said the day was passing.

‘Sir John,’ he explained, ‘wishes to visit Sturmey’s shop, remove the Regent’s seals and search the place.’

Clifford agreed and they went out into the bustling market place, Clifford chatting to them about Gaunt’s determination to restore his alliance with the Guildmasters.

‘Keep your voices down and your hands on your wallets,’ Cranston intervened. He smiled at Athelstan. ‘I think all Southwark’s here.’

The friar glanced around. The stalls were busy, the noise deafening with the apprentices’ raucous cries of ‘St Thomas’ onions!’ ‘Fresh bread!’ ‘Hot pies!’ ‘Pins and needles for a mistress!’ ‘A cap for you, sir!’ All of London, the silk-clad nobles and serge-clothed peasants, swirled around the stalls and Athelstan glimpsed the sharp-faced foists, pickpockets and cut-purses at work. He’d walked so many times through the city with Cranston, he’d acquired the Coroner’s skill in detecting how these sneak thieves worked, constantly moving round the market place looking for a victim. These petty law-breakers were now busy, seemingly oblivious to the punishments being carried out around the stocks and whipping posts of Cheapside: market beadles chained men and women, crude placards slung round their necks describing their litany of crimes, be it cutting buttons from precious robes to bone-pickers and rag-gatherers who were not above helping themselves to any items which fell from a stall.

A pardoner stood beneath the market cross, greasy scrolls in his hand, offering remission for sins in return for donations to the Pope’s coffers. Hawkers sold battered spoons, rusting tin cups and other paltry articles. The whores paraded themselves, keeping a wary eye for the ward constables; tipplers offered fresh water whilst beating off dogs lapping in their buckets or ragged-arsed urchins begging for a free drink. The execution cart forced its way through, preceded by a dark-cowled monk, muttering the prayers for the dying. Three condemned felons sat on their cheap arrow-chest coffins shouting farewells at the sparse, ragged crowd of friends and acquaintances. These accompanied the condemned felons to the gallows to hang on their feet and so ensure a speedy death. Now and again Cranston would be recognized with ‘Hellos’ from the worthy city burgesses or black looks and a stream of obscenities from those who had felt the Coroner’s fat hand on their collar.

At last they turned up Lawrence Lane. Sturmey’s shop was all boarded up but the whey-faced maid and chattering apprentice let them in.

‘His son has not come south yet,’ the young boy told them. ‘But the sooner he does, the sooner I can move on to another master.’

Cranston patted him on the head and slipped a penny into his hand. Clifford drew his dagger, sliced through the Regent’s seal and, taking the keys the Corporation had seized, opened the workshop. Inside, ably assisted by the young apprentice, they began to sift through the bits of discarded keys. Athelstan went through the dead locksmith’s ledger but, after an hour, they could find nothing of interest.

Clifford, grimacing at the pain in his shoulder, stamped his foot in annoyance.

‘Sturmey must have made a second set of keys. But how and where is a mystery, Sir John.’

Cranston was staring at the young, angelic face of the apprentice. A vague memory stirred in his mind.