Cranston smiled falsely. ‘Sir, I did not say that. All I am doing is describing the facts. But, yes, now you have raised the matter, I will ask you, were any of you in Billingsgate the day Sturmey died? Or did any of you visit him secretly?’

A chorus of defiant nos greeted Cranston’s questions. Nevertheless, the Guildmasters looked so relieved Athelstan suspected they had a great deal to hide whilst Goodman looked embarrassed. After all, Athelstan reflected, he had known about Sturmey’s past and yet had gone along with the rest, choosing the dead locksmith as their craftsman.

‘Other people knew,’ Denny spoke up. ‘Why question only us?’

‘Who else knew?’ Cranston retorted. ‘His Grace the King was not yet born, my Lord Regent was only a boy and the Council would protect his ears from such scandal. I have a copy of the investigation and I don’t suppose any other record exists. So, yes, please tell me, who else knew?’ Cranston shrugged. ‘Perhaps other people did but they are not powerful Guildmasters, they are not witnesses to treason, the robbery of treasure, the murder of one of their colleagues, not to mention the secret assassination of a London Sheriff.’ Cranston pushed back his chair and got to his feet. ‘But I tell you this, sirs, old Jack Cranston will dig out the truth and justice will be done.’

Once outside the Guildhall he clapped his hands with glee.

‘The buggers are frightened,’ he chortled. ‘Lord, Brother, you can smell their fear.’

‘What happens,’ Athelstan asked, ‘if these murders have more to do with ancient crimes than the ambitions of the Regent or the dark designs of Ira Dei?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘No, those men, Athelstan, are gluttons for power. They are neck deep in vice. Corruption is their second name. Old sins play a part here but only as a device rather than the cause. Mark my words.’ Cranston smiled. ‘I have shaken the apple tree. God knows what may fall down!’

The Coroner peered across the market place. ‘Let’s leave this matter,’ he breathed. ‘Tomorrow is Saturday and I must play dalliance with the Lady Maude. You have my manuscript?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Then keep it. Study it carefully, Brother.’

Athelstan vowed he would and, with Sir John’s salutations ringing in his ears, made his way back down the Mercery, across London Bridge and into Southwark.

Benedicta was waiting for him in the priest’s house. She looked rather subdued.

‘I took the girl Elizabeth and her nurse Anna to the Friar Minoresses. The sisters were good and kind, even though the two were hysterical. Elizabeth calls her father and step-mother assassins: she claims the truth was revealed to her by her mother in a dream. Brother, what will happen to them?’

Athelstan slumped wearily on to a stool and shook his head.

‘Benedicta, I don’t know. I thank you for what you have done but only God knows what the future holds.’

She went to the buttery and brought back a flagon of ale.

‘You look tired.’ She pushed the tankard into his hands. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Drink and have something to eat. You’ll have some bread and dried meat? I’ll prepare enough for both of us.’

Athelstan, embarrassed at her care and concern, mumbled his thanks and sat staring into the weak flames of the fire. Benedicta bustled around the kitchen laying the table. The widow deliberately kept up a litany of gossip about the parish in an attempt to distract Athelstan from what he so aptly described to her as his ‘sea of troubles’. During the meal he tried to respond but felt weary, his head buzzing with all he had seen and heard that day. Benedicta took her leave, saying she would see him at Mass tomorrow. Athelstan watched her go then put his head on his arms and fell fast asleep.

When Athelstan awoke it was dark. He felt cold and cramped so he built up the fire. He was about to go into the buttery when he was startled by a gentle knocking on the door.

‘Who is it?’ he called. Getting no answer, he took his ash cudgel from the corner and placed his hand on the latch. ‘Who is it?’ he repeated, trying to calm his anxieties. He strained his ears but only heard the gentle swishing of the trees in the cemetery and the ghostly hooting of an owl. He opened the door and stared into the darkness. He was about to walk out when his foot caught something. He bent and picked up a small loaf of bread with a scrap of parchment attached to it. Athelstan looked round once again, closed and bolted the door behind him, lit the candle and read the scrawled hand.

‘Incur the wrath of God and you will incur the bread of bitterness.’

Athelstan picked up the small loaf and sniffed it carefully. He could see the sprinkled salt and caught the bitterness of some crushed herb. He read the scrap of parchment again and tossed both it and the loaf into the fire. ‘The bread of bitterness,’ Athelstan muttered to himself and half-smiled at the apt quotation from the Old Testament. He sat for a while staring at the candle flame; Ira Dei had made his reply, taunting him with the knowledge that he knew Athelstan only wished to communicate with him at the behest of his enemy, John of Gaunt. The friar recalled Cranston’s confrontation with the Guildmasters earlier in the day. The Coroner probably hoped that his words might provoke Ira Dei into some stupid error.

Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Ah, well!’ he muttered. ‘Cranston and I now have his answer.’ And he wearily climbed the stairs to his small bed chamber.

Athelstan awoke fresh and invigorated the next morning. He washed, shaved, changed his robe, fed Bonaventure and ate a hurried breakfast. Athelstan then went across to celebrate the Requiem for Ursula the pig woman’s mother. Benedicta was waiting for him at the entrance to the rood screen after he had finished in the sacristy.

‘What is it, Benedicta?’

‘I am sorry to trouble you, Father, but I’ve received messages from the Minoresses. You’ve got to come. Last night Elizabeth Hobden tried to hang herself!’

Athelstan bit back his curse, said he would lock the church and meet her within the half-hour on the steps of St Mary Overy. Athelstan quickly made sure all was secure, left oats and hay for a snoring Philomel and hurried down to where Benedicta was waiting for him.

‘What else did the message say?’ he asked breathlessly as they hurried on to London Bridge.

‘Nothing, Father. Apparently the girl kept repeating the same story. Late last night a sister heard a crash from her cell and, when she went to investigate, discovered the girl had tried to hang herself with the sheets from her bed.’

Under the gateway of London Bridge Athelstan stopped and looked up at the severed heads of traitors spiked there. Benedicta followed his gaze.

‘Father, what on earth…?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘I find it difficult to believe, Benedicta, that Cranston is actually hunting someone who steals such grisly objects.’

She crossed her arms and stared out at the mist still floating over the middle of the river.

‘Sometimes,’ she muttered, ‘I hate this place. I have thought of moving away to some country place — more peaceful and clean.’

‘You can’t.’ Athelstan bit his lip. He looked at her squarely. ‘If you went, Benedicta, I’d miss you.’

‘True, true.’ She grinned back. ‘And who would then look after you and Cranston?’

They hastened across the bridge and into East Cheap, following the alleyways along Mark Lane into Aldgate and turning right on to the street leading to the gleaming sandstone buildings of the Minoresses. The sun was beginning to rise and Athelstan wiped away the sweat from his brow.

‘We should have come by horse,’ he muttered. ‘God knows why I am here.’

‘She has no one else.’

‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘That’s as good a reason as any.’

The nuns greeted him warmly and insisted both he and Benedicta refresh themselves in the refectory before the novice mistress, a stout but very pleasant-faced nun, described what had happened the previous evening.