‘We found her lying on the floor,’ she began. ‘Half-choked by the sheet she had wrapped round her neck. If it hadn’t torn, if the commotion hadn’t been heard…’

She spread her hands. ‘I’d be sadly reporting her death now. Brother Athelstan, what can we do? We have a girl here, a mere child, who might commit suicide!’

The friar got to his feet. ‘Let me see her.’

The novice mistress took them along a cool, porticoed passage and knocked on a cell door. Another nun answered and the novice mistress took them in to where Elizabeth Hobden sat on the edge of her bed, dark-eyed and pale-faced, a purplish bruise round her soft, white neck.

‘How is Anna, the nurse?’ Benedicta asked.

‘Oh, she’s well enough, eating and drinking as if there’s no tomorrow,’ the nun replied.

Athelstan picked up a stool and sat beside Elizabeth. He looked up at the two nuns.

‘Sisters, will you please leave us for a while? The lady Benedicta will stay.’

The nuns left. Benedicta stood by the door as Athelstan gently took the girl’s listless hand.

‘Elizabeth, look at me.’

She raised her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she muttered.

‘I want to help.’

‘You can’t. They murdered my mother and now I am an outcast.’

Athelstan stared at the girl and then at the crucifix nailed on the wall behind her. He took this down and held it up before the girl.

‘Elizabeth, do you believe in Christ?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Then put your hand on the crucifix and swear that your accusation is true.’

The girl almost grabbed the cross. ‘I swear!’ she said firmly. ‘By the body of Christ, I swear!’

Athelstan put the crucifix back and crouched beside her.

‘Now, promise me one thing?’

The girl stared at him:

‘Promise me that you’ll do nothing foolish again? Give me a week,’ he pleaded. ‘Just one week. I’ll see what I can do.’

The girl nodded and Athelstan flinched at the hope which sparkled in her eyes.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he repeated, patted her gently on her hand and left.

‘What can you do?’ Benedicta asked as the gate of the Minoresses closed behind them.

‘I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied, ‘But perhaps Cranston will.’ He sighed. ‘I had intended to leave Sir John alone, at least until Monday. I’ll just have to remind him there’s no rest for the wicked.’

They walked back into the city, down Aldgate and Cornhill. At the corner of Poultry the stocks were full of malefactors taken after roistering on a Friday evening whilst the huge iron cage on the Great Conduit was full of night hawks and bawds who raucously jeered as they glimpsed Athelstan pass by with a woman. Poultry, Mercery and West Cheap, however, were quiet because the market bell rang late on Saturday. Apprentices were laying out stalls whilst rakers and dung-collectors made a half-hearted attempt to clear the refuse and rubbish of the previous day. A maid answered their knock on Cranston’s door and blithely informed them that Lady Maude was still abed for Sir John had gone to Mass at St Mary Le Bow.

Athelstan hid his smile and led Benedicta straight across to The Holy Lamb of God where they found the Coroner in his favourite corner breaking his fast on a meat pie and a jug of ale. He greeted them rapturously, refusing to be satisfied until Athelstan and Benedicta agreed to eat something. He then listened attentively as Athelstan described his visit to the Minoresses.

‘What can we do?’ Athelstan asked softly.

Cranston drowned his face in his tankard. ‘Well, first, we have no proof that Walter or Eleanor Hobden committed any crime so under the law we have no right to question them. However, I am the King’s Coroner in the city. I do have the authority to exhume a corpse. Hobden said his first wife is buried at St James Garlickhythe?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Right, we’ll begin there.’

‘Can we do that, Sir John? What will it prove?’

‘First, I can do anything. And, second, who knows what we’ll find?’ Cranston stared out of the window. ‘We’ll have to wait until early evening. Part of the cemetery there is used as a market.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. There was so much to do at St Erconwald’s but, as Sir John would say, ‘ Alea jacta ’, the die was cast.

‘Well, aren’t you pleased?’ Cranston asked, a tankard half-way to his lips.

‘There’s something else, Sir John.’ And Athelstan briefly described the message left by Ira Dei the previous evening, trying to ignore Benedicta’s gasps of annoyance at not being told of the danger.

Cranston wiped his lips on the back of his hand.

‘It makes no difference,’ he said. ‘Gaunt was stupid. Ira Dei would scarcely trust you.’

‘Yes, but why reply so quickly?’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who knew about the Ira Dei message?’

‘Gaunt and the Guildmasters. They told us at the same time as they did about the attack on Clifford.’

The conversation stopped as the taverner’s wife brought across a bowl of sugared plums for Sir John. Athelstan absent-mindedly picked one up and popped it into his mouth. He was about to speculate further when he realized the plums were so heavily coated with honey and sugar they stuck to his teeth and gums. He excused himself as he walked to the door and tried to prise the cloying morsels free. Suddenly he stopped and stared down at his fingers.

‘When did I do that last?’ he murmured to himself.

He looked back over his shoulder at Benedicta and Cranston, heads together, whispering, the Coroner undoubtedly explaining what had happened at the Guildhall. Athelstan walked to the lavarium in the far corner of the taverrt, dipped his hands in the rose water and wiped them on a napkin. He felt slightly elated; for the first time since these dreadful murders had started, he began to see a flicker of light in the darkness. He stared at a cured ham hanging from the rafters of the tavern and recalled the words of his mentor, Father Paul.

‘Always remember, Athelstan,’ the old man had boomed, ‘every problem has its weakness. Find it, prise it open and a solution will soon follow.’

‘What’s the matter with you, Friar?’ Cranston bellowed.

Athelstan sat down again. ‘Sir John, are you busy today?’

‘Of course, I am! I’m not some bloody priest!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John, let us retrace the steps of our murderer. Let me go back to the Guildhall, to the garden where Mountjoy died and the banqueting chamber where Fitzroy was poisoned. Benedicta, do you wish to come?’

The woman nodded.

‘What’s the matter, Friar?’ Cranston asked curiously.

Athelstan grinned. ‘Nothing much, Sir John, but a sugared plum could hang a murderer!’

He refused to be drawn further as a grumbling Cranston led them across Cheapside, into the Guildhall, down passageways and across courtyards until they had reached the small garden where Mountjoy had been stabbed. A pompous official tried to stop them but turned and fled when Cranston growled at him. Benedicta stared around, admiring the bronze falcon on top of the fountain, the clear water pouring from leopards’ mouths into a small channel lined with lilies and other wild flowers. She slipped down the tunnel arbour, made of coppice poles tied with willow cords, and openly admired the grape vines and roses which had wound themselves around these. She came out, her face flushed with excitement.

‘This is beautiful,’ she cried.

Athelstan pointed to the small enclosed arbour. ‘The seat of murder,’ he said flatly. ‘That’s where Mountjoy was killed.’

They all stood by the fence. Once again Athelstan wondered how any murderer could approach Sir Gerard and get past those fierce hounds.

‘Look, Sir John, let’s play a mummer’s game.’

Athelstan tugged at the Coroner’s sleeve, opened the small gate and led him into the garden. ‘You sit on the turf seat.’ He grinned. ‘Benedicta, you must pretend to be a wolf hound.’