Both smiled, shrugged, but did what Athelstan asked. Cranston slumped on the turf seat and took a generous swig from the wineskin.

‘Now,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘Sir Gerard is sunning himself in the garden with his dogs. Sometime that same afternoon he is stabbed to death, the dagger driven deep into his body, yet he made no resistance and those fierce dogs made no attempt to defend him.’ Athelstan walked back to the wicket gate and pointed to the brick wall of the Guildhall which bordered one side of the garden. ‘Now, a murderer couldn’t come through there.’ He changed direction. ‘He could scarcely climb the fence behind Sir Gerard because both the Sheriff and his dogs would have noticed him. Nor could he come through the wicket gate, knife drawn.’

‘What happens if he did?’ Benedicta asked. ‘What happens if he was a friend, whom the dogs would accept, as their master cordially greeted him?’

‘Mountjoy had no friends,’ Cranston muttered.

‘No.’ Benedicta waved her hands. ‘The assassin gets very close, he draws a knife and plunges it into Sir Gerard?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘It’s possible,’ he replied. ‘But hardly probable. Sir Gerard would at least have seen the dagger being drawn; the assassin would scarcely enter the garden carrying it. There would have been a fight which would have alarmed the dogs. Remember, Sir Gerard was killed without any sign of a struggle.’

Benedicta stuck her tongue out at him.

‘There’s only one way,’ Cranston growled, pointing to the fence paling at the bottom of the garden. ‘The pentice between the kitchens and the Guildhall.’

‘There are gaps in the fence,’ Benedicta added.

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Too narrow for a man to throw a dagger with such force and accuracy. Look, wait here.’ He took Cranston’s dagger, rather similar to the one the assassin used, walked back into the Guildhall and down the darkened pentice. He stopped and, through gaps in the fence, could see Cranston sitting opposite him on the turf seat. He pushed the dagger through; the gap was wide enough but he was right, no man could hurl a dagger through it. Scratching his head, Athelstan went back into the garden. ‘A mystery,’ he muttered. ‘Come, let us visit the banqueting chamber.’

Cranston pulled a face at Benedicta but followed the rather bemused friar up to the banqueting hall. The room was deserted and the tables still left as they were on that fateful night. Athelstan badgered Cranston with a string of abrupt questions.

Who had sat where? What had they eaten? How late it had begun?

Then, without explanation, he wandered off, saying he wished to talk to the steward who had been present that night.

Cranston didn’t mind. He knew his ‘little friar’ had started some hare and would become engrossed until he had resolved the problem facing him. Moreover, the Coroner was only too willing to sit and chat with the lovely Benedicta who questioned him closely about Athelstan’s story of a thief stealing the severed heads of traitors from above the gatehouse at London Bridge. At last Athelstan returned.

‘Well?’ Cranston bellowed. ‘Have you found anything? Would you like to share your thoughts with mere mortals?’

Athelstan grinned and tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s all a jumble,’ he explained, I need to sit, write and think.’

‘No better place than The Holy Lamb of God,’ Cranston mumbled.

He led them out of the Guildhall, down the steps into a busy market place. The stalls were now laid out for a day’s trade. Apprentices shouted goods and prices or tried to catch the sleeves of passersby. On the corner of the street, Cranston’s hated relic-seller was busy proclaiming his litany of goods for sale. He stopped as the fellow listed his different relics from the stone which killed Goliath to the arm of St Sebbi.

‘I have the relics,’ the fellow bellowed, ‘in a secret place, bought specially at a great high price from the Archbishop of Cologne. The head of St John the Baptist, miraculously fresh as on the day the great martyr died. I tell you this, good sirs and ladies all, you pious citizens of London, his hair is red and soft, his skin as supple, as that of a child!’

Cranston sneered and shook his head.

‘Why don’t you bloody priests,’ he muttered, ‘put an end to this stupid trade?’

‘I wonder where he would obtain the hair of John the Baptist?’ Benedicta muttered.

Cranston just gaped at her. ‘What did you say?’ he whispered.

‘How could he get the head of St John the Baptist? And how does he know the prophet had red hair?’

Cranston grabbed the surprised woman and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Come on!’ he whispered. ‘To The Holy Lamb of God!’

The Coroner forced his way through the throng. Athelstan could see how excited he was by the way Cranston kept bellowing at people to get out of his way. Once in the tavern he dug into his broad purse and drew out a silver coin.

‘Benedicta, take this across to the relic-seller. Say you have five more to purchase the head of St John the Baptist.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘You know the man’s a fraud. There’ll be no head, just some stupid trick or device. Who knows, Benedicta may even be robbed?’

‘Shut up, Athelstan!’

‘But, Sir John,’ he pleaded. ‘You know! I know!’

‘What?’ Cranston snapped.

‘He can’t have the head of the Baptist…’ Athelstan’s voice trailed away and he grinned at Cranston. ‘Ah! To quote the good St Paul, My Lord Coroner, I see in a glass darkly.’

Cranston clapped his hands like a child and Benedicta, with the assurances of both men ringing in her ears, walked back across Cheapside with Cranston’s silver clasped firmly in her hand. Athelstan and Cranston watched her go. Benedicta stopped and whispered to the relic-seller and the man left his perch as quickly as any hungry gull. He led her off, down an alleyway with Athelstan and Cranston following quickly behind. Cranston was excited, Athelstan fearful for Benedicta’s safety, but the man seemed harmless enough. At last he turned off an alleyway going down to Old Jewry. He stopped before the door of a house, said something to Benedicta, she nodded and they both went in. Cranston and Athelstan hurried up.

‘Give the bastard a few minutes,’ Cranston whispered.

Athelstan nodded. Cranston counted softly and, when he reached thirty, kicked with all his might against the rickety door and sent it flying back on its rusty hinges. The house was dingy and smelly and, as they hurried along the passageway, Athelstan gagged at the terrible stench. They heard raised voices, Benedicta’s exclamations. They found her in a small chamber at the back of the house with the relic-seller and the latter’s young assistant. Benedicta looked white, the two tricksters paled with fright at the commotion and Cranston’s shouts, whilst on a table in front of them lay the severed head of a red-haired man, eyes half-closed and purple lips agape. If the two relic-sellers could have escaped they would have but they just huddled together in a corner as the Coroner grabbed the severed head and lifted it up. Benedicta had seen enough and, hand to mouth, hurriedly left the chamber for the street beyond.

‘Well, well, my buckos!’ Cranston grinned. ‘You are both under arrest!’

‘What for?’ the relic-seller shouted.

‘Theft of Crown property, my lad, counterfeiting, deceptive practices and blasphemy. This is not the head of John the Baptist but of Jacques Larue, the French pirate taken off the Thames and legally executed!’ Cranston gazed round the chamber. ‘Lord, this smells worse than the shambles at Newgate!’

He walked out of the door, pushing Athelstan before him, and took the key from the inside lock, imprisoning the two very subdued relic-sellers within.

‘There are no windows or other doors, Athelstan. The rogues can stay there until I hand this key over to the ward officials. Now, let us see what this house of treasures contains.’