Athelstan shook his head.

‘In a shabby house there a sepulchral voice was heard issuing from the walls. A mob of hundreds of citizens crowded to hear what they thought was the voice of an angel. When they shouted, “God save our Regent, Duke John,” there was no answer from the entombed supernatural being. When another shouted, “God save our young King Richard!”, the voice answered, “So be it.” When asked: “What is Duke John’s future?” the voice mockingly replied “Death and destruction”. The Serjeants were sent to investigate and found a young woman within the walls pretending to be the angel. She had to sit in the pillory for days with her head shaved. But,’ Cranston tapped his finger on the table, ‘Gaunt believes Ira Dei was behind it. It shows his power and influence, my good friar.’

‘And what will my Lord of Gaunt do?’

Cranston cocked his head as the bells of nearby St Mary Le Bow began to toll for evening prayer. ‘Oh, Gaunt is worried. He cannot call a parliament for the Commons are hostile. But tonight he holds a great banquet at the Guildhall and I am to be there.’ Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Gaunt hopes to bring peace to the warring factions amongst the Guilds. He has become the friend of the merchant princes of London and their leaders; Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall, Christopher Goodman and James Denny. They will celebrate their newfound amity in an orgy of food, wine and false goodwill.’

He cleared his throat. ‘You see, my good friar, one of Gaunt’s most able lieutenants, the Lord Adam Clifford, has acted for his master in these matters. Each of the Guildmasters has placed a large ingot of gold in a chest kept in the Guildhall chapel as surety for their goodwill and support of the Regent.’ Cranston drained his tankard and got up. ‘And I, my dear Brother, have to be there to witness this farce!’

Athelstan looked up anxiously. ‘So there’ll be peace, Sir John?’

‘Peace!’ Cranston bent over him. ‘My good friar,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘tell your parishioners to be careful. Gaunt intends to raise troops and, believe me, the streets of London will soon run with blood as thick, deep and as scarlet as wine from the grape presses!’

Athelstan put down his own tankard and stood up. ‘You really think so, Sir John?’

‘I know so! At this very moment, as I have said, Gaunt is meeting our merchant princes at the Guildhall. The young King, together with his tutor, Sir Nicholas Hussey, attended a Mass there this morning. This afternoon Gaunt took counsel with the Sheriff, Sir Gerard Mountjoy, on measures against the conspiracy amongst the peasants as well as those in the city who favour their cause.’ Cranston wiped his white moustache and beard. ‘And for my sins,’ he breathed in a gust of wine fumes, ‘I am to attend this evening’s banquet where Gaunt will entertain his new allies.’ He made a rude sound with his lips. ‘As if I haven’t enough problems.’

‘Such as, Sir John?’

‘Well, besides the death of Oliver, the Regent and Corporation are furious at some rogue who is removing the limbs and remains of executed traitors from London Bridge and elsewhere. After all, my good Brother, what’s the use of executing people if you can’t display their hacked, bloody limbs as a warning to other would-be traitors?’ He linked his arm through the friar’s as they went out of the tavern. ‘Now, in my treatise on the governance of this city…’ He smacked his lips as Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. Cranston’s great work on the Government of London was nearly finished and he never missed an opportunity of lecturing everyone and anybody on his theories on how law and order could be administered in the capital.

‘In my treatise I will advise against such practices. Criminals should be executed within the prison walls and the Crown should veto such barbaric practices. In ancient Sumeria…’ Cranston pulled an unwilling Athelstan across Cheapside. ‘Now in ancient Sumeria…’ he repeated.

‘My Lord Coroner! Brother Athelstan!’

They both turned. A sweaty-faced servitor, wearing the livery of the city, stood leaning against an empty stall, trying to catch his breath.

‘What is it, man?’

‘Sir John, you must come quickly. And you too, Brother. The Regent… His Grace the King…’

‘What is it?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Murder, Sir John. Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the Sheriff, has been murdered at the Guildhall!’

Cranston and Athelstan found the Guildhall strangely silent. Armed men lined the passageways and corridors, guarding the entrances and exits to the different courtyards. The servitor led them through these, shaking his head at Cranston’s nagging questions. He brought them into the garden, one of the most attractive parts of the Guildhall with its herb plots, fountain and channel, wooden and stone benches, tunnel arbour and soft green lawns. A group of men stood round the fountain talking amongst themselves. They stopped and turned as Cranston and Athelstan came out.

‘My Lord Coroner, we have been waiting.’

‘Your Grace,’ Cranston replied, staring at the swarthy, gold-bearded face of the Regent, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. ‘We came as soon as the messenger found us.’

Cranston stared quickly round as Gaunt introduced the rest. He recognized them all: Sir Christopher Goodman, the Mayor, red-faced and pop-eyed, then the brilliantly dressed, proud-faced Guildmasters: Thomas Fitzroy of the Fishmongers who always reminded Cranston of a carp with his jutting lips and glassy eyes; Philip Sudbury of the Ironmongers, red-faced and red-haired, a born toper; Alexander Bremmer of the Drapers, thin and mean-faced, an avaricious grasping man; Hugo Marshall of the Spicers, his head bald as a pigeon’s egg; and fleshy-featured Sir James Denny of the Haberdashers, dressed like a court fop in his tight hose and quilted jacket open at the neck.

Cranston nodded at these as well as at Sir Nicholas Hussey, the King’s tutor, young-looking despite his silver hair and beard. Finally Lord Adam Clifford, Gaunt’s principal henchman, fresh-faced and dressed in a tawny gown which suited the man’s clean-shaven, sunburnt face and neatly coiffed black head. Gaunt finished the introductions.

‘My Lord?’ Cranston declared, angry at the Regent’s insulting behaviour in not even acknowledging Athelstan. ‘My Lord, I think you know my secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark?’

Gaunt smiled patronizingly and nodded. Cranston darted an angry glance at a sniggering Denny.

‘We have come at your behest, My Lord Regent. We were told Sir Gerard Mountjoy has been murdered. Where, when and how?’

Gaunt waved a hand towards the small arbour which stood in the far corner of the garden sheltered from Cranston’s gaze by the open door of the Guildhall as well as a high trellis covered in ivy.

‘There?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, Sir Gerard is there!’

Gaunt’s reply was angry but tinged with sardonic amusement. The Regent waved them across.

‘I hope you have better luck than we did.’

Mystified, Cranston and Athelstan walked past the fence and looked over a small gate into the arbour. Both jumped as a pair of huge wolf hounds threw themselves against the gate, snarling and barking, lips curled, yellow teeth eager to rend and gash. Cranston and Athelstan stepped back.

The arbour was cleverly contrived, a garden within a garden: a turf seat against the trellised fence, a narrow pavement of coloured stones with a table which also served as a bird bath, and raised banks of fragrant herbs. A peaceful, pleasant place on a late summer’s day had it not been for the man sprawled against the fence, a thin dagger thrust deep in his chest. A grotesque sight: mouth gaping, eyes open and slightly crooked as if the corpse was staring down in amazement at the bloody wound staining his russet gown.