Sir John shivered and looked around the tavern. He felt uneasy for the first time ever, a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of personal danger. Had they been followed? He looked quickly across at Athelstan. The friar was right. Whoever had committed these murders planned them well. If Lady Isabella was not the woman who went to the apothecary's shop, then who was? And the harlot who had lured Vechey to his doom? And the secret poisoner of Sir Thomas and Master Allingham? Cranston suddenly blinked.

'You keep saying "they",' he said. 'Why?'

'There must be more than one. Either that or it's someone very clever. I did think that someone outside that house was using assassins, professional killers, but that would be too dangerous. You see, the more people you hire to carry out a plot, the greater the danger of betrayal; either through a mistake, or a bribe, or simply by one of your minions being caught red-handed.'

'And you have no suspects?'

'No. It could be Sir Richard, it could be Lady Isabella, Buckingham, Father Crispin, even Dame Ermengilde. Who knows? One of the murdered men may have been an assassin.'

Sir John drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table.

'You know, Athelstan, if it wasn't for you and your bloody logic, I'd put the entire mystery down to witchcraft. People moving about in the dead of night, poisons being administered in a locked room. How on earth can we resolve it?'

'As I said, Sir John, logic and a little evidence, some speculation, and perhaps some help from Mistress Fortune. In the end we will grasp the truth. I don't particularly mourn the four who died. What bothers me, what's making me sour and evil-tempered, is that the murderers are here, laughing at us, watching us fumble. They shall pay for that enjoyment. We can all murder, Sir John.' He rose, dusting the crumbs from his habit. 'Cain is in each of us. We lose our temper, feel cornered and frightened, it can be the work of an instant. But to savour murder – that's not the prompting of Cain, that's Satan!'

Cranston, his mouth full of hot food, simply mumbled his reply. Athelstan felt the thick ale seep into his stomach, making him relaxed, even sleepy.

'Come on, Sir John. Chief Justice Fortescue awaits us and, as you know, justice waits for no man!'

Sir John glared, stuffed the rest of the food in his mouth and drained his tankard in one final gulp.

They hurried out into Fleet Street, Sir John wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, hitching his sword belt, shouting that he would revisit the tavern at his earliest convenience. They were halfway down Fleet Street when suddenly the Coroner's mood changed. He stopped abruptly and gazed round, staring back at the throng they had pushed through.

'What's wrong, Sir John?'

The coroner chewed his lip. 'We are being followed, Brother Athelstan, and I don't like that.'

He looked round and went over to a tinker's stall. Athelstan saw money change hands and Cranston came back with a thick broomstick.

'Here, Athelstan!'

The friar looked in surprise at the long, smoothly planed ash pole.

'I have no need of a staff, Sir John.'

Cranston grinned, his hands falling to the dagger and great broad sword he carried.

'You may have, Athelstan. Remember what your psalmist says: "The devil goes around like a lion seeking whom he would devour." I believe a lion or a devil, or both, are trailing us now!'

As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The gatekeeper, recognising Cranston, let them in without a word. They hurried through the tranquil, fragrant-smelling garden, past the Inner and Middle Temples, and down Temple Stairs where they hired a wherry to take them to Westminster. Cranston, despite his bulk, jumped into the boat, pulling a surprised Athelstan along with him. He tripped on his staff and nearly pitched head first into the water. The boatman cursed, telling them to sit down and keep still, and then, puffing and sweating, he pulled his craft out midstream through the flocks of swans who arched their wings in protest as if they owned the river.

They followed the Thames as it curved down past the Savoy Palace, Durham and York House, past the high- pooped ships scarred from long voyages which were crowding in for repairs. At Charing Cross the boatman began to pull in as the deep bend in the river became more pronounced. They passed Scotland Yard; Westminster Abbey came into sight; the tower of St Margaret's and the roofs, turrets and gables, shop-dwellings, houses and taverns, which made up the small city of Westminster.

The boatman pulled in, allowing Athelstan and Cranston to disembark at the Garden Stairs and go through the courts, corridors and passageways which linked the different buildings of Westminster Palace. The place was thronged; gaolers with their prisoners, attorneys, lawyers and clients, as well as vendors of paper, ink and food. The ne'er-do-wells and the many sightseers mixed with the army of law clerks carrying rolls of parchment up from the cellar known as Hell where, Sir John explained, the legal records were kept. The smell was terrible, despite the fresh breezes wafting in from the river. Some of the lawyers and justices, resplendent in their silken robes, held nosegays to their faces to fend off the odour.

Cranston led Athelstan into the Great Hall, pointing out the painted walls though some of the frescoes were beginning to flake. The famous ceiling, where the wooden angels flew face down through the dusty air above the crowd, was so high it could scarcely be seen in the gloom. Cranston stopped a beadle in his blue cloak, the shield of office on his breast and long staff tapping the paving stones proclaiming his sense of importance. Yes, the fellow assured them, with a nod of his head to the far end of the hall, the Court of King's Bench was now in session and Chief Justice Fortescue attendant upon it.

The beady, little eyes softened as Cranston displayed his warrant, a silver coin lying on top of it. However, the court had finished its morning session. Perhaps Chief Justice Fortescue was in his chamber?

The beadle led them through the gloomy rooms off the main hall where the Court of Common Pleas, Court of Chancery and Court of Requests sat, and down a warren of lime-washed corridors until he stopped in front of a door and rapped noisily with his wand.

'Come in!' Chief Justice Fortescue, his scarlet, fur- trimmed robe tossed over a chair, was sitting behind a table. The angry look on the judge's sallow face showed that either his attendance in court that morning or Cranston's arrival had put him in an ill humour.

'Ah!' Fortescue dropped the manuscript he was reading on to the table. 'Our zealous city coroner and his clerk. Please sit down.' He gestured to a well-cushioned window seat.

Cranston glared back at him and waddled over. Athelstan sat next to the coroner and wondered what was to come. The Chief Justice threw them both another ill-favoured glance.

'What progress has been made?'

In short, clipped tones Cranston told him exactly what had happened, and their suspicions. How the four deaths were linked. How Brampton and Vechey had probably not committed suicide but been murdered and that Allingham's supposed death from natural causes was probably the murderer striking again.

'You have no idea who it is?'

'No, My Lord.'

'Or why?'

'No, My Lord.'

'You found no great mystery that Sir Thomas Springall was hiding? Nothing which could endanger either the crown or the safety of the realm?'

'Nothing,' Cranston retorted. 'Why should there be?'

Fortescue dropped his glance, fiddling with the great amethyst ring on one of his fingers.