'You will take no share of my clothes!' he bawled. 'I came naked into the world and I will go out naked. And all the more merrily for knowing you got nothing from me!'

The crowd roared with laughter at this sally and, as the cart trundled up to the great three-branched scaffold at the Elms, broke into fresh chants and songs.

'More like a wedding than an execution!' Cranston muttered. 'The hangman will slip the knot. This fellow will dance for a long time before he dies.'

They crossed the rutted track leading to the shady side of the street for the sun now shone much stronger, beating fiercely down on them. Cranston mopped his sweating face and pushed Athelstan into the welcoming shadows of the Bishop's Pig tavern. The tap room inside was dark and cool with a high, black-timbered ceiling letting the air circulate as it poured through the great open windows at the far end. Cranston and Athelstan sat there, the friar silently wondering to himself about Sir John's constant need for refreshment; the coroner seemed to eat and drink as if there was no tomorrow. As usual Sir John did full justice to himself, ordering two large tankards of frothy dark ale, an eel pie and a dish of vegetables. All disappeared down his yawning throat as the coroner continued to berate Fortescue. At last, the rancour drained from him, Sir John wiped his lips, leaned back against the wall and glanced across at the friar. Athelstan, looking up from his own thoughts about his church, realised Sir John's good humour had returned and now they would concentrate on the matter in hand.

'Was the Chief Justice right?'

'About what?' Athelstan asked.

'About you and your brother?'

Athelstan made a face.

'To a certain extent he spoke the truth, but I do not think the Chief Justice was concerned with that. More with the malicious desire to hurt.'

Cranston nodded and looked away. Now, he did not like priests. He did not like monks. He certainly did not like friars, but Athelstan was different. He looked at the friar's dark face, the black hair cut neatly in a tonsure. More like a soldier, he thought, than a monk. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his throat; every man had his secrets, and Cranston had his own.

'This matter,' he said. 'Springall's death. Do you think there is a mystery?'

Athelstan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

'There is something strange,' he muttered. 'A merchant is murdered by his servant who then commits suicide. A very neat death, orderly. All the ends tied up like a parcel, a package, a gift for Twelfth Night. Surely two mysteries? The first one is the neatness of the deaths, the second my Lord of Gaunt's interest in them. Yes, Sir John, I think there is a mystery but only the good Lord knows whether we will solve it!'

'There is more, isn't there?' Cranston said, pleased to have confirmation of his own thoughts.

'Oh, yes,' Athelstan replied, sitting up and stretching. 'Gaunt seems frightened that Springall has died, as if the death poses a personal threat. It must be so otherwise why would he get the Chief Justice of the Courts to interview us? To impress upon us the importance of the task? To test our loyalty and give us a special commission?'

He got up. 'If you are refreshed, Sir John, perhaps it is time we found out.'

Cranston rose, picked up his cloak and threw it across his arm. He adjusted his great sword belt round his girth. From it hung a long thin Welsh dagger shoved into a battered leather sheath and the broadest sword Athelstan had ever seen. Once again he tightened his lips to hide his smile. Cranston waddled through the tavern, shouting goodbye to the landlord and his wife who were busy amongst the barrels at the far end of the room. The coroner's good spirits were restored and Athelstan braced himself for an exciting day.

They walked back up Cheapside. It was now early afternoon and the traders were busy.

'A fine hat for the French block!' one called. 'Pins! Points! Garters! Spanish gloves! Silk ribbons!' shouted] another.

'Come,' a woman cackled from a doorway, 'have your ruffs starched, fine cobweb lawn!'

The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning's trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes; were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in: from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber's shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.

'You know the house, Sir John?'

Cranston nodded and pointed. 'It is there, the Springall mansion.'

Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. 'Sir John, wait awhile.' He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.

'What is it, Monk?'

'I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.'

Cranston beamed. 'I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?'

'Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.'

The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.

'Nothing much,' he muttered, reading them quickly. 'They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.' He looked sharply at Athelstan. 'I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?'

The friar shrugged.

'You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.*

Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.

'Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!'

The house was a fine building, very similar to that of Lord Fortescue, though today great black banners of costliest lawn hung from the upstairs windows and the broad shield of the goldsmith above the main door was hidden under black damask. An old manservant, dressed like death itself, answered the door; his face was soaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.

'Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,' the friar quietly announced.

The fellow nodded and led them down a dark passageway into the great banqueting hall, also hung in black. As they crossed the black and white chess-board floor, Athelstan felt he was entering the valley of shadows. Black cloths hid the tapestries and paintings on the walls. The air seemed thick and heavy, not due to the heat and the closeness of the day but to something else which prickled the hair at the back of his neck and made him shiver. Cranston, however, lumbered along, his bleary eyes fixed on a group sitting round the table on the dais at the end of the hall. In the centre a great silver salt cellar winked like a beacon light in the glow of the glittering candles. The small oriel window above the table let in some brightness but Athelstan could not make out the figures clearly. They seemed concealed in the shadows, talking quietly. All conversation ceased as they stared at Cranston's huge form stumbling towards them.

'Can I help you?'

Cranston stopped abruptly, almost colliding with Athelstan as they turned to look at the speaker. A young woman who had been sitting in the window embrasure inside the hall got up and came forward.