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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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men-at-arms, hobelars, archers, all wearing the same livery and sporting the same device: a green dragon or a red lion rampant.’
‘Aye, I remember them.’ Athelstan threw the rings back on the bed. ‘Colourful banners and warlike pennants. In reality just an excuse for a group of men to seize as much plunder as they could lay their hands on.’
Cranston went back to his searches. ‘And, last but not least, Brother,’ he declared, going across to a small table which stood underneath a large black crucifix, ‘I asked Banyard where these Were.’
We came back carrying arrowheads, candles and small scraps of Parchment. Athelstan examined these, then studied the dirty scraps of parchment with the word, ‘Remember’ scrawled across.
‘Each of the victims had these,’ Cranston explained. ‘But what do they signify?’ He shook his head. ‘And why were those red crosses carved on the dead men’s faces?’
Athelstan went and stood by the open window and stare out, watching Christina: a gaggle of noisy ducks had gathered round her, waddling from the pond which lay near the tavern wall.
‘It signifies, my lord Coroner,’ he said, ‘that no sin, no evil act, ever disappears like a puff of smoke: it always comes bad to haunt you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk!’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘You talk like a prophet of doom, friar,’ Cranston snapped.
‘Then perhaps I am one. Here we have two knights from the king’s shire of Shrewsbury going about their lawful — or unlawful — business, whichever way you wish to describe it. They come to London to preach and lecture in the Commons. Like any men away from their kith and kin, they want to enjoy themselves in the fleshpots of the city: good food, strong wine, soft women. But then two of them are murdered. The first’ leaves a banquet in a highly agitated state, his body is later fished from the Thames. When his corpse is laid out and his companion comes in to pray, an assassin, masquerading as a priest, garrottes him whilst chanting certain verses from the Death Mass. Now, I suggest poor Bouchon was agitated because he received those signs: an arrowhead, a candle and a script, telling him to “remember”. Swynford received the same.’ Athelstan glanced across at the coroner. ‘You follow my line of thought, Sir John?’
Cranston leaned his bulk against the edge of the table and stared at his secretarius thoughtfully.
‘It means, first, they were probably killed by the same assassin who holds a grudge against both of them,’ Athelstan explained. ‘And, whatever that may be, the arrowhead, the candle and the scraps of parchment are warning signs of their deaths. The red crosses carved on their faces by this assassin, masquerading as a priest, are also part of the grudge.’
Sir John cradled his wineskin like a mother would a baby. ‘It also means, my good friar,’ he declared, ‘that our assassin is a careful plotter. He waited for this opportunity and executed both men with the subtlest form of trickery.’ He paused. ‘But what then, friar?’
‘Well, our noble regent is frightened that he will take the blame; though he must take a quiet satisfaction in the fact that two of his critics have been permanently silenced. Secondly, when Sir Oliver left the tavern, none of his companions followed him though, there again...’ Athelstan turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. ‘... Sir Oliver may have been lured by anyone to some secret assignation where he was killed. Sir Henry’s death is more mysterious. His companions were in the tavern, yet this assassin turns up, disguised as a priest, and that begs two questions. Who knew a priest had been sent for? What would have happened if the false priest had turned up at the same time as Father Gregory?’
‘That’s no great mystery,’ Cranston replied. ‘Remember what Christina said: the tavern was very busy. The arrival of a Priest would cause no consternation. If Father
‘Aye, I remember them.’ Athelstan threw the rings back on the bed. ‘Colourful banners and warlike pennants. In reality just an excuse for a group of men to seize as much plunder as they could lay their hands on.’
Cranston went back to his searches. ‘And, last but not least, Brother,’ he declared, going across to a small table which stood underneath a large black crucifix, ‘I asked Banyard where these Were.’
We came back carrying arrowheads, candles and small scraps of Parchment. Athelstan examined these, then studied the dirty scraps of parchment with the word, ‘Remember’ scrawled across.
‘Each of the victims had these,’ Cranston explained. ‘But what do they signify?’ He shook his head. ‘And why were those red crosses carved on the dead men’s faces?’
Athelstan went and stood by the open window and stare out, watching Christina: a gaggle of noisy ducks had gathered round her, waddling from the pond which lay near the tavern wall.
‘It signifies, my lord Coroner,’ he said, ‘that no sin, no evil act, ever disappears like a puff of smoke: it always comes bad to haunt you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, monk!’
‘Friar, Sir John!’
‘You talk like a prophet of doom, friar,’ Cranston snapped.
‘Then perhaps I am one. Here we have two knights from the king’s shire of Shrewsbury going about their lawful — or unlawful — business, whichever way you wish to describe it. They come to London to preach and lecture in the Commons. Like any men away from their kith and kin, they want to enjoy themselves in the fleshpots of the city: good food, strong wine, soft women. But then two of them are murdered. The first’ leaves a banquet in a highly agitated state, his body is later fished from the Thames. When his corpse is laid out and his companion comes in to pray, an assassin, masquerading as a priest, garrottes him whilst chanting certain verses from the Death Mass. Now, I suggest poor Bouchon was agitated because he received those signs: an arrowhead, a candle and a script, telling him to “remember”. Swynford received the same.’ Athelstan glanced across at the coroner. ‘You follow my line of thought, Sir John?’
Cranston leaned his bulk against the edge of the table and stared at his secretarius thoughtfully.
‘It means, first, they were probably killed by the same assassin who holds a grudge against both of them,’ Athelstan explained. ‘And, whatever that may be, the arrowhead, the candle and the scraps of parchment are warning signs of their deaths. The red crosses carved on their faces by this assassin, masquerading as a priest, are also part of the grudge.’
Sir John cradled his wineskin like a mother would a baby. ‘It also means, my good friar,’ he declared, ‘that our assassin is a careful plotter. He waited for this opportunity and executed both men with the subtlest form of trickery.’ He paused. ‘But what then, friar?’
‘Well, our noble regent is frightened that he will take the blame; though he must take a quiet satisfaction in the fact that two of his critics have been permanently silenced. Secondly, when Sir Oliver left the tavern, none of his companions followed him though, there again...’ Athelstan turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. ‘... Sir Oliver may have been lured by anyone to some secret assignation where he was killed. Sir Henry’s death is more mysterious. His companions were in the tavern, yet this assassin turns up, disguised as a priest, and that begs two questions. Who knew a priest had been sent for? What would have happened if the false priest had turned up at the same time as Father Gregory?’
‘That’s no great mystery,’ Cranston replied. ‘Remember what Christina said: the tavern was very busy. The arrival of a Priest would cause no consternation. If Father
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