Murder most holy

a mixture of salt, paint, potash and pig’s blood.’
    ‘They are so real.’
    ‘Brother, look at their bodies. Plump, well-fed — they are not starving children. They probably eat better than I do.’
    ‘That,’ Athelstan muttered to himself, ‘would be a miracle!’ He shook his head at the sheer guile of the beggars as he followed Sir John down another alleyway. ‘Are we there yet?’
    Cranston stopped and pointed up to a dirty sign which swung lazily from the ale-stake thrusting out under the eaves of a tall, three-storeyed tavern. Cranston kicked the door open and they walked into the musty darkness where only a few oil lamps flickered. The few windows were high in the wall and firmly shuttered. The hum of conversation died. Athelstan felt a prickle of fear seeing the raw-faced, mean-eyed, pinched features of the men who sat there; two were asleep, the rest were huddled in small groups, either drinking or playing dice.
    ‘Hell’s kitchen!’ Cranston muttered.
    He drew his sword and dagger as a man rose from the table near the door. Athelstan caught the glint of a knife in the fellow’s hand.
    ‘How now, me buckos!’ Cranston grandly announced. ‘Some of you may know me. If not, I am sure I will make your acquaintance sooner or later. I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City, law officer of the King. This is my clerk, my secretarius, Brother Athelstan, late of Blackfriars.’ He shot out one podgy hand at the rat-faced man carrying the dagger. ‘You, my lad, will sit down and shut up!’
    The fellow did so slowly.
    ‘What do you fucking want, Cranston ?’ someone shouted.
    He held up his sword by the hilt. ‘I swear I mean you no ill, though I could return with a few serjeants and see what this pretty place contains.’
    The greasy-faced taverner, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth, scuttled out of the darkness, bobbing and servile.
    ‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’
    Cranston gripped him by the shoulder. ‘No, I’m not, you fat bastard! I want to speak to one person, just speak, and I know he’s here so don’t lie. A man who calls himself Master William Fitzwolfe, late of the parish of St Erconwald’s.’
    A deathly silence greeted his words.
    ‘Ah, well, if you want it that way...’ Cranston half-turned to the door.
    Athelstan heard a few whispers and a man walked out of the darkness.
    ‘I am Fitzwolfe, Sir John. I have committed no crimes.’
    Cranston beckoned him closer. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my lad, but we won’t go into that now. All we need is a few minutes of your time.’
    The fellow stepped into the light and Athelstan gazed in revulsion. At first sight the man looked respectable. He had dark shoulder-length hair and was clean-shaven while his hands and face were soft and white. But he had a mocking sneer on his twisted lips, and his eyes were cold, dead and calculating. He was dressed completely in black leather from head to toe. Athelstan glimpsed the dagger pushed into the top of his boot and the large stabbing knife strapped to his side. It had been a long time since Athelstan had met anyone who gave off such a feeling of menacing evil. Fitzwolfe glanced at him, his lips parting in what he considered a smile.
    ‘You must be Athelstan, the new priest at St Erconwald’s. How are my beloved parishioners? Six years is a long time. Does Watkin the dung-collector try to tell you what to do as he did me?’ He stuck his thumbs into his sword belt. ‘And Cecily the courtesan? Lovely buttocks, but she was so noisy whilst making love.’
    Athelstan stepped forward. ‘You are a thief, Fitzwolfe!’
    The defrocked priest spread his hands. ‘Where’s your proof? I left St Erconwald’s. The parishioners looted the church.’
    Athelstan drew a deep breath trying to calm the rage seething within him.
    ‘Come on!’ Cranston said abruptly. ‘Master taverner, you have a room at the back? A buttery, a kitchen? I’ll talk to our friend there.’
    The taverner took them into a dirty room with a smoky fire: dirty trenchers and platters littered a grease-covered table on which two scullions were trying to wash up, dipping the pots and pans into a vat of scum-covered water.
    Cranston clicked his fingers. ‘All of you out, including you, master taverner.’ He pushed the landlord and his servants back through the door, closed it and leaned against it. He nodded across the kitchen. ‘Open that door, Athelstan, just in case we have to leave in a hurry, and stand there lest Master