Murder most holy

corner of Carter Lane . He looked up at the sky and idly thought it would be a fine night for studying the stars. A slight breeze sprang up, wafting the stench from the Shambles around Newgate. Should he go on? he wondered. Then he heard it: the slither of leather on the dirty cobblestones and a gentle, scraping, hissing sound.
    ‘Who is...?’ He broke off as he recalled the sound. He had heard that noise before whenever Cranston drew his stabbing dagger from its leather sheath. Athelstan needed no second urging. He turned Philomel round, kicking with all his might. Usually the old war horse would balk into an ambling trot. Athelstan, not the best of horsemen, urged him on, lashing his withers with the reins. He heard footsteps behind him. One or was it two sets of footsteps.
    ‘Au secours! Aidez moi!’ Athelstan gave the usual cry of someone being attacked on the streets. Yelling at Philomel and shouting the alarm, he charged back towards the main gate of Blackfriars. The footsteps stopped. He heard a muted shout, a click, and he ducked — but the crossbow bolt whirred well above his head. Lights appeared in the windows of the houses and, thanks be to God, the porter already had the gate open. Athelstan dismounted and pushed the old war horse through.
    ‘Bolt the gate!’ he ordered.
    The porter slammed it shut. Athelstan released Philomel’s reins and, as the old war horse charged like an arrow into the nearby garden to eat the delicious flowers, Athelstan crouched, arms across his stomach, trying to calm the panic within him.
    ‘Is there anything wrong, Brother?’
    Athelstan looked at the lean face of the porter and got wearily to his feet.
    ‘No, no, just forget it.’
    Athelstan took a protesting Philomel back to the stables, unsaddled him, made him comfortable for the night and returned to the guest house. He walked warily as if experiencing one of his nightmares. He realised the ambush out in the street had been planned by someone here at Blackfriars. He checked the guest house carefully, even to the jug of wine in the kitchen, bolted the door, made the shutters secure, and went up for an uneasy night’s sleep.
    He rose and left Blackfriars early next morning. The attack of the previous evening had aroused the constant, underlying fear in him. Their investigations had implicated someone powerful or vicious enough to hire felons or footpads who would take their lives at the blink of an eyelid, and for a sum much less than thirty pieces of silver.
    The sun had not yet risen as he turned into Thames Street and rode down the Vintry and Ropery into Bridge Street . He guided a still protesting Philomel away from the houses, keeping a watchful eye on the darkened doorways and alleyways, especially those leading down from the slums along the banks of the Thames . The wine merchants and cordwainers were still fast asleep, the street deserted except for carts piled high with produce making their way up to the markets. A yawning beadle, resting half-asleep on his staff of office, wished him good morning. A group of whores, their red heads covered by cloaks, slipped back to their tenements in Cock Lane, Smithfield. A pig, crushed by one of the carts, screeched its death agony until a householder, knife in hand, sped from the doorway, cut the animal’s throat and, with a sly wink at Athelstan, dragged the blood-gushing corpse into his house.
    ‘They’ll eat well,’ Athelstan murmured.
    Philomel snorted, tossing his head at the smell of blood.
    At the bridge, the city watch still guarded the entrance. There was no sign of Cranston so Athelstan retraced his steps up to Pountney Inn halfway between the Ropery and Candlewick Street , one of the few taverns licensed to remain open before the bells of St Mary Le Bow gave the signal for the start of day. He ordered watered beer and a meat pie and became involved in an angry altercation with the taverner when he cut it open to find two dead wasps inside. Athelstan, still weary and agitated after the attack of the previous evening, finally gave up in disgust. He stalked out of the tavern, collected Philomel and walked back to Bridge Street where he stood watching the traffic pass on to the bridge. The morning was clear, mist free, and the gulls and other birds hunting along the mud flats rose, soared and dipped, filling the air with their screams.
    ‘Are you a vagrant?’
    Athelstan jumped at the touch of a heavy hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Cranston ’s