Murder most holy

disappeared when she caught sight of Athelstan. They all looked subdued, rather frightened, and the friar was pleased that tomorrow he would settle the matter of the mysterious skeleton once and for all.
    They crossed the crowded, noisy bridge, Cranston using his authority to force a way through, up Bridge Street , Gracechurch, past the richly painted houses of the bankers in Lombard Street and into the Poultry. The air here was thick with feathers and the smell of birds being gutted, the flesh doused in water, the giblets burnt or roasted on great open fires. Even Cranston had to stop drinking and cover his nose. They entered the Mercery where richer, more ostentatious stalls and booths stood, their owners dressed in sober, costly gowns and shirts, leggings and boots. At last they were into Westchepe. Cranston looked longingly at the Holy Lamb of God tavern but Athelstan was determined to get the business done and return to Southwark; he wished to concentrate on an idea which had occurred to him in Benedicta’s house.
    They tied their horses at the rail outside St Peter’s and entered the musty darkness of the church. A group of nervous-looking men, marshalled by a beadle, stood round a table at the entrance to the nave on which lay a body covered by brown, dirt-stained canvas sheeting. They shuffled their feet and whispered nervously amongst themselves as Sir John made his grand entrance.
    ‘You’re late!’ the red, fat-faced beadle squeaked.
    ‘Sod off!’ Cranston roared. ‘I am the King’s Justice and my time is the King’s! Now, what do we have here?’
    The frightened beadle pulled back the leather sheet. Cranston made a face. Athelstan wrinkled his nose at the sour smell from the corpse of an old man lying on the table, a terrible gaping wound in the crown of his head, blood caked thick and black in the grey-white hair.
    ‘His name’s John Bridport,’ the beadle announced. ‘He was passing a house situated between Honey Lane and Milk Street .’ The beadle pointed to a frightened-looking man. ‘This is William de Chabham. He had a plank of wood projecting from his workshop on the top floor of his house. He’s a saddler by trade and dried his leather work on the said plank.’ The beadle looked nervously at Cranston . ‘To cut a long story short, Sir John, the plank became overloaded, slipped, fell, and smashed Bridport’s head.’
    ‘It was an accident!’ the white-faced saddler pleaded. ‘Where’s the plank?’ Sir John asked.
    The beadle pointed at a huge, thick wedge of wood lying beneath the death table. Athelstan, who was using the top of the baptismal font as a desk, carefully summarised the details on a piece of parchment which he would later hand to Sir John.
    ‘Brother Athelstan,’ Cranston clicked his fingers, ‘would you examine both the victim and the plank?’
    Athelstan, cursing under his breath, ordered the plank to be pulled out. He examined both this and the head of the corpse carefully.
    ‘Well?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘My Lord Coroner, it appears that John Bridport died in the way described.’
    Sir John grasped his cloak between his hands, and drew himself up to his full height.
    ‘Saddler! Did you have authority or licence to have the plank projecting from the window?’
    ‘No, My Lord Coroner.’
    ‘Did you know your victim?’
    ‘No, My Lord Coroner.’
    ‘Master beadle, is William de Chabham a man of good repute?’
    ‘Yes, Sir John, and he has brought these others who will stand guarantor for his good behaviour.’
    Cranston scratched his chin. ‘Then this is my judgement. This is no murder or unlawful slaying but an unfortunate accident. You, master saddler, will pay a fine of ten shillings to the Court of Common Pleas. You will take an oath never to use such a plank again and pay whatever other compensation is necessary.’
    The saddler winced, though he looked relieved.
    ‘And the plank, Sir John?’
    ‘That is to be fined five shillings and burnt by the common hangman.’ Cranston stared down at the corpse. ‘Does Bridport have any relatives?’
    ‘No, Sir John. He lived alone in a tenement off the corner of Ivy Lane .’
    ‘Then his goods are to be seized.’ Cranston smiled falsely at the beadle. ‘Bridport is to be given honourable burial at the parish’s expense. You have that, Brother Athelstan?’
    ‘Yes, My Lord Coroner.’
    ‘Good!’ he trumpeted. ‘Then this business is done!’ Athelstan handed over the transcript of the inquest