Murder most holy

in which each man died whilst giving the astonished coroner a lucid description of why the deaths had occurred.
    ‘It can’t be!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It’s impossible!’
    ‘Sir John, it’s the only explanation. And this time, using you as a possible victim, I shall prove it to you.’
    An hour later Cranston had grudgingly to agree that Athelstan’s conclusion was the only acceptable one.
    ‘I hope it is,’ he remarked cheerily. ‘For before God, Sir John, it’s the only answer I can think of.’
    ‘What happens if you are wrong?’ Cranston muttered. ‘What happens if there is something we have forgotten? What then, eh? Where do I get the money to pay My Lord of Cremona?’
    Athelstan put his face in his hands. He loved Cranston as a brother but sometimes the coroner reminded him of a petulant child. Nevertheless, Sir John was right. This was no simple mind game, one of those riddles loved by the philosophers of Oxford or Cambridge . Cranston ’s reputation, his standing as a principal law officer, was at stake. The friar got up.
    ‘I can’t answer that, Sir John. I need to see Father Prior. I must tell him that we intend to leave tomorrow and will not return till Sunday.’ He patted Sir John on the shoulder. ‘Get some sleep. You will need your wits about you tomorrow.’
    Of course, when Athelstan returned two hours later, Cranston was still up, cradling the miraculous wineskin in his arms as if it was one of the poppets.
    ‘You were a long time,’ he slurred.
    ‘I had to speak to Father Prior about some other business.’
    ‘What’s that in your hand?’ Cranston pointed to the small roll of parchment Athelstan was pushing into his saddle bag.
    ‘Nothing, Sir John.’
    Cranston let out a sigh. ‘You’re a secretive bugger, Athelstan, but I am too tired.’
    Cranston shook off his clothes and fell with such a crash on to the bed, Athelstan considered it a miracle that both he and it did not go straight through the floor. The good coroner was snoring within minutes. Athelstan said his prayers, not so much the Divine Office of the church as a plea that the solution he proposed to Cranston ’s puzzle was the correct one.
    They spent the next day rehearsing the conclusion they had reached. Cranston sent Brother Norbert to his house in Cheapside to see if the messenger had returned from Oxford as well as to convey his felicitations to the Lady Maude and the two poppets. Norbert returned full of praise for the gracious Lady Maude and admiration for Cranston ’s bouncing, baby boys. But, no, he declared, no messenger had arrived.
    Cranston and Athelstan left the monastery of Blackfriars early in the evening. The coroner wished to refresh himself in one of the riverside taverns, then they hired a wherry to take them upriver to John of Gaunt’s palace. Even as the barge pulled in from mid-stream, they could see Gaunt’s household was waiting for them. The news of Cranston ’s wager had apparently spread throughout the court. Silk-garbed barges were already pulling into the private quayside where retainers, wearing the livery of Gaunt, stood waiting with lighted torches. Above them the banners bearing the royal arms of England , France , Castile and Leon snapped in the breeze from the river.
    As Cranston and Athelstan arrived, a chamberlain bearing a white, gold-tipped wand of office and dressed resplendently in cloth-of-gold, greeted them and led them through the throng along lighted passageways into the Great Hall, splendidly prepared for the occasion. On the black and white marble floor benches had been arranged, covered in soft testers for spectators to sit on; the walls were hung with vivid, resplendent tapestries. Just in front of these, men-at-arms dressed in silver half-armour stood discreetly, their swords drawn. On the dais the huge oaken table glowed in the light of hundreds of beeswax candles so that the far end of the room was almost as bright as it would be on a glorious summer’s day.
    The chamberlain took them on to the dais and ushered them to chairs grouped behind the table in a broad semicircle.
    ‘You are to wait here,’ he announced. ‘His Grace the Duke of Lancaster and other members of the court are dining alone.’ Cranston caught the snub implicit in the man’s words. ‘What’s your name, fellow?’
    ‘Simon, Sir John. Simon de Bellamonte.’
    ‘Then, Simon,’ Cranston answered sweetly, ‘while we wait we are not here to be stared at. You will keep the