Murder most holy

poisoned.’
    ‘How?’ Cremona asked.
    ‘My Lord, the killer was the bed.’
    Athelstan caught the look of surprise on the Italian’s face. Cranston was hunting along the right track.
    ‘Explain! Explain!’ Richard cried.
    Gaunt had his hand up to his mouth, his head slightly turned sideways. The rest of the people in the hall were deathly silent, the supercilious smiles fast disappearing. Athelstan gazed round. Even the knight bannerets, the men-at-arms in their royal livery, were now staring at Cranston . The Dominican realised that he had become so involved in the business of Blackfriars and at St Erconwald’s, he had failed to comprehend the deep interest in the wager Cranston had accepted. Now, at last, he fully understood Lady Maude’s concern, not just about Cranston’s losing a thousand crowns but, far more precious, his reputation; risking the fate of dismissal as a kind of court jester rather than being recognised and respected as the King’s Coroner in the City of London.
    Cranston stood, legs apart, thumbs stuck in his belt, revelling in the expectant silence.
    ‘Sir John,’ snapped Gaunt, ‘how can a bed be a killer?’
    ‘Many a man has died in bed, My Lord.’
    ‘We await your explanation,’ came the caustic reply.
    Cranston walked to the table, picked up his goblet of wine and slurped from it noisily.
    ‘That bed,’ he began, turning to address the hall, ‘was different from any other. Now a bolster or mattress is stuffed with straw — at least for the poor. For the rich, swans’ feathers.’ Cranston suddenly walked back to the dais and picked up his cloak which he had slung on the floor. He rolled it into a bundle. ‘If I hit my cloak, dust arises. See — a common occurrence. In springtime the good burgesses of London take their carpets and hangings out to dust them vigorously. You, sir,’ Cranston pointed to a soldier, ‘take your sword.’ Cranston grinned at Gaunt. ‘With my Lord’s permission, hit the arras behind you as vigorously as you can with the flat of your sword.’
    The soldier, his hand on the sword hilt, looked askance at Gaunt.
    ‘Tell him, Uncle,’ the king ordered.
    Gaunt made a supercilious sign with his fingers. Athelstan watched, for Cranston had chosen a soldier and an arras which could be seen by all, brightly illumined by the sconce torches on the wall and the dozens of tall candles down the tables. The soldier hit the arras.
    ‘Harder, man!’ Cranston bellowed.
    The soldier happily obliged and, even from where he sat, Athelstan could see puffs of dust moving across the hall.
    ‘Now,’ Cranston continued, ‘the bed in the scarlet chamber was similar. It was packed with some poisonous dust. Anyone who stood in the room was safe.’ Cranston grinned and spread his hands. ‘But we all know what happens in bed, even when you are alone.’
    Faint laughter greeted his words.
    ‘The first victim lay on the bed tossing and turning, unaware at first of the dust clogging his nostrils and mouth. Finally he realised something was wrong, that he was dying and went to open the window. But of course the chamber hadn’t been used for years. The latch and handles were stiff and the young man died where he stood.’ Cranston turned and looked at the Italian. The nobleman just gazed back, open-mouthed, a look of resignation in his dark eyes.
    ‘And the priest?’ Gaunt asked.
    ‘Well, My Lord, just think of it. He comes up to the chamber. He does what he has to but he is tired and cold. He has just walked through drifts of deep snow. So what does he do?’
    ‘Lies on the bed! Lies on the bed!’ the young king shouted. Cranston sketched a bow. ‘Your Grace, you are most perceptive. He, too, lies there, forcing the toxin out. He wakes, he even makes the situation worse by thrashing about. He climbs off the bed, collapses, and dies on the floor.’
    ‘And the two soldiers?’ Cremona spoke up despairingly. ‘Remember, Sir John, only one of them lay on the bed.’ Cranston spread his hands. ‘My Lord, you did say that the archer lay on the bed, the bolt in his crossbow, yes?’
    The Italian nodded.
    ‘He was a skilled bowman?’
    Again Cremona nodded. Cranston turned to the rest of the guests.
    ‘Imagine, therefore, the scene. In the middle of the night this expert bowman, this veteran soldier, awakes, choking to death. He makes a sound, rouses his companion, but the archer is dying. He cannot understand why he cannot breathe. He sees a dark shape move