Murder most holy

and in his last dying seconds, like the born archer he is,’ Cranston turned, revelling in the ripple of applause which greeted his conclusion, ‘the archer shoots. His companion is killed, and the archer staggers off the bed to die beside him.’
    Cranston turned, bowed to the king, and a wave of loud applause broke out, the courtiers now clapping vigorously and stamping the floor with their feet. Cremona leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. Gaunt, chin in hand, stared down the hall, but the young king was so excited he could hardly keep still. His hand fluttered above the white scroll on the scarlet cushion. Cremona stood up.
    ‘Sir John, how could a bed contain such a poison?’
    The coroner shrugged. ‘My Lord, that was not the question. However, there are poisons, potions, powders strong enough to kill a man if he breathes them in.’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘What I say is true. Any of the toxic poisons — digitalis, belladonna or arsenic — if ground into fine dust, will be just as lethal. The only problem lies in collecting sufficient. I suspect the mattress of that bed was stuffed with a fortune in poisons.’
    Cranston ’s words were greeted by a chorus of approval. The Italian nobleman picked up the scroll and handed it to the king.
    ‘Your Grace, you may open that, though there is little need. Sir John has won his wager.’ Cremona suddenly leaned forward. ‘My Lord, your hand.’
    Athelstan watched as Cremona , followed by Gaunt, the king and their courtiers, shook Sir John’s hand. After the hubbub died down the sealed scroll was opened and Gaunt read out a solution almost chillingly identical in words to that given by Cranston .
    ‘Sir John!’ Cremona shouted above the din. ‘The thousand crowns! They will be delivered on Monday. I wish you well.’
    The Italian lord, putting a brave face on his disappointment, swept out of the hall. Gaunt, after a few more congratulatory words, followed suit and the other courtiers drifted away. The young king, however, remained and gestured at Cranston to bend down so he could whisper in his ear. The joy on Cranston ’s face disappeared. He just nodded and looked sad as young Richard left the hall. Athelstan, who had deliberately kept at a distance, now rose and looped his arm through that of Cranston ’s.
    ‘Congratulations, Sir John!’
    Cranston looked slyly at him. ‘Don’t be sardonic, Brother. We both know who resolved the mystery.’
    ‘No, no.’ Athelstan squeezed the coroner’s arm. ‘Sir John, you were magnificent.’
    ‘The thousand crowns are yours.’
    Athelstan stepped away. ‘Sir John, why do I need a thousand crowns?’
    The coroner pulled a face. ‘There’s the poor.’
    ‘The poor will always be with us, Sir John. After all, you are not a wealthy man.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Your fees are small. You never take a bribe. Your wealth is Lady Maude’s dowry, isn’t it?’
    Cranston just shook his head and looked away.
    ‘Listen, My Lord Coroner.’ Athelstan guided him out of the hall. ‘Give a hundred crowns to the poor, buy Lady Maude whatever she wants and a new robe for yourself, and invest the rest with the bankers in Lombard Street . Don’t forget, there are the two poppets. As they grow older they’ll need education. The halls of Oxford and Cambridge await them.’
    ‘Sod off, Athelstan!’ Cranston roared. ‘My two sons are going to become Dominicans!’
    Athelstan burst out laughing and they made their way out through the gardens down to the riverside.
    The good-natured banter continued as the boatmen ferried them along the choppy waters of the Thames to the Eastgate Wharf just where the Fleet disgorged its filth into the Thames . As they clambered out of the boat and paid the oarsman they had to cover their mouths and nostrils against the stench. Even in the gathering darkness Athelstan glimpsed the bloated bodies of dogs and cats as well as the human excrement and filth which covered the surface of the river with a thick greasy sludge.
    ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston whispered. ‘In my treatise on the governance of the city, I will put an end to that.’
    ‘How, Sir John?’
    Cranston pointed along Thames Street . ‘I have studied the ancient maps, Brother. Do you know the Romans built sewers in the city, cleansed by underwater streams? I can’t see why we don’t do the same.’
    Arguing over the finer points of Sir John’s treatise, they made their way up Knightrider Street, turning