Murder most holy

left into Friday Street and into a now quiet Cheapside. The sun had set, the beacon light in St Mary Le Bow flared against the darkening sky, the stalls were removed and dogs and cats nosed amongst the rubbish. Lantern horns had been put out on their hooks beside every door and the city settled down, giving way to the dark work of London ’s nights. Already the beggars were congregating at the mouth of alleyways, keeping a wary eye on the beadles. A group of young fops, already half-drunk, swayed arm-in-arm towards the brothels and tenements of the doxies in Cock Lane .
    ‘You’ll tell the Lady Maude?’ Athelstan asked as they stopped near the steps of St Mary Le Bow.
    Cranston shook his head. ‘First things first, Brother. I have a raging thirst. To the victor the spoils and I am going to have the biggest cup of claret the Holy Lamb can boast of.’
    Athelstan stifled his protests. He had to concede that Sir John needed both reward and refreshment, and idly wondered if in the excitement the coroner had forgotten to fill the miraculous wineskin. Sir John swept into the Holy Lamb like the north wind, throwing pennies to the beggars outside. He also bought a drink for every one of the customers, pressing a coin into each servant’s hand. The landlord and his plump wife, who always seemed to cling together, were each embraced and kissed roundly on the cheeks. A space was cleared round the best table and a dish of lamb, cooked gently over charcoal and heavily spiced, was served with leeks and onions covered in a sauce drawn from the meat. Athelstan realised how hungry he was and ordered the same, but kept to watered wine while Sir John purchased the best claret in the deepest cup the Holy Lamb possessed.
    Sir John ate ravenously, wiping the pewter plate clean with chunks of the whitest, sweetest bread; he finished Athelstan’s half-emptied goblet, burped, and leaned back, eyes halfclosed.
    ‘I was magnificent,’ he murmured. ‘For an Italian, Cremona wasn’t a bad man — but did you see Gaunt’s face? He’s a cool one, that. Only once did I see the mask slip.’ Cranston tapped his stomach. ‘If looks could kill, my head would have bounced from my shoulders.’
    ‘What did King Richard say?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You know, at the end, when he whispered in your ear?’
    Cranston sat forward, his face grave. He looked round carefully for Gaunt’s spies were everywhere. ‘Have you ever studied the young king’s eyes?’ he whispered. ‘They are like flints of ice. Such a light blue they are almost colourless. I knew a physician once. He described such a stare as that of a man whose mind is disturbed.’
    Athelstan drew closer. ‘You think the young king is mad, Sir John?’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘No, no, but there’s madness in him. As he grows older, Richard could become one of the greatest kings this realm has ever seen. But in the wrong hands, given the wrong wife or evil counsel, he could be a tyrant who will brook no opposition.’ Cranston wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘But that's for the future, Brother. What he said tonight was that he, too, thought it was the bed because he had considered killing his uncle that way!’ Cranston picked up his wine cup. ‘Before God, Brother,’ he whispered, ‘I couldn’t believe it. The king just said it so coldly, as anyone else would remark on the weather or purchasing a pair of gloves. I tell you this, Athelstan, Gaunt will not give up his power easily and the young king hates him for it. I must make sure I am not drawn into the bloodbath which is to follow.’
    Athelstan refilled Cranston ’s cup. ‘Come on, Sir John, forget the politics of the court. You are richer by a thousand crowns. You have brought great honour to your name. Lady Maude awaits you, and your cup’s winking at the brim.’
    ‘Before I sink into revelry and sin,’ Cranston replied, ‘tell me, Brother, about the business at Blackfriars.’
    Athelstan ran his finger round the brim of his own cup. ‘Sir John, this case is unique. Do you realise we have no proof? Not one shred of evidence to accuse, never mind arrest, anyone. Never before have we dealt with a matter such as this. I believe that everything will stand or fall by the name Hilde-garde. Now, come, Sir John.’
    Cranston needed no second bidding and, when they lurched out of the Holy Lamb two hours later, was roaring out a pretty ditty about a young lady’s garters which Athelstan chose to ignore. He