Murder most holy

too felt most unsteady on his feet. They both staggered across Cheapside, Cranston ignoring Athelstan’s warnings to be quiet and continuing his description of the young lady’s legs. Two beadles ran up, but as soon as they recognised Sir John, turned on their heels and fled.
    Lady Maude was waiting for them.
    ‘Oh, Sir John!’ she wailed. ‘What is this?’
    She helped her husband through the door, Sir John leering and blowing kisses at the wet nurse who stood at the foot of the stairs, each arm around one of the sleeping poppets. Cranston , now being carried by Lady Maude on one side and Athelstan on the other, staggered into the kitchen and climbed on to the table.
    ‘You see here,’ he slurred, ‘Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner of the City, terror of thieves, the fury of felons, the vindicator of causes, the resolver of mysteries!’
    Lady Maude stood with hands clasped, looking up at her husband swaying on top of the table. She glanced sharply across at Athelstan.
    ‘Brother, Sir John resolved the mystery?’
    ‘Yes, My Lady, he did. He was magnificent. He is truly the King’s Coroner. A wealthier if not a wiser man.’
    Athelstan suddenly felt the room swaying and bitterly regretted helping Cranston finish that last cup of wine. He sat down wearily as the coroner, arms still extended, beamed like a jovial Bacchus down at his wife.
    ‘You had no faith, woman!’ he roared.
    ‘Oh, Sir John,’ Lady Maude whispered, touching him gently on the knee. ‘I had every faith.’ Her face became demure. ‘As I shall bear witness later,’ she said softly.
    Sir John staggered down and pointed at Athelstan. ‘Of course, my clerk helped.’ Sir John swayed dangerously and glanced at the wet nurse. ‘Oh, my poppets!’ he murmured. ‘You would have been so proud of your pater. Lovely lads!’ he continued. ‘Lovely, lovely boys! They are going to become Dominicans, do you know that?’
    He then lay on the table and promptly fell fast asleep. Lady Maude made him as comfortable as possible, Athelstan gave the poppets a blessing, and the wet nurse, together with the other sleepy servants, was shooed out of the kitchen. Lady Maude served Athelstan a large tankard of coolest water and some onion soup whilst plying him with questions, not being satisfied until he had given her every detail of Sir John’s magnificent triumph at the Palace of Savoy . She listened, round-eyed, and then went across to the table where Sir John still lay, head back, arms and legs out, snoring like a thunderstorm. She bent down and kissed him gently on the brow.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, he drinks too much,’ she murmured. ‘But it’s the burden of high office, his responsibility for the poppets and the terrible things he sees.’
    Athelstan, who now felt a great deal more sober, smiled, rose and walked over. ‘He’s a good man, Lady Maude. He’s unique. There’s only one Cranston , thank God!’
    ‘Shouldn’t we move him?’ she asked.
    Athelstan rubbed his eyes. ‘Lady Maude, he looks comfortable. Perhaps a bolster for his head and a thick rug, for the night may grow cold.’ He pointed to the chair. ‘I shall sleep there, for my sins.’ He patted Lady Maude on the shoulder. ‘Go to bed,’ he murmured. ‘Sir John will be safe.’
    ‘You are sure, Brother?’
    ‘He sleeps the sleep of the just, Lady Maude.’
    ‘Oh, Brother!’ She stepped back, her fingers going to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. The messenger returned from Oxford . He brought a package for Sir John.’
    She scuttled out of the room to return with a small leather sack, bound and sealed at the top.
    ‘Sir John mentioned it,’ she added, handing it to Athelstan. ‘He said you would be waiting for the messenger’s return.’ Athelstan broke the seal on the neck of the sack and Lady Maude, chattering as if Cranston was fully alert, made her husband comfortable for the night.
    ‘There, there, my sweet!’ she crooned. ‘Yes, yes, the fur-lined cloak. And your boots off.’
    Athelstan looked up. Lady Maude was muttering terms of endearment she would never use to Sir John’s face. Suddenly, although he wanted to leaf through the book he now held in his hand, he felt sad and rather lonely as he watched her flutter like some butterfly around her somnolent husband. He recalled the words of Brother Paul: ‘Love is strange, Athelstan, and takes many forms. Sometimes it freezes us, other times it burns. But never be without it for there is a pain worse than