The Anger of God

provisioned the fleet and controlled Parliament. He sensed they were shocked by Mountjoy’s death but quietly pleased to see the demise of a powerful rival, for Mountjoy, a merchant in his own right, had been as power-hungry as any of them. The Regent, however, a man of marble face and steely heart, was fighting hard to curb fury, for his attempt to control these powerful merchants had been rudely checked by Mountjoy’s death.
    ‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘Sir John, you are the King’s Coroner in the city. Sir Gerard has been murdered and foully so. We know who did it, so get rid of those dogs!’
    ‘Oh?’ Sir John smiled wryly. ‘You have caught the assassin red-handed?’
    ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Goodman snarled. ‘Look at the arbour. On two sides is the garden fence, the far side is the wall of the Guildhall and the fourth is protected by the pentice.’
    Cranston and Athelstan stared at the long narrow lean-to structure built against the buttress of the Guildhall; roofed with old shingles, this covered passageway connected the kitchens to the Guildhall proper.
    ‘How could anyone,’ Goodman continued slowly, as if Cranston and Athelstan were dim-witted, ‘enter that garden, stab Sir Gerard and walk quietly away without being torn to pieces by those dogs?’
    ‘What My Lord Mayor is saying,’ Clifford spoke up, ‘is that the two dogs were Sir Gerard’s constant companions. Mountjoy was a bachelor. They were his wife, children, family and kinsfolk. The only man who could approach the Sheriff without disturbing the dogs is his retainer and steward, Philip Boscombe.’
    Cranston nodded and looked back at the arbour.
    ‘Sir Gerard,’ Clifford continued, ‘was always fearful of assassination. No one here — no official, no alderman, no burgess — could approach him unless the Sheriff had instructed his dogs to be friendly. Boscombe was the only exception. It must have been him. Servants didn’t even hear the dogs bark.’
    Cranston walked back. Standing well out of harm’s way, he peered into that blood-soaked arbour. The two great hounds lay at their master’s feet, now and again looking up as if expecting him to waken and call them. They could sense something was wrong and the smell of blood only made them more aggressive; they turned and growled towards the gate.
    ‘Clifford must be right,’ Athelstan whispered, coming up beside Cranston . ‘The knife couldn’t be thrown. There’s no vantage point for that. And see how deeply it’s embedded, Sir John.’
    Cranston agreed. ‘Where is Boscombe now?’ he asked.
    ‘Protesting his innocence,’ Goodman replied, in the dungeons beneath the Guildhall. Sir John, we are waiting! Are you fearful of the dogs?’
    ‘Bring me two hunks of red meat!’ Cranston shouted back. He enjoyed keeping these pompous men waiting. ‘And a pannikin of water!’
    Goodman went into the Guildhall and they stood waiting, listening to his shouted orders. In a short while a servant appeared, bearing a trencher with two bloody steaks and a pannikin of water. He thrust these into Cranston ’s hands, looked fearfully at the arbour and ran back into the Guildhall.
    ‘Stay where you are!’ the Coroner commanded. ‘John Cranston fears no one. And those dogs are too noble to be killed.’ He walked to the gate and started talking quietly, greeted by the snarling of the dogs. They raised their huge paws and lifted themselves up, their great shaggy heads well above the gate. Cranston stepped back and kept talking softly to them. The dogs continued to bark raucously but then grew silent. They lay down at the gate, looking up at this soft-spoken man holding the delicious-smelling meat and pannikin of water. Athelstan drew closer. Sir John was whispering to the great beasts as if they were old friends.
    ‘You see, Brother,’ he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘no being, except a human, can ignore kindness.’
    He carefully opened the gate. The two great hounds stood still, tails wagging. Cranston whistled softly through his teeth and, taking the meat and water, led both dogs out into the garden. He put the meat down. Whilst the dogs wolfed it, they let Cranston gently stroke their huge heads and fondle their ears.
    ‘Good lads!’ he whispered. ‘Be good lads for old Jack!’
    One of the dogs even stopped eating to nuzzle him. Cranston walked back into the arbour. The dogs stirred.
    ‘Sit!’
    The two hounds obeyed and Cranston , followed by a