The Anger of God

locks...’ His voice trailed off.
    ‘Who planned all this?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, the gold ingots, the chest?’
    Clifford pulled a face and looked at Goodman. ‘The idea of the chest and the gold being deposited there,’ he replied, ‘came from my Lord of Gaunt, though it was myself and Sir Gerard Mountjoy who chose Sturmey.’ He smiled. ‘The Guildmasters insisted on that.’
    ‘Because they didn’t trust me!’ Gaunt snapped. ‘I had nothing to do with the construction of the chest or the fashioning of its locks or the making of its keys. Both I and the Guildmasters decided we should best leave that to our worthy city officials here. They brought the chest and the keys direct from Sturmey’s shop this morning.’
    ‘And, before you ask,’ Lord Adam intervened, ‘never once did any of them hold all six keys together. My Lord Mayor bought three, Mountjoy the rest. The transaction was witnessed by both Fitzroy and Sudbury and the chest was carried by city bailiffs.’
    Cranston looked, narrow-eyed, into the darkness, a gesture the Coroner always used when he was deep in thought.
    ‘Sir John!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’ Cranston smacked his lips, a sure sign that, even at this very late hour, he was beginning to miss his claret.
    ‘Sturmey,’ he said. ‘The name of Sturmey means something to me. Now why is that, eh? Why should a reputable locksmith, patronized by the great and the noble, strike a chord in my old memory?’
    Athelstan grinned. Cranston ’s memory was prodigious. He knew the names and most of the faces of London ’s rogues and, even in a crowded Cheapside , could bellow out warnings to pickpockets and foists.
    ‘What does Sturmey’s name mean to you?’ Gaunt asked quickly.
    The Coroner shook his head, it will come.’ He bowed. ‘My Lord Regent, if you will excuse me and my clerk, it is imperative we call on this locksmith tonight. Where does he live?’
    ‘In Lawrence Lane , just off the Mercery,’ Clifford replied.
    ‘Then,’ Cranston grinned at Athelstan who just glared back in tired annoyance, ‘we’d best call upon master locksmith of Lawrence Lane near the Mercery and ask him a few questions, eh?’ He bowed to the Regent once more. Gaunt looked away. Cranston shrugged and walked down the church, a despondent Athelstan trailing behind.
    ‘ Cranston !’
    Sir John turned. Gaunt was now standing on the altar steps.
    ‘You know the Guildmasters will be back. Oh, they’ll be reasonable. They’ll demand their gold and their answers within a set time.’ He wagged a finger. ‘I need answers, too, my Lord Coroner, within ten days at the most.’ He left the unspoken threat hanging in the air as Cranston spun on his heel and walked out of the Guildhall chapel.

CHAPTER 5

    Once out in Cheapside Cranston stopped and stared up at the moon. ‘The devil’s piss on them!’ he cursed. ‘Cock’s blood! What a stinking pot of turds! What a mess! The whoreson, beetle-headed, fat-bellied, treacherous bastards!’
    Athelstan smiled. ‘You are, My Lord Coroner, referring to our brothers in Christ, the Guildmasters?’
    ‘Yes, monk, I am.’ Cranston plucked his miraculous wineskin from beneath his cloak and gulped heartily. ‘Lord,’ he breathed, ‘what a mess! How was Fitzroy killed, Brother? He didn’t take the poison before the meal, his food and all the cutlery bore no sign of any potion.’
    Athelstan shook his head. ‘You are ahead of me, Sir John. I am still wondering about Mountjoy’s death.’ The friar stared across the darkened Cheapside , his gaze attracted by the lantern horns fixed outside the great merchants’ houses. He recalled the words of his old lecturer, Father Paul: ‘The root of all sin,’ the old friar had boomed, ‘is pride. And the opposite of love is not hatred or indifference but power. Power corrupts; the pursuit of it is the road to Hell.’
    We are on that road now, Athelstan thought, thronged by powerful men with a raging thirst for the best things in life. We are all killers, he concluded, and despite the warm evening air, shivered. He felt like a masked swordsman being thrust into a pitch-black tourney thronged by killers. ‘I want to go home,’ he whispered before he could stop himself.
    Cranston looked at him curiously. ‘This is your home, Brother.’
    Athelstan smiled and shook himself free from his reverie. ‘Aye, Sir John, but we have a locksmith to question. Tell me, why are you puzzled by