The Anger of God

back.’
    ‘And the lady of the house?’
    ‘She’s gone too and won’t be back.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘She died five years ago.’
    Athelstan grinned and plucked a penny from his purse. He spun it and the boy nimbly caught it.
    ‘And Sturmey’s son?’
    ‘He’s gone too,’ the maid and apprentice chorused. ‘He’s in York . Some important business of the King.’ Cranston nodded as he looked at the two solemn faces.
    ‘Look,’ he said reassuringly, ‘we can’t discuss things here. You, boy, you sleep in the shop?’
    ‘Aye, I do.’
    ‘Then let’s go there.’
    The boy blinked and looked at the maid, who nodded. ‘Come on then,’ Perrot instructed. ‘But you mustn’t touch anything, otherwise the master will beat me.’
    He led them into a room off the passageway, lit candles and pulled out two stools for his unexpected visitors. Athelstan sat down and stared around. He’d never seen so many keys. They hung in bunches on the wall or lay on benches around the whitewashed room, together with pieces of metal, casting irons, pincers. He glimpsed the small forge on the outside wall. The place smelt of burnt wood and charcoal and everything was covered in a fine grey dust. He looked under one table and saw the apprentice’s bed: a straw mattress, a bolster, a woollen blanket and a rather battered wooden horseman. Perhaps the boy’s favourite toy.
    ‘Would you like some wine?’ the maid invited, trying to act older than she was.
    ‘No, no.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sir John never touches wine, do you, My Lord Coroner?’
    ‘No, no,’ Cranston gruffly replied, narrowing his eyes at Athelstan. He drew himself up. ‘It sets a fine example.’
    The boy peered at the large Coroner under lowered eye-lashes, as if only half-convinced.
    ‘Where did your master go?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘I don’t know, he just left the shop.’
    ‘And how was he?’
    ‘Very excited,’ the apprentice replied.
    ‘About what?’
    ‘Oh, making the chest for the great lords, and the keys.’
    ‘Tell me.’ Cranston leaned forward, trying to keep the wineskin concealed under his cloak. ‘Did you help your master make the chest, its locks and keys?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’
    ‘And how many keys did he make?’
    ‘Six.’
    ‘Didn’t he make any more just in case one was lost?’
    ‘Oh, no, my master said that was forbidden.’
    ‘And,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘did he have any visitors to the shop? Someone mysterious, cloaked and hooded?’
    ‘No.’ The boy laughed. ‘Why should he?’
    His eyes flickered and he looked away. You are hiding something, Athelstan thought, but nothing to do with this.
    ‘And which of the great ones came here?’
    ‘Well, they all came here yesterday,’ Perrot replied, in their cloaks, boots and beaver hats, they nigh filled the house. They had to take the chest and keys to the Guildhall. There were soldiers outside with a cart.’
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But before your master finished the keys and the locks, did any of the great ones come to see him privately?’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ the boy replied. ‘I live here, and sleep here. Master always brings his visitors here except when he is working in his garden. He likes to go there by himself. Says he likes the change.’
    ‘But the visitors?’ Athelstan persisted.
    ‘Two large fat ones,’ the boy replied, ‘the Lord Mayor and the Sheriff. They always came together over the last two weeks to make sure my master was doing his work.’
    ‘And no one else?’
    ‘No, Father.’
    Athelstan’s eyes turned to the young maid standing next to the boy. ‘And you saw nothing mysterious or untoward?’
    They both shook their heads.
    ‘What happened to the moulds?’ Cranston moved his feet. ‘The ones in which the keys were cast?’
    ‘They were destroyed,’ the boy replied proudly. ‘When the great ones came for the chest and keys, they stood around and watched me smash them with a hammer.’
    Cranston gazed at Athelstan who shook his head.
    The Coroner lumbered to his feet, stretched and yawned; fishing in his pocket, he took out two pennies which he handed to the boy and girl.
    ‘Very good!’ he murmured. ‘But when your master returns, tell him to find Sir John Cranston’s house in Cheapside . I have to speak to him.’
    The maid and apprentice nodded. Cranston and Athelstan walked back into Lawrence Lane and down to the corner of the Mercery.
    ‘You know he’ll never come back, Sir John?’ Cranston