The Anger of God

friend, subtly murdered and left to be gnawed by rats. What had these things to do with God’s creation? With the stars spinning in the skies? The green, lush meadow grass? The basic honesty and goodness of many of his parishioners? Athelstan half-murmured the words of his mentor, Father Paul: ‘God is never far away. He can only act through us. Man’s free will is God’s door to humanity.’ So what about these murders? He tried to direct his thoughts and search for a common thread. The singing stopped and he opened his eyes as Cranston , emitting a loud snore, crashed back against the bench.
    ‘Sir John, come!’
    Cranston opened his eyes and smacked his lips.
    ‘Mine’s a deep bowl of claret!’ he bellowed.
    ‘Sir John, we are in church.’
    Cranston rubbed his eyes and lumbered to his feet.
    ‘I find it difficult to pray, Brother. So let me show you what I do.’
    Like a great bear he lumbered across into the side chapel and stood before the wooden carved statue of the Virgin, her arms wrapped round the shoulders of the boy Jesus. Cranston dropped two coins into an iron-bound chest and fished out ten candles, arranging them like a row of soldiers on the great iron candelabra before the statue.
    ‘Ten prayers,’ he muttered. ‘One for myself, one for the Lady Maude, one for each of the two poppets, one for Gog and Magog, one for you, one for Boscombe and Leif, one for Benedicta and one for old Oliver.’
    ‘That’s nine, Sir John.’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Cranston lit the last one with a taper. ‘And one for any other poor bugger I should have prayed for!’ He blew the taper out with a gust of wine-drenched breath and charged back down the church. ‘That’s it, Brother. Now it’s The Holy Lamb of God for me!’
    They unhitched their horses and walked into a busy thronged Cheapside . Sir John expected his usual rapturous welcome at his favourite tavern but was disappointed. The landlord’s wife was waiting in quivering anticipation.
    ‘Sir John, a message from the Guildhall! A servitor has been here at least twice. You are to go there immediately!’ Her voice dropped to a reverential hush. ‘The Lord Regent himself demands your presence!’
    Cursing and muttering, Cranston forced his way back across Cheapside with an even more subdued Athelstan trailing behind. At the Guildhall a chamber-lain took them to the small privy council chamber which overlooked the gardens where Mountjoy had been killed. He tapped on the door and ushered them in. Cranston swaggered through and glared at the Regent who sat directly opposite, Goodman and the Guildmasters flanking him on either side. Athelstan looked up at the silver and gold stars painted on the blue ceiling then around at the wooden panels. A soft, luxurious room, he thought, where the great ones of the city plotted and drew up their subtle plans. Gaunt beckoned them forward to two quilted, high-backed chairs.
    ‘Sir John, sit. We have been waiting.’
    ‘Your Grace,’ Cranston snapped, lowering his great weight into the seat. ‘I have been busy! The locksmith Sturmey has been...’
    ‘I know, I know,’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘Murdered! By person or persons unknown. His body lies in a shed in Billingsgate. And you, Brother?’ The hard, shrewd eyes stared at Athelstan. ‘The traitor Ira Dei has made his presence known to you.’ Gaunt smiled at the friar’s surprise. ‘We have the means, Brother, of discovering what is happening in our city. As for Sturmey, Sir John, I understand you sealed his workshop?’
    Cranston nodded.
    ‘My men broke the seals,’ Gaunt retorted. ‘We have searched his house but can find no trace or mention of Sturmey making a second set of keys.’
    ‘But he did make them,’ Cranston replied.
    ‘How do you know that?’ Goodman spitefully snapped.
    ‘Why else would he be killed?’
    Goodman pulled a face.
    ‘I believe,’ Cranston continued slowly, ‘Sturmey was blackmailed. Like many such men, he led a secret life.’
    Athelstan glimpsed a glimmer of fear in Goodman’s eyes but the Mayor lowered his head as Cranston passed on to other matters.
    ‘Your Grace, I could question everyone here, with your authority of course, about their whereabouts yesterday afternoon when the Lord Sheriff and Master Sturmey were killed. However, I suspect that would be fruitless.’
    ‘Yes, it would be,’ Denny drawled. ‘We were all busy, My Lord Coroner. Even if Sir Gerard Mountjoy could sit sipping wine and talking to his