The Anger of God

it the business at the Springall manor or the murder of Sir Ralph Whitton at the Tower last Christmas.’
    Athelstan warmed to his theme. ‘You see, Sir John, such crimes originate not from bad blood but hot blood. Political assassination, however, is different. There’s no personal rancour, no malicious glee at the destruction of an enemy, just expediency. This is what we are dealing with now: Mountjoy and Fitzroy’s deaths were coldly decided, seized as a means to bring My Lord of Gaunt’s plans into confusion.’
    Athelstan rubbed his lips and, before Cranston could order more wine, told the pot boy to go away. ‘Remember, Sir John, murder is like chess. You move a piece, your opponent counter moves. Sooner or later a mistake will be made or a path opened in order to discover the truth and bring the game to an end. But here our opponent could be anyone.’ Athelstan brushed crumbs from his robe. ‘Three murders,’ he muttered. ‘We know they died but little else. How was Fitzroy poisoned when he ate and drank what the rest did? How could Mountjoy be stabbed to death in the privacy of his own garden? And Sturmey? One minute on the quayside, the next floating in the Thames with a dagger in his chest.’ Athelstan paused as a loud snore greeted his words. He turned to see Sir John, head back, eyes closed, with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Sir John! Lord above!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘I can’t even find your ribs, you’re so fat!’
    ‘Portly,’ Sir John answered, opening his eyes and licking his lips. ‘I am portly, Athelstan.’ He tapped his red, fleshy nose. ‘Remember, Brother, the Lord Coroner may doze but he never sleeps. What is it you want to know?’
    ‘Sturmey... you knew something from his past?’
    ‘God knows! I can’t place it,’ Cranston growled, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ve got to visit his shop again.’
    ‘I thought Gaunt’s men had sealed it?’
    ‘Yes, they have, but I’ve received permission from the Regent to remove the seals as long as My Lord Clifford is present.’
    ‘I was hoping to return to Southwark.’
    ‘Well, you can’t. There’s God’s work to be done here. Come on, Brother.’
    Athelstan followed Cranston out, noting how the Coroner deliberately knocked against the hard-drinking relic-seller.
    ‘I hate such bastards!’ he whispered outside the tavern, if I had my way I’d clear the lot from the city. They sell enough wood from the true cross to build a fleet of ships!’
    Athelstan, seeing the fat Coroner was becoming evil-tempered, linked his arm through his and gently diverted the conversation to a more even keel by asking when he thought the Lady Maude would return. They soon found Lord Clifford’s house, a handsome, three-storied building in Parchment Lane , but the young nobleman was not at home.
    ‘He’s gone to see the physician,’ a liveried servant explained as he ushered them into the small, comfortable solar. ‘However, he is expecting you, Sir John.’ Athelstan courteously declined the offer of refreshment but Cranston needed no second urging. He sat back in a quilted chair, sipping the claret and openly admiring the luxury of the room. Athelstan, quietly praying Sir John would not drink too much, also looked at the pieces of armour tastefully arranged around the walls. A pair of crossed gauntlets, a shield and two halberds, and a number of intricate, beautifully carved arbalests and crossbows.
    ‘A wealthy man,’ Athelstan observed.
    ‘Of course,’ Sir John replied. ‘I served with his father. He took a group of bowmen to France . A fierce soldier, God rest him, and now his son aims high.’
    Athelstan glanced at the thick, woollen rugs on the shining oak floor, the silverware on the polished table glinting in the sunlight pouring through a painted glass window. Athelstan wondered why men like Lord Adam, who had so much, always wanted more. His meditations were rudely interrupted by Clifford himself bursting into the room. He tossed his cloak at a servant and strode across to shake their hands warmly. Athelstan saw the bruises and marks on the young man’s face and noticed how stiffly he moved his shoulders.
    ‘You were injured sorely?’ the friar asked as the greetings were finished.
    Clifford grinned then grimaced. ‘Some cuts and bruises to my face. The worst is a dagger wound in my shoulder.’
    ‘The work of Ira Dei?’
    ‘Undoubtedly. I was beaten unconscious before the watch rescued me. The bastards even