The Anger of God

down and rubbed his hands. ‘And old Jack knows them.’ He got up, threw the parchment at Athelstan and went to the top of the stairs to bellow at Boscombe.
    ‘Go up to the Guildhall,’ he ordered. ‘Tell My Lord Mayor and the Guildmasters that the Lord Coroner wishes to have words with them immediately about Master Sturmey’s secrets.’ He grinned at the whey-faced servant. ‘Don’t look so bloody frightened! You just tell them what I said and watch their faces. I’ll be in the council chamber within the hour.’
    Cranston returned to restore order to his room whilst Athelstan sat on a stool, reading the parchment.
    ‘I can’t believe this,’ he muttered.
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Cranston grinned evilly down at him. ‘Where there’s wealth, there’s sin. And they were all involved one way or the other.’
    Athelstan read on. The parchment was two foot long, the writing small and cramped: it encapsulated memoranda, reports, messages and accounts. Athelstan had to take it over to the window to study it more closely. ‘Did you notice another name, Sir John?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘A Master Nicholas Hussey, a chorister at St Paul ’s.’ Cranston went over and studied the line just above Athelstan’s finger.
    ‘Devil’s bollocks!’ he breathed. ‘Brother, you are right.’
    Athelstan read on. Boscombe returned, grinning from ear to ear, to say the Guildmasters and the Mayor would see Sir John immediately. Cranston , snorting like a bull, seized his cloak and almost ran downstairs, shouting his farewells to the Lady Maude. He walked up Cheapside with a wicked smile on his face. Athelstan hurried behind, still trying to finish reading the report, but at last he gave up and put the scroll into his leather writing bag.
    ‘I am going to enjoy this,’ Cranston breathed. ‘Just watch their faces, Athelstan.’
    The Mayor and Guildmasters were waiting in the council chamber. Athelstan noticed how the servants were dismissed and no refreshments were offered as Cranston and he were summarily invited to sit at the great oval table. Goodman looked even more pop-eyed and anxious. Sudbury and Bremmer were visibly sweating. Marshall scratched his bald head and wouldn’t meet their eyes whilst Denny had dropped any foppish manners and stared fixedly at Sir John like some terrified rabbit confronted by a stoat.
    Goodman cleared his throat. ‘Sir John, you wished to see us?’
    ‘Too bloody straight I do!’ Cranston leaned his great arms on the table. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush. Master Sturmey the locksmith was hired to build a special chest to hold the gold bars. It was furnished with six different locks. Each of you held a key but the gold has been taken, Sturmey’s dead, and before you ask, yes, he was murdered because someone forced him to make a second set of keys.’ Cranston wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Now you may ask why? What would force a reputable merchant like Sturmey to become involved in robbery and treason? The lure of gold? No, Sturmey wasn’t like that. Advancement? No, sirs. He was the victim of blackmail.’
    The Mayor and Guildmasters stared at Cranston like a line of felons before a hanging judge.
    ‘Fifteen years ago,’ he began, ‘I was a junior Coroner in Cordwainer and Farringdon. Surely, Sir Christopher,’ Cranston smiled at the Mayor, ‘you recall my days in office, for you too were a law officer? There was a scandal, was there not? Certain allegations laid before the King’s Council about powerful merchants being involved in the carnal seduction of choir boys and pages at St Paul ’s Cathedral? Surely you all remember it well?’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘Two merchants were hanged, drawn and quartered for these filthy practices caused the death of one young boy. Now,’ Cranston leaned back, holding his hands across his stomach, ‘the investigation led to a number of well-heeled, powerful burgesses being questioned and this list included the late Sir Gerard Mountjoy, the late Sir Thomas Fitzroy, Philip Sudbury, Alexander Bremmer, Hugo Marshall and James Denny.’
    ‘We were innocent!’ Bremmer snapped. ‘Prattling gossip from malicious tongues!’
    ‘I never said any different,’ Cranston replied. ‘Except there’s one other name — Peter Sturmey, locksmith. Anyway, the investigation was eventually brought to an end, otherwise every gallows in the city would have blossomed with its rotting fruit. Now, during this investigation, Sturmey, against