The Anger of God

of the beadles was eating a meat pie, munching insolently as Cranston talked to him. The Coroner grinned as he watched the men stride away.
    ‘I haven’t told them what they’ll find,’ he joked. ‘But the insolent one with the meat pie will soon receive a short, sharp lesson on eating when the King’s Coroner is giving him instructions!’
    He led them back to The Holy Lamb of God, loudly guffawing at Benedicta’s wondering how anyone could be so stupid as to trust such rogues.
    ‘Stupid!’ Cranston laughed, if you go to any city in England , France or beyond the Rhine , you’ll find men, Princes of the Church, the most intelligent and educated of priests, spending fortunes on pieces of dirty bone and rag. Do you know, here in London , I heard of a merchant who paid a hundred pounds sterling for a napkin on which the Blessed St Cuthbert wiped his mouth. Devil’s balls!’ He mumbled an apology to Benedicta. ‘But hell’s teeth! I wish everything was as easy. Brother, did our journey to the Guildhall clarify anything?’
    Cranston eased his great backside down on to the stool and stared pitifully at his clerk. ‘Athelstan,’ he pleaded. ‘Sooner rather than later, the Regent is going to ask me to account.’
    The friar stared at the table top. ‘Let us see,’ he began slowly. ‘We know why Mountjoy and the other two were murdered. Not because of any secret sin or personal rivalry but to upset the Regent, to block his ambitions, to build up support amongst the powerful merchant class of London . Well, that has been achieved so there will be no more murders. At least, not for the time being.’ Athelstan paused. ‘I am sure the murders can be laid at the door of the Ira Dei, but I suspect he is only the architect. There’s a traitor and a killer in Gaunt’s party — Goodman or one of those powerful Guildmasters.’
    ‘Why, Sir John?’ Benedicta interrupted. ‘Why hasn’t the assassin struck at Gaunt himself?’
    ‘Because the devil you know. My Lady, is better than the devil you don’t. Someone has to be Regent or, to put it more bluntly, someone has to be there to take the blame. If Gaunt were removed, his chair would merely be filled by one of his younger brothers. No, these murders are to clip Gaunt’s wings.’
    ‘Has there been any reaction to our meeting with the Guildmasters about Sturmey’s private life?’ Athelstan asked.
    Cranston shook his head. ‘Not as yet.’
    ‘Sir Nicholas Hussey was a boy when the scandal occurred?’
    ‘Only very young,’ Cranston replied. ‘God knows, he may remember whispers, but according to the records there is no indication that he was involved, even as a victim. Ah, well.’ He put his tankard down on the table. ‘What are we going to do now?’
    ‘Wait, Sir John, think, reflect. As I have said, the murders at the Guildhall are not crimes of passion but cold and calculating. I doubt if we will discover any further clue or sign. We must gather all we know, apply logic, and so squeeze out the one and only solution.’
    ’If there is one,’ Cranston added wearily.
    The conversation became desultory. Cranston ’s elation at the arrest of the relic-sellers dissipated under a cloud of gloom as the fat Coroner began to sink into a sulk. Benedicta took her leave, saying she had no wish to stay, she’d had her fill of cadavers and mystery. Sir John took Athelstan back to his house but Lady Maude was busy and the poppets out with the nurse in the fields north of St Giles. Cranston became impossible so Athelstan left him for a while, deciding to visit his brethren at Blackfriars.

    The friar returned just as the market in Cheapside drew to an early end and people hurried home to prepare for Sunday. Cranston , more refreshed, clapped him on the shoulder and they went back to The Holy Lamb of God to meet Cranston ’s friend and physician, Theobald de Troyes, whom the Coroner had visited earlier in the afternoon.
    ‘Are you sure you wish to come?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Sir John, I am always at your disposal,’ the physician replied. ‘Does the priest at St James know?’
    ‘I have already sent a constable down there. There will be labourers to dig out the grave and lift Sarah Hobden’s coffin.’ Sir John licked his lips. ‘Perhaps a drink first?’
    Both Athelstan and the physician flatly refused and, one on either side of him, escorted the reluctant Coroner out of West Cheap across Watling Street into Cordwainer and then along Upper Thames