The Anger of God

murdered. He waited until the servants had gone back to the Guildhall then smiled at the armourer.
    ‘Well, Simon, now’s your opportunity to prove our theory correct.’
    The armourer placed his sack on the ground, taking out an arbalest or crossbow. The gulley where the bolt would be slipped had been specially widened. He then took a long dagger, identical to the one found in Mountjoy’s chest. He placed this carefully in the deepened groove and slowly winched back the powerful cord.
    ‘Very good,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Now, Simon, try and shoot the dagger from the arbalest into the centre of the top cushion, the green-fringed one.’
    Cursing and muttering, Simon lifted the crossbow and released the dagger. It sped like a stone from a sling but the aim was wrong and the dagger struck the wooden fence, narrowly missing the cushions. Cranston , huffing and puffing, went to fetch it, bringing it back and telling Simon to steady himself or they would all spend the next week in Newgate. Again he put the crossbow to the ground and winched back the powerful cord. The long dagger was inserted into the groove. He took careful aim and this time the dagger sped well and true, sinking deeply into the cushion, pinning it securely to the wooden fence behind. Cranston crowed in triumph and clapped his hands like a child, it works!’ he said, it works!’
    He hurried back into the Guildhall, reappearing a few minutes later with Gaunt and the rest of his companions from the council chamber. Athelstan and the armourer, his crossbow back in the sack, stood by the wicket gate staring at the cushion.
    ‘What’s this nonsense?’ Goodman shouted.
    ‘You have brought us down here, Cranston , to see a dagger driven into a cushion?’
    Gaunt, however, pushed the gate open and walked in, putting his hand on the dagger and prising it gently loose in a small puff of dust and goose feathers.
    ‘You didn’t stab it, did you, Cranston ?’
    ‘No, Your Grace,’ he replied. ‘The dagger was shot from a crossbow through the gaps in that fence.’
    ‘Can it be done?’ Denny exclaimed.
    ‘Oh, yes, it can be done!’ Sudbury smiled sweetly at the Mayor. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Christopher? You are a member of the Bowyers Guild.’
    The Mayor looked pale and rather shaken by Cranston ’s announcement.
    ‘Well?’ Gaunt glared at him.
    ‘Your Grace, it’s easily done,’ the man mumbled. He waved a hand. ‘This dagger is like the one which killed the sheriff, it has no hilt or cross guard; it can be shot from a crossbow if its groove has been deepened and widened. After all, it’s just an elongated bow and thus the dagger becomes an arrow.’
    ‘You see,’ Simon the armourer interrupted, but suddenly covered his mouth with his hand as he realized where he was.
    ‘Do it, Simon!’ Cranston urged gently. ‘Fire the dagger again!’
    He hurried away. They saw him behind the pentice, the cord twanged and again the dagger smacked into the cushions.
    ‘You see.’ Cranston extended his hands, ‘imagine, good sirs, Sir Gerard Mountjoy sitting in the afternoon sunshine enjoying his wine and the company of his hounds in his own private garden.’ He looked at Denny. ‘You saw him there. The Guildhall is quiet, everyone dozing or resting in the afternoon heat, but our assassin slips along the covered way. Beneath his cloak he has a crossbow, an arbalest, or some other type of bow specially bought for one purpose. The gap in the fencing there is wide enough. The assassin takes aim, Sir Gerard is killed immediately, the dagger piercing his heart — whilst the assassin has not had to enter the garden or pass the dogs. He slips away.
    ‘I suspect,’ Cranston continued, ‘the assassin had practised beforehand and so the murder was carried out in a matter of seconds. The dogs hardly knew what had happened whilst Sir Gerard died almost instantly.’ He nodded as Athelstan grasped his sleeve and whispered in his ear.
    ‘And Fitzroy?’ Gaunt asked.
    Cranston waited until Athelstan had disappeared through the Guildhall door.
    ‘Oh, Fitzroy’s murder was much more clever. We must return to the room where he died. However, the assassin who killed Mountjoy used the same method to murder Sturmey. That pathetic locksmith, for reasons I shall explain later, was lured down to the quayside at Billingsgate. He was waiting for someone. He walked up and down, anxiously wondering when the man who had been blackmailing him would arrive. But