The Anger of God

duplicate keys or else suffered the supreme penalty for being a sodomist — being burnt alive at Smithfield .’
    Clifford stared down at the table, hands spread. He didn’t resist as Gaunt nodded to the captain of his guard to pull Clifford’s dagger out of its sheath.
    ‘Of course, Sturmey had to die,’ Cranston continued. ‘So you lured him down to Billingsgate where he waited for you at the quayside. A clear target for you to strike at from some shadowy alleyway.’ Cranston shrugged. ‘What more can I say?’
    Clifford’s head shot up. ‘You could produce some proof! This is all conjecture, mere hypothesis. You haven’t a shred of evidence to convince one of the King’s Justices. Anyone could have killed Mountjoy. Anyone could have put the poisoned sweetmeat on Fitzroy’s table. And as for Sturmey — yes, I remember the incident, but you saw his secret workshop! Anyone could have forced him to go there and make six keys.’ Cranston drummed his fingers on the table top, trying to conceal his panic. He looked under his bushy eyebrows at Athelstan who still seemed composed.
    ‘Lord Adam is correct,’ the Mayor asserted. ‘I agree with you, Sir John, but have you proof positive that Clifford shot the dagger and left the sweetmeat?’
    ‘We have,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘We have the gold. That number of precious bars cannot be easily transported round the city or sold on the open market.’ He looked at the Regent. ‘Your Grace, if you send your soldiers to My Lord Clifford’s house, I will wager you’ll find the evidence. You have to look for a hunting bow or more likely a specially constructed arbalest. Daggers of the sort used against Mountjoy and Sturmey. And, above all, the six gold bars my Lord Clifford so deftly removed from the chest. The theft went unnoticed. No one would even dream that someone could hold duplicates of six keys so, when the robbery was discovered, poor Sturmey would carry the blame. But the problem with gold is, once you remove it, what do you do with it? You can only hide it somewhere safe.’ Athelstan went to stand over Clifford. ‘Why?’ he asked.
    The young man stared back.
    ‘In logic,’ the friar continued, ‘and in mathematics, the first principle is to search for the common factor. You see, you were involved in Sturmey’s scandal. You had the skill to kill Mountjoy. Only you knew the seating arrangement on the night Fitzroy died.’ Athelstan steeled his features for what he knew was sheer bluff. ‘Finally, Ira Dei himself has betrayed you.’
    Clifford started. ‘How?’
    Then he groaned as he realized the terrible mistake he had made.
    Gaunt clicked his fingers at the captain of the guard. ‘Take ten archers, tear Clifford’s house apart! Imprison his servants! If necessary, use torture!’
    ‘There’s no need.’ Clifford, white as a ghost, drew himself up. ‘What’s the use?’ he murmured. ‘The game’s been played and it’s over.’ He licked his lips. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, you must think I am a traitor, but no more than any other man in this room. A few merchants who squeeze the poor as they would some damp cloth. Good men strutting down the nave on Sundays, but on Mondays they involve themselves in every filthy sin. Whited sepulchres!’
    ‘And what about me?’ Gaunt interrupted. ‘I trusted you.’
    ‘My Lord Regent, you trust no man. And can’t you see the storm coming?’ He jabbed a finger at Gaunt. ‘Don’t go hunting, My Lord. Instead, ride the filthy streets of Southwark or visit the villages of South Essex . The people will watch you ride by, eyes blazing with fury. The storm’s coming!’ Clifford made a sweeping movement with his hand. ‘This house of cards will tumble, burnt from cellar to garret!’ He wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘For God’s sake!’ he shouted at Gaunt. ‘Do you think I am the only one? Don’t you realize there are men in this room who already plan to trim their sails when the storm comes?’ Clifford paused, swallowed up in his own fury.
    Athelstan glanced quickly round at the sly, secretive faces of the Guildmasters. Clifford was a murderer but he was right. Gaunt was a fool to trust any of these men.
    ‘You are a traitor!’ Goodman shrieked, getting to his feet. ‘A traitor and a felon! A silent assassin!’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Clifford roared, rising to his own feet, shaking off the hand of one of Gaunt’s soldiers. ‘Mountjoy was a grasping demon. Fitzroy a