The House of Shadows

like the Angel of Death through that half-open door and into the hay bam. Inside, a capped lantern would provide the assassin with sufficient light. Beatrice and Clarice would be tired. They would have drunk deep... How long would it take to release the cord of the crossbow to send the bolt whirring through the air? At such closeness death would be immediate. The other girl would be confused, the assassin could stride across thrusting the dagger deep. Athelstan pulled his hood up and stared down at the mud-strewn cobbles, shining in the light drizzle which had begun to fall. The murderous act would take no more than a few seconds, faster than a priest pattering through his psalter.
    ‘Well, Athelstan.’
    Cranston stood in the tavern doorway, beckoning him over. Athelstan hurried across, grateful for the sweet warmth of the inn. Rolles was busy in the kitchen, but the coroner was most insistent on meeting the knights, and a short while later, Cranston sat at the head of the long walnut table in the solar, Master Rolles, Brother Malachi and the four knights ranged down either side. Athelstan sat at the far end. He brought his writing tray out, uncapped the ink horn and had a sharp quill ready.
    ‘I must protest.’ Sir Thomas Davenport spoke up. ‘My Lord Coroner, we intended to visit Trinity, guests of the Aldermen at the Guildhall.’
    ‘I couldn’t care if the Lord God Almighty was your host,’ Cranston snapped. ‘I have more questions for you.’
    Davenport pulled a sullen face. Sir Reginald Branson, with his long grey hair tied in a queue, made to leave, scraping back his chair, his black and white cloak draped over one arm.,
    ‘If you leave, sir, I’ll have you arrested for murder.’ Cranston pounded the table with a ham-like fist. And the same goes for you, Master Rolles, busy as you claim, even if you had Mary and Joseph in the stable outside, though, knowing you, you wouldn’t even give them that!’
    Cranston’s anger stilled all protest.
    ‘Master Rolles, you hire girls from Mother Veritable?’
    ‘I’ve told you.’ The taverner’s fat face glistened with sweat; his piggy eyes screwed up in annoyance, he breathed noisily through his nose and gestured at the tapestry. ‘A letter left there, a silver coin with the name of the girl wanted.’ He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘Sometimes that’s just left for me, other times I put it there for Mother Veritable’s messenger—’
    ‘How many coins?’ Athelstan interrupted.
    ‘Whatever the arrangement, it’s a deposit of two coins; one for me, one for Mother Veritable.’
    ‘Isn’t that against the City ordnances?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Tell him, Sir John.’
    ‘Southwark lies beyond the jurisdiction of the Corporation. As long as Rolles doesn’t actually house the girls in question, he is breaking no law. So, these wenches simply arrive and their customers are waiting?’
    ‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘The note will designate where they are to come, to the tap room or to a chamber.’
    ‘Or a hay barn?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Where is your note,’ Cranston asked, ‘inviting Beatrice and Clarice?’
    ‘I understand Mother Veritable has destroyed it.’
    ‘You saw them arrive?’
    ‘Yes,’ Rolles agreed. ‘On the night of the Great Ratting they came into the tap room. They were to meet their customer once that was over, about the second hour after midnight. There are hour candles in the tap room. The girls wouldn’t miss such an assignation. I saw them there until just before the fight, when the Judas Man killed Toadflax thinking he was the Misericord.’
    ‘Why are we here?’ Sir Laurence Broomhill, slightly shorter than the rest, leaned over the table and glared down at Athelstan.
    ‘You know full well. Would any of you here,’ Cranston stared around, ‘take an oath that they have never lain with either or both of those slain women?’
    Sir Laurence sat back.
    ‘Answer the question.’ Cranston pounded the table. ‘You come up to London to celebrate what you call the “old days“, when you gathered here as Crusaders under the banner of Lord Peter of Cyprus . Every year you return. You lodge here and have Mass said at St Erconwald’s. You also visit the brothel, and always ask for Clarice or Beatrice.’
    ‘Is this true?’ Brother Malachi asked weakly. ‘You still consort with whores?’
    ‘You cannot come to Mass,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘You must not take the Eucharist, until you stop such sin, confess