The House of Shadows

Cranston . He groaned and tried to quicken his pace but his pursuers were relentless and blocked his passage.
    ‘Good morrow, Sir John. And how is the Lady Maud?’
    Cranston glared at these two professional beggars, Leif the lame, who had one leg but could move swifter than many a man with two, and Rawbum who, many years previously, drunk as a sot, had sat down in a pan of burning oil and lived never to forget it.
    ‘Sir John, we have composed a new song.’
    Cranston stared unblinkingly, and without further invitation, Leif, one hand on his chest, scarred face staring up at the sky, began the most awful singing, while Rawbum played a tune on a reedy flute.
    ‘Very good, very good,’ Cranston intervened, thrusting a coin into each of their hands. ‘I’ve heard enough, now bugger off.’
    The two beggars, chorusing their thanks, would have pursued Sir John even further, but the coroner turned threateningly, and they took the hint and headed back towards a pastry shop, whilst Sir John, like an arrow from a bow, sped across Cheapside and into the welcoming warmth of his chosen tavern, the Lamb of God. Once ensconced in his favourite window seat overlooking the herb garden, Sir John welcomed the loving ministrations of the ale-wife, who placed in front of him a tankard of frothing ale and strips of bread covered with honey. He drank and ate staring out into the garden, its bright greenery hidden by a sharp frost. The broad carp pond was still covered with a skin of ice and Cranston realised that it would be some time before the sun’s warmth was felt. He chatted about this to the ale-wife as he stared around the tavern. A second tankard was brought. Sir John sipped this whilst listening to a boy in the street outside sweetly singing a carol, ‘The Angel of the Lord Announced to Mary’.
    ‘I wonder,’ Cranston reflected, ‘if God’s good angel will reveal the truth to me?’
    He sat back in his seat cradling the tankard and recalled the events of the previous evening. He had left Athelstan and returned to the Night in Jerusalem for a cup of warm posset, where he had engaged Tobias the cask man in conversation. Tobias had been full of horror at the hideous murder of Toadflax, Chandler and the two whores. Cranston sipped at the tankard, distracted by the cowl-cloaked individual who sat huddled in the inglenook. The coroner prided himself on knowing everyone who came into the Lamb of God, but he marked that one down as a stranger and returned to his reflections. Tobias had also been angry on behalf of Master Rolles.
    ‘He was in the kitchen all the time with me,’ the cask man had protested, ‘and I know who did it.’ He had tapped his nose knowingly.
    Cranston had bought him a drink, and Tobias confessed how he had seen Chandler , plump as a plum, coming in from the yard.
    ‘More importantly,’ he whispered, ‘I glimpsed blood on his hands.’
    Tobias then went on to explain how his curiosity was so provoked he visited the tavern washerwoman, responsible for the linen in the guest chambers. They had both sifted amongst the cloths and found napkins from the dead man’s chamber with stains which looked suspiciously like dried blood. The washerwoman was not certain; she pointed out how Chandler had tried to wash the napkins himself. Tobias immediately reported his findings to Master Rolles. The tavern keeper was gleeful, crowing like a cock on a dung hill, exclaiming that, according to an ancient law, he could not be fined the ‘murdrum’, an ancient tax levied on all hosteliers and taverners on whose premises a mysterious death occurred. Rolles, still happy with this news, had also joined Cranston , repeating what Tobias had said and triumphantly producing the stained napkins. Cranston examined them carefully and concluded that both Rolles and Tobias were correct. The stains did look suspiciously like dried blood. So had Chandler killed those two whores, hidden his crossbow and returned to his chamber to wash his hands? But why should a powerful landowner, who could more than pay for the likes of Beatrice and Clarice, murder them in such hideous circumstances? And Chandler’s own death? Was that revenge? Was Chandler feverish that morning because of what he had done? Had he taken that bath to wash away any evidence of his crime? Sir John absent-mindedly ordered another ale pot.
    ‘I’ll pay for that.’
    The figure crouched in the inglenook rose and, taking off his cloak, walked across to join Sir