The House of Shadows

And yet.’ Athelstan paused so abruptly Cranston bumped into him. ‘I’m sorry, Sir John. There was undoubtedly mischief planned that night, some subtle plot. Remember what Mother Veritable told us, how Guinevere had hinted and boasted that one day she would escape her life of drudgery? I wonder what did happen to her? Is it possible Culpepper and Mortimer are still alive, lurking somewhere in the City, hiding behind different names? Then there’s the business of the Regent. Why is he so interested in our investigation? Could the Judas Man be involved? Where was he twenty years ago? Is there any connection,’ while Athelstan chattered on, Cranston stopped to drink from the miraculous wine skin, ‘between a man who has no proper name and the conspiracy to steal the Lombard treasure?’
    Athelstan paused whilst Cranston thrust back the stopper to his miraculous wine skin.
    ‘I’m certainly going to ask him the next time we meet,’ Cranston grumbled.
    ‘There’s one further problem, Sir John. If those knights stole that treasure but didn’t try and sell it, where did they hide it whilst they were in Outremer? They could hardly conceal it on a war cog or some military camp!’
    Athelstan returned to his reflections as they passed St Mary of Bethlehem and continued down Portsoken, to the limestone buildings of the Minoresses. A porter let them through a postern gate and took them across neatly laid-out gardens and herbers into the guesthouse, a long, whitewashed chamber, starkly empty except for a table, a high-backed bench, two chairs and a stool. At the far end was the Franciscan cross of San Damiano, with its richly coloured texture and finely etched images, each of which told a story. Whilst they waited, Athelstan described it to Cranston , explaining how it was the cross St Francis had prayed before when he received his mission to rebuild Christ’s Church.
    ‘Brother Athelstan?’
    Athelstan turned. Edith, accompanied by Sister Catherine, stood in the doorway.
    ‘Is everything well?’ She hastened towards him. ‘Is my brother safe?’
    ‘No, he is not.’ Brother Athelstan grasped her hands, moved by the stricken look on the young woman’s face.
    ‘Is he taken?’ she gasped.
    She had gone so pale Athelstan thought she was about to faint and guided her gently towards a chair. He introduced Sir John and pulled up a stool to sit opposite her.
    ‘Your brother has been captured and taken to Newgate. There is hope for him yet. He has told us certain things which may well earn him a pardon.’
    Edith put her face in her hands as Sister Catherine hastened across the room, patting her gently on her head, murmuring how all would be well and that she would pray for it to be so.
    ‘What you did last night,’ Athelstan declared, ‘was foolish.’ He gestured to Sir John to sit in the other chair. ‘You helped your brother to escape, didn’t you? A change of clothing, money, even a weapon. He was captured trying to come here. I am sorry to bring you the ill news, but—’
    ‘I had to help him,’ Edith interrupted, glaring at Athelstan. ‘You don’t understand, Brother Athelstan, how much I hate that old bitch, that evil harridan.’ She ignored Sister Catherine’s glare of disapproval. ‘If my brother had stayed in your church she would have had him murdered. She hates him for refusing to hand me over to her and her filthy ways.’
    ‘Your brother was friendly with two of the girls who worked in Mother Veritable’s house.’ Athelstan grasped Edith’s hands again. ‘You may not know their story, about their mother disappearing so many years ago. They claimed that they stumbled on a secret, a clue to what had happened. When your brother asked them what it was, they replied that it could be found upon your person.’
    Edith withdrew her hands, staring in disbelief.
    ‘My brother once,’ she whispered, ‘came here and asked me a similar question. What of significance did I have upon my person. But,’ she spread her hands out, ‘I wear the brown robe and white wimple of a Franciscan novice, I have a troth ring on my finger,’ she touched the Celtic cross hanging on a chain round her neck, ‘and this is all. What on earth would I have in common with two prostitutes or their long-lost mother?’
    ‘Is there anything,’ Athelstan persisted, glancing quickly at Sir John, making sure he hadn’t fallen asleep, ‘you can tell us?’
    Edith sat for a while, shaking her head. ‘Ever since I