The House of Shadows

told something by those two girls. They had to die and so did he. But the question is what?’
    ‘The Night in Jerusalem ,’ Cranston observed, ‘lies in Southwark. Somebody must have crossed the river, walked up Cheapside , bought that pie, poisoned it, left it in Newgate and then returned. Hey, lad?’ He called across to the pot boy, who had appeared in the doorway, still breathless after his errand to Newgate. ‘Come here.’ Cranston seized him by his thin arm and pressed a coin into the boy’s dirty little hand. ‘Here’s a shilling, boy. Go to the tavern known as the Night in Jerusalem — it lies in Southwark, not far from the bridge. Tell mine host I wish to see him, all the knights and Mother Veritable, within the hour.’
    The boy glanced across at the ale-wife, who stood near the barrels. She nodded.
    ‘Repeat the message,’ Sir John urged.
    The boy, used to such tasks, closed his eyes, faithfully repeated what Cranston had told him, then hurried out into the street.
    ‘One of those,’ Cranston murmured, ‘must have left Southwark.’
    ‘One person whom we know little about,’ Athelstan distractedly observed, ‘is the man who was with Culpepper the night the Lombard treasure was stolen — what was his name? Oh yes, Edward Mortimer. In fact, Sir John, we know very little about this treasure or its stay in the Tower. Could you make discreet enquiries?’
    Cranston agreed.
    ‘And I,’ Athelstan offered, ‘will find out more about the Lombards , the name of the banker responsible; I’ll also ask Moleskin if he knows anything about the two bargemen who disappeared.’
    Athelstan finished his ale and picked up his writing satchel, cradling it in his lap.
    ‘I wonder what the Misericord meant,’ he mused, ‘about those numbers and that Latin tag. And what was he shouting? What did he mean by “Askit“? An educated man, Sir John, the Misericord was holding something back; perhaps he recognised that and left such a message on the wall just in case something happened.’
    ‘Could the Judas Man have killed him?’ Cranston drained his tankard.
    ‘It’s possible,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘He, too, is a man surrounded by mystery, gleeful at the Misericord’s capture. He may have murdered him, fearful lest the Misericord’s quick-silver wits allowed him to escape either Newgate or the hangman’s noose. Which, in turn, provokes another question. Was the Judas Man hired by someone we’ve met, or by a complete stranger? And did that person, whoever it was, instruct the Judas Man to ensure the Misericord was not only captured but killed? Ah well, Sir John, the hour draws on.’
    They left the ale house and, avoiding the crowd, went down Dean’s Lane, past Athelstan’s mother house of Blackfriars to East Watergate. The day was clouding over, the crowds intent on finishing trading and escaping the biting cold. The quayside was fairly deserted as it was too early for the fishing folk to prepare for the night’s work. The barges had finished bringing their produce and now stood moored, waiting for the evening. Bailiffs and beadles patrolled the quayside, vigilant against any trader trying to sell or buy without the blessing of the Corporation or the guilds.
    They hired a barge, Athelstan was disappointed that he couldn’t find Moleskin, and went upriver, fighting the choppy current. A mist was creeping in. Athelstan huddled in the stern, his cowl pulled tightly about him, whilst Cranston, ever curious, kept up a constant commentary on which barges belonged to which noblemen, as well as those dignitaries of the city travelling to and from the Tower or Westminster.
    ‘Thank God we don’t have to go under London Bridge ,’ Cranston remarked. ‘The river is running heavy and fast, and in this mist I can hardly make out the top of the bridge.’
    Athelstan half listened as he closed his eyes and fingered his Ave beads. He was always wary of the river; a good portion of St Erconwald’s cemetery was reserved for the corpses of poor souls who had drowned on the Southwark side...
    ‘That’s it!’
    ‘What?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Nothing, Sir John. It’s just that... I wonder if the river was searched for the corpses of Culpepper and Mortimer, not to mention those bargemen. I mean properly searched by the Fisher of Men.’
    ‘Was he here then?’ Cranston asked.
    He’d met the person Athelstan was referring to, a sinister, skull-faced man hired to search the river for the bodies of the