The House of Shadows

drowned.
    ‘I think he was,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but we’ll see.’
    They landed near the Bishop of Winchester inn, a little further down from the infamous bath houses which Athelstan knew were a mask for prostitution and other secret sins. Once he was on the quayside he looked around for Moleskin, only to be informed by the boy guarding his barge that the boatman could be found in the cookshop next to the Piebald tavern, where he had business with Master Merrylegs, the owner. On the way to the Night in Jerusalem , Athelstan and Cranston stopped there. Moleskin was sitting in the far corner deep in conversation with Merrylegs, who supplemented his income with the sale of goods stolen by Athelstan’s parishioners from the stalls in Cheapside . Once Cranston’s huge form was seen bearing towards them, Merrylegs and Moleskin hastily drew apart, sweeping whatever was on the table before them into a leather bag.
    ‘Oh! God bless you, Brother Athelstan.’ Moleskin tried to hide his guilt behind a smile whilst Merrylegs hurried away. ‘And you, Sir John, do you want some ale?’
    ‘I would love to know what you have in that bag,’ the coroner replied, ‘but instead I’ll give you a task. You recall the robbery of the Lombard treasure?’
    ‘Of course, your grace,’ Moleskin hastily replied. ‘All the river people knew about it.’
    ‘The boatmen, they left widows, families?’
    ‘Just widows.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘And one of them has died too, drowned washing clothes! Silly woman, she always insisted on drinking ale.’ He wagged a finger in the coroner’s face. ‘Ale and the river don’t mix.’
    ‘And the other widow?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh, that’s fat Margot. She’s left Southwark, sells fish in Billingsgate.’
    ‘Tomorrow morning,’ Athelstan declared, ‘after Mass, bring fat Margot to see me.’
    Moleskin agreed. Athelstan and Cranston continued their journey. When they arrived at the Night in Jerusalem , Master Rolles was acting all busy in the tap room. He was surly in his greeting, muttering under his breath at how busy he was.
    ‘I have gathered the rest,’ he declared, wiping his hands. ‘They’re in the solar. Sir John, what is this all about?’
    The taverner’s black eyes were almost hidden by creases of fat; his annoyance, however, was obvious, in his petulant whine and the way he kept looking longingly towards the kitchen, where cooks and scullions were busy preparing for the evening’s entertainment.
    ‘Why, Master Rolles, it’s murder!’
    ‘Nothing to do with me,’ the taverner muttered.
    ‘Mine host,’ Cranston slapped him hard on the shoulder, ‘four corpses have been found in your tavern, whilst the Misericord is dead.’
    Master Rolles gaped.
    ‘Dead?’ he spluttered. ‘But he was taken safe to Newgate.’
    ‘He was safe,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘but now he is dead! Poisoned in his cell.’
    Rolles immediately ushered them into the solar. The knights were there, surly-eyed and bitter-mouthed, openly seething at Cranston’s peremptory summons, as was Mother Veritable, who made her annoyance obvious by turning away, more interested in what was happening in the garden beyond.
    Cranston sat at the top of the table, Athelstan beside him.
    ‘You seem impatient with us,’ the coroner began, ‘so I’ll be blunt. I’m in no mood for niceties. Where were you all this afternoon?’
    He paused while Athelstan undid his writing satchel and laid out a piece of vellum on the table along with his writing instruments.
    ‘Well?’ Cranston repeated. ‘Where were you all?’
    ‘We were all here,’ Sir Maurice Clinton broke in. ‘I can vouch for that, as can Master Rolles.’ The knight gestured at the taverner. ‘I can also vouch for him.’
    ‘And you, Mother Veritable?’ Cranston asked sweetly.
    ‘Why, Sir Jack,’ her voice was rich with sarcasm, ‘I have been here since noon at Master Rolles’ request. We were discussing the burial of poor Beatrice and Clarice.’
    ‘And none of you left?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘The gentlemen,’ Master Rolles declared, ‘rose late, broke their fast, and either stayed in their chambers, sat in the garden or, after noon, dined here. Ask any of the maids or scullions. You had best tell them, Sir John, what has really happened.’
    ‘The Misericord is dead,’ Cranston declared. ‘He was kept safe in a cell at Newgate, but someone passed him a pie claiming it was a gift from me. The pie was