The House of Shadows

Kentish name, but Mortimer, that’s a name from South Wales , isn’t it?’
    ‘True, Sir John. Mortimer was Culpepper’s friend and comrade — a mercenary who often frequented our company, a good swordsman and a master bowman. Culpepper and Mortimer were like two peas in a pod. During the days before the great robbery they were often absent; they acted rather mysteriously, not telling us where they were going or what they were doing.’
    ‘And you never questioned them?’
    ‘Well, of course, Brother, we were curious, but those were very busy days: the fleet preparing to sail, men seeking out friends and comrades, and, of course, there was always the attraction of Guinevere the Golden.’
    ‘So,’ Athelstan summarised, ‘you know nothing about the Lombard treasure or your two comrades being chosen to accept it; you spent that night here in the tavern, you have no knowledge of why Guinevere hinted that she should soon have a change in station, and you have no knowledge of what happened to the treasure, Culpepper and Mortimer?’
    ‘I speak for us all,’ Sir Maurice abruptly declared. ‘We would also like to know why we are being kept here, and why,’ he added, glaring bitterly at Cranston , ‘two of our comrades, Sir Laurence and Sir Stephen, have been slain, yet their assassin has not been caught.’
    ‘We are searching for the assassin,’ Cranston stood, pushing back the chair, ‘and until we find that person, everyone in this room, not to mention the Judas Man and Brother Malachi, is regarded as a suspect.’
    Athelstan repacked his writing satchel, aware of the ominous silence. Once outside, Cranston put a finger to his lips. He crossed the stable yard and entered the street.
    ‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan pulled up his cowl, adjusting the strap of his writing satchel over his shoulder, ‘that Culpepper or Mortimer, or indeed both of them, could still be alive, and be responsible for these murders? Where is the Judas Man, and Brother Malachi? They have questions to answer.’
    ‘Oh, I forgot to ask them that.’
    Cranston told Athelstan to wait, and strode back into the tavern. The friar waited impatiently, watching two boys play with an inflated pig’s bladder, only to be distracted by two little girls chasing a rat they had disturbed in a rubbish heap. The sun had disappeared. Athelstan felt cold and hungry, and leaned against the gate post.
    ‘It’s time to pray,’ he whispered. ‘To eat and sleep.’
    ‘Well,’ Cranston came striding back through the gate, ‘I asked my question and nobody could help.’
    ‘Yes, Sir John?’
    ‘Did any of them hire the Judas Man? They could tell me nothing, not even his true name. I wonder,’ Cranston tapped his boot on the cobbles, ‘I wonder if the Judas Man was hired, or does he have something to do with those events twenty years ago? I have checked the stables. His horse and harness are still there. I’ll get my searchers out. If necessary I’ll arrest him.’
    ‘Very good, Sir John.’
    ‘You look tired,’ Cranston said kindly. ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your prayers, monk, I’ll see what the Lady Maud has been doing.’
    Cranston walked off down the street.
    ‘Sir John?’
    ‘Yes, Brother?’ Cranston turned.
    ‘I’m a friar.’
    ‘And a very good one too. Good day to you, Brother.’
    Athelstan returned to St Erconwald’s. Some of the parish children were playing in the cemetery. He walked up the steps to the church and into the gloomy nave. He lit some tapers at the Lady Altar and, picking one up, walked round the sanctuary. He visited the chantry chapel and noticed the tapers lying on the floor. The missal was gone, and his curiosity deepened when he found it lying down the nave near a pillar. He hurried across to his house. Nothing seemed amiss, but as soon as he turned the key in the lock, he realised something was wrong, though the kitchen was swept and clean, and the fire built high.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, I am sorry.’
    The friar glanced up in surprise as Brother Malachi came down the ladder from the bed loft. The Benedictine looked as if he had been deeply asleep. Warming his hands over the fire, Malachi told Athelstan all about his visit to the church: how he had been attacked and fled to the house for safety.
    ‘Strange,’ he smiled, ‘I never thought a church could be so dangerous. Brother, I had no choice, there was no one around. I