The House of Shadows

been no sight of the treasure, or those two knights or the boatmen they hired. Now, you were a Serjeant in the Tower at that time.’
    ‘I suppose I haven’t long left,’ Bohun rubbed his hands together, ‘and I’m not sure of the importance or truth of what I’m going to say, but,’ he sipped at his drink, ‘the Tower was full of Gaunt’s men, archers, footmen and household knights. The Lombards brought their treasure in on a cart.’
    ‘How big was the chest?’
    ‘About a yard long, and a little more in height. A great black oaken chest, stiffened with iron bands. It had three locks and someone told me that the keys had already been given to the Admiral of the Fleet.’ Bohun closed his eyes, eager to remember details. ‘The chest was taken into the Norman Tower . The Lombards had pressed their seals on it, and so did John of Gaunt. I remember him, how can you forget that golden hair, those light blue eyes? I saw that chest because it was kept in the same cellar as the wine. Two days later it was gone, that’s all I know. When the news came of the robbery Gaunt was beside himself with rage. He locked himself in the royal quarters, refusing to meet anybody, even messengers sent from his father the King.’
    ‘And you know nothing?’ Cranston showed surprise.
    ‘Sir John, the treasure was meant to be a great secret. I don’t know what happened to it or its guardians. But I tell you this, Edward Mortimer was one of John of Gaunt’s henchmen. Oh yes,’ he smiled at Cranston’s expression, ‘Mortimer sealed indentures with him, fought in his retinue in Gascony ,- that’s where he met Culpepper. And did you also know, Sir John, in the days preceding the Great Robbery, Culpepper and Mortimer were regular visitors to the Tower, met by no less a person than the Regent himself. Of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there’s nothing wrong in that. They had been given a secret mission. Sometimes a woman came with them.’
    ‘A woman with golden hair?’
    ‘No, Sir John. This woman was small and dark. She often stayed in the refectory, being served by the pantry man.’
    ‘Who was she?’
    ‘At first I thought she was Mortimer’s woman. In fact she was his sister Helena. Very close to her brother she was, owned a house in Poor Jewry.’
    Cranston drained his tankard in one swallow and jumped up, ready to leave.
    ‘Now to where, Sir John?’
    ‘Helena Mortimer in Poor Jewry. Is she still alive?’
    ‘God knows, Sir John.’
    ‘Well, if she is, I’ll find her.’
    Cranston thanked his old friend profusely, said he would ask Brother Athelstan to say a Mass for him and hurried off towards Aldgate. He threaded his way through the back streets of the City, the alleyways which ran alongside the City ditch from St Giles to St Mary Axe Street , and into Poor Jewry. This was a broad thoroughfare, the houses on either side old and high, built on stone bases, the tops leaning over so dramatically they created a tunnel with only a strip of sky between them. A respectable although shabby quarter of the City, with garish signs hanging from hooks above shop doorways; a street where one could buy expensive leather goods and silver trinkets. Most of the houses were no longer owned by a single occupant, but each floor was leased out by absent landlords. Cranston made enquiries in a small ale shop at the corner of an alleyway.
    ‘Helena Mortimer?’ the ale-wife replied. ‘What business do you have with her?’
    She studied this large man with his beaver cap and fur-lined robe, who drank her ale, smacking his lips in appreciation. Cranston fished beneath his robe and brought out his seal of office.
    ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City.’
    The ale-wife became all flustered, snatched the tankard from his hand and almost hurried him out through the door, pointing him further down the street.
    ‘The second house past the shop. You’ll find the door open. Helena lives on the bottom floor.’
    Cranston thanked her, and when he reached the place, almost collided with a small, swarthy woman, her black hair lined with grey, coming out of the door. She had a round, smiling face with smooth skin, and gracefully accepted, in a lilting voice, Cranston’s apologies.
    ‘Helena Mortimer?’
    ‘The same.’
    The woman stepped back in alarm; Cranston produced his seal.
    ‘I must have words with you about your brother Edward.’
    ‘Have you found him?’
    ‘Not yet, mistress.’
    Helena led him back into the house along a