The House of Shadows

pickpocket, nicknamed ‘Golden Thumb’, failed to provoke him.
    Cranston was fascinated by what Helena had told him. Was Edward Mortimer still alive? Was he still sending money to his sister? But, more importantly, had Malachi the Benedictine hired the Judas Man? Was Athelstan correct? Had the Night in Jerusalem become a spiritual magnet drawing in all the sins from the past? Cranston recalled his own schooling along the chilly transepts of St Paul’s Cathedral. His masters taught him about the Furies of Ancient Greece who pursued criminals down the tunnel of the years and always caught their victim. Everyone who had gathered at the Night in Jerusalem, as well as those who hadn’t, such as old Bohun and Helena, was linked mysteriously to that great robbery twenty years ago. Except one: the Judas Man hunting the Misericord, yet he had never made any reference to Mortimer or Culpepper. Had Malachi been searching for the Misericord because that rogue, now dead and rotting in a casket, did possess some knowledge about the Lombard treasure and the men who stole it? Yet there seemed to be no tie between Malachi and the Judas Man. He had never even seen them speak together. Cranston cursed his own memory, though he was certain Malachi had denied any knowledge of that ruthless hunter of men.
    ‘Don’t lurk here!’
    Cranston whirled round and quickly apologised to the fierce-eyed old lady who had appeared in the doorway resting on a cane. He remembered why he was here and continued his journey to West Cheap and the shop of the goldsmith Master James Lundy. Two beautiful blonde-haired girls were playing outside, well dressed in their smocks of fustian. They announced that they were Master James’ daughters and pointed through the doorway where their father was instructing apprentices who manned the stalls outside. Cranston walked in. James Lundy was small, his black hair swept back. He looked up as Cranston entered, and his gentle face creased into a smile.
    ‘Well I never, Sir John!’
    They clasped hands and Lundy took him into the counting office at the back of the shop, a small, lime-washed chamber, its heavy oaken doors bound with steel and its only window a fortified hole. Chests and coffers, all neatly labelled, were grouped against the wall or on the heavy wooden shelves higher up. Lundy waved him to a stool.
    ‘Sir John, to what do I owe this pleasure?’
    ‘Helena Mortimer.’ Cranston decided to ignore the niceties. ‘I respect you, Master James, but my business is urgent. Every quarter you send a pouch to her house in Poor Jewry.’
    ‘To be just as blunt, Sir John, I don’t know what’s in that pouch or why it is sent. I am a banker, a goldsmith. People trust me with their valuables and their secrets.’
    ‘How is the man dressed?’
    Lundy smiled. ‘You’ve visited Mistress Helena, haven’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t know it’s a man. Sir John, he comes to my shop cowled and masked. He gives me the purse and coins for my trouble. I give him a receipt and he leaves.’
    ‘Aren’t you suspicious?’
    ‘What he does is not a crime. People make reparation, pay compensation,- if they want to keep their faces and motives hidden, who am I to insist? That’s all I can say.’
    Cranston thanked him and left, fully determined to pay a visit to the Lamb of God and then return to Southwark to question Brother Malachi.



Chapter 10

    Athelstan had risen early and roused Malachi from the makeshift truckle bed he’d set up under the bed loft. They had both prepared for Mass, celebrating it just after dawn, before returning to the priest’s house. Malachi was profuse in his gratitude, fearful, as he said, about returning to the Night in Jerusalem . Athelstan kept insisting that he could stay at St Erconwald’s as long as he liked. He repeated his promise over bowls of steaming oatmeal laced with honey, followed by rather stale bread, salted bacon, and the dark brown ale Athelstan had warmed over the fire as Cranston had taught him. Malachi now felt more at ease since his assault and Athelstan easily understood the horror the Benedictine had been through. The fresh light of day illuminated the marks in the church where the assassin’s daggers had smashed into the walls. The Benedictine had recovered his poise and ate hungrily. He accepted Athelstan’s hospitality and said he would return to the Night in Jerusalem to collect his belongings, as well as buy provisions for the pantry and