The House of the Red Slayer

that necessary, Sir John?’ Athelstan whispered.
    ‘Yes, Brother, it was!’ Cranston snapped. ‘This city is ruled by fear. If a trader can mock me, in a week every bastard in London will follow suit.’
    Cranston scowled as two beadles, summoned by the commotion, approached. The self-important looks on their smug faces faded as they recognised Sir John.
    ‘My Lord Coroner!‘ one of them gasped. ‘What is it you want?’
    Cranston pointed to the beggar’s corpse. ‘Have that removed!’ he bellowed. ‘You know your job. God knows how long the poor bastard has been lying there. Now move it before I kick both your arses!‘
    The beadles backed off, bowing and scraping as if the coroner was the Regent himself. Cranston turned and flicked his fingers at the urchin. The boy, arms and legs as thin as sticks, his eyes dark and round in a long, white face, came over, his thumb stuck in his mouth.
    ‘Here, lad!’ Cranston pushed the two shillings into an emaciated hand. ‘Now, go to Greyfriars. You know it? Between Newgate and St Martin’s Lane. Ask for Brother Ambrose. Tell him Sir John sent you.’
    The boy, the money clenched tightly in his fist, stared back, spat neatly between Cranston’s boots and scampered off.
    The coroner watched him go. ‘The preacher Ball is correct,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon this city will burn with the fires of revolt if the rich do not get off their fat arses and do more to help!’ He turned, his face now grave and serious. ‘Believe me, Brother, God’s angel stands at the threshold, the flailing rod of divine retribution in his hand. When that day comes,’ Cranston rasped, ‘there will be more violent deaths than there are people in this marketplace!‘
    Athelstan nodded in agreement and stared around. Oh, the marketplace was full of wealthy traders, merchants draped in furs, the wealthy artisans in jackets of rabbit and moleskin. Most looked well fed, plump even, but in the alleyways off the markets, Athelstan saw the poor, not like those in his parish but the landless men driven from their farms, flocking into the city to look for work though none was to be had. The Guilds controlled everything and soon these vagrants would be turned out, forced across London Bridge to swell the slums and violent underworld of Southwark.
    ‘Come on, Sir John,’ he murmured.
    They pushed on up the Mercery, standing aside as a group of debtors from the Marshalsea, linked by chains, moved through the crowd, begging for alms both for themselves and other inmates. They found the Three Cranes tavern at the corner of an alleyway just opposite St Mary Le Bow. Benedicta was waiting for them, seated before a roaring fire; beside her on the ground, crouched like a little dog, sat Orme, one of Watkin the dung-collector’s sons. Athelstan slipped him a penny, patted him lightly on the head, and the boy scampered off.
    ‘Well, Benedicta, you left my church in good order?’
    The widow smiled and unloosed the clasp of her cloak. Athelstan suddenly wondered what she would look like in a bright dress of scarlet taffeta rather than the dark browns, greens and blues she always wore.
    ‘All is well?’ he repeated hastily.
    Benedicta grinned. ‘Cecily the courtesan and Watkin’s wife were screaming abuse at each other, but apart from that, you will be sorry to hear, the church still stands. Sir John, you are well?’ She twisted her head to catch the coroner’s eye as he scowled across at the innkeeper who was busy gossiping to the other customers around the great wine barrels.
    ‘My Lady,’ Cranston retorted, ‘I would feel better —‘ he raised his voice to a bellow ‘—I would feel better if I got some custom, and the attention due to a King’s officer!‘
    The landlord kept chatting so Cranston strode across, roaring for a cup of sack and wine for his companions. ‘What’s wrong with Sir John?’ Benedicta whispered.
    ‘I don’t know. I think the Lady Maude has upset him. She is being mysterious and secretive.’
    ‘Strange,’ Benedicta mused. ‘I meant to tell you, Brother, Lady Maude was seen in Southwaric over a week ago. She is so memorable, so petite and sweet-faced.’ Benedicta screwed up her eyes. ‘Yes, I am sure they told me she was coming out of Doctor Vincentius’ house.’
    ‘Is he a ladies’ man?’ Athelstan asked hastily, and wished he could have bitten his tongue out the moment he spoke. Benedicta stared coolly back.
    ‘Brother Athelstan,’ she replied,