The House of the Red Slayer

the leper’s squint for these two unfortunates to swallow. Athelstan smiled to himself. That’s where the chalk had come from. They reached the grave. Pike and Watkin unceremoniously rolled old Tosspot into the shallow hole and, whilst Athelstan muttered some prayers, hastily covered it with icy lumps of clay. Athelstan then blessed the grave and with Watkin daddy hoping the body would stay there, they all trooped back into the church. Athelstan chose to ignore the dung-collector’s dire speculation. The grave robbers, whoever they were, seemed to have disappeared. Perhaps moved on to vex some other unfortunate priest. He swept up the nave under the chancel screen and into the small, icy sacristy. Athelstan jumped as a large figure loomed out of the shadows.
    ‘Sir John!‘ he snapped. ‘Must you lurk like some thief in the night?’
    Cranston grinned slyly. ‘I must have words with you, Brother, and not here.’
    Athelstan looked at him carefully. ‘You’ve been drinking, Sir John?’
    Cranston smirked. ‘Yes and no. Quick! I’ll wait whilst you divest.‘
    Athelstan hid his irritation. He doffed his chasuble, stole and cope, hastily hung them in the cupboard, gave a wide-eyed Crim a penny for his help then bustled Sir John back into the church. He beckoned to Benedicta who was standing near the baptismal font.
    ‘Lock the sacristy, please,’ he whispered to her. ‘And then clear the church.’ Athelstan looked around. ‘Watkin!’ he shouted. The dung-collector ambled slowly over, one eye on Sir John. ‘Watkin,’ Athelstan confided, ‘I will be gone for some time. You are to ensure the candles are doused and the church is kept safe and, if you are so concerned about the cemetery, keep a watch there yourself.’
    The sexton looked hurt and Athelstan could have bitten out his tongue. He had not intended to be so sharp but Cranston’s secretive arrival had unnerved him. The friar led the coroner out of the church. Cranston saw Bonaventure fairly skipping along to greet him but he had no desire to have that bloody cat rubbing up against his leg, so hustled Athelstan out to collect their horses.
    ‘Follow me, my Mephistopheles,’ he murmured. ‘To a place of warmth and security.’
    They crossed the beaten track, dodging between the heavywheeled carts, and led their horses down to London Bridge and into the welcoming warmth of the Piebald Horse tavern. Cranston loved this place, a veritable den of iniquity but one which sold good ales, fine wine and delicious food. Of course, the coroner personally knew Joscelyn, the tapster.
    ‘A real sinner,’ he had once described him as, ‘who will get into heaven because he has stolen the gates.‘
    Athelstan agreed; the landlord of the Piebald Horse was a one-armed, reformed sea pirate who had confidentially explained to the friar how he would love to go to church but the smell of incense always made him feel ill. Athelstan smiled to himself. He found it strange that he had just buried Tosspot who used to clean the platters and tankards in this very tavern. The friar gazed round. The place looked cleaner, fresh plaster on the wall, the beams newly painted, whilst the rushes underfoot were fresh and sweet-smelling. Joscelyn waddled towards them. The old rogue’s vein-streaked face was wreathed in smiles, his good hand scratching his chin as he relished the prospect of a fine profit. Sir John was a prodigious drinker and was well loved by the city’s taverners.
    ‘My Lord Coroner,’ Joscelyn gave a mock bow, ‘you are most welcome to my humble abode.’
    ‘By the sod, you old bastard!’ Cranston roared. ‘Have you gone back to your old, wicked ways? Where did you get the sustenance to clean this sewer of iniquity?’
    Joscelyn shrugged and spread his one good hand, fingers splayed out. ‘I have a new partner,’ he announced proudly, ‘who sold his own tavern near the Barbican and moved across the river to be free from the prying of certain coroners!’
    Cranston roared with laughter and led Athelstan over to the far corner where a table and stools were set apart from the rest of the customers. Athelstan felt rather embarrassed. Near the wine tuns, he noticed Pike the ditcher, the clay of the cemetery still fresh on his hands, deep in hushed conversation with a group of strangers. The Great Community, Athelstan thought, peasants from the snow-covered fields outside the city, slipping in to talk sedition, plan treason and plot rebellion. Pike noticed