The Anger of God (8 page)

Athelstan stood perplexed. He was sure that no one had touched anything after Fitzroy’s collapse. He and Cranston had been the first to cross to the stricken man and, even as Fitzroy had sprung to his feet, clutching his throat, Athelstan had carefully watched the men on either side of him. Neither Goodman nor Denny had made any move to take or replace anything on the table. Sir John carefully went through the dead man’s pouch but could find nothing which would explain Fitzroy’s sudden death by poison.

The atmosphere in the hall had now subtly changed. People were drawing apart as the full implications of the day’s events sunk in. Sudbury spoke for them all.

‘My Lord of Gaunt,’ he declared defensively, ‘we began this day in such amity, yet within hours two of our company are dead, foully murdered.’

‘What are you implying?’ Clifford snapped. ‘These deaths cannot be laid at the Lord Regent’s door!’

‘I merely describe what has happened,’ the Guildmaster replied smoothly.

‘Your Grace.’ Determined to take charge of the situation, Gaunt walked towards his nephew. ‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘you should retire. Sir Nicholas!’ He glared at the royal tutor.

‘We will go now,’ Richard declared. ‘But, sweet Uncle, two foul murders have occurred in the Guildhall. Someone must account for them.’ Spinning on his heel, the young King swept out of the Hall of Roses, followed by Hussey and the physician.

Gaunt waited until they had gone. ‘Clear the room!’ he ordered the serjeant-at-arms.

‘Sir,’ the steward spoke up. ‘The banquet is not yet finished. Shall I serve the dessert?’

Gaunt’s look of fury answered his question and the steward and the other servants scuttled from the hall.

Clifford whispered to the archers and soldiers that they too should leave. He had no sooner closed the door behind them than a loud knocking made him re-open it. Athelstan glimpsed a liveried servant who muttered a few words and thrust a piece of parchment into Clifford’s hand. He re-closed the door and walked into the centre of the room, read the parchment then handed it to the Regent. Gaunt studied it and fury flared in his face.

‘Take your seats!’ he ordered. ‘I have news for you.’

They all obeyed, Athelstan and Cranston included. Gaunt sat down in the King’s chair, the piece of parchment held before him. They waited until the four archers, summoned by Clifford, came in and bundled Fitzroy’s corpse unceremoniously into a canvas sheet, carrying it out of the room with as much care as they would a heap of refuse. Gaunt stared round the now silent, watchful guests.

‘I have a proclamation.’ His voice rose to a shout. ‘From the miscreant traitor who calls himself Ira Dei!’ He flung the parchment at Clifford.

The nobleman smoothed it out. ‘“Sir Thomas Fitzroy”,’ Clifford read, ‘“executed for crimes against the people.” signed, Ira Dei.’ He looked up and Athelstan sensed the fear in all of Gaunt’s guests. Even Cranston, not easily intimidated, bowed his head.

‘What is this?’ Goodman muttered hoarsely. ‘Who is this miscreant who can strike down the greatest in the city?’

‘I don’t know.’ Athelstan spoke up, trying to dispel the atmosphere of fear. ‘But now we are assured of three things. First, Fitzroy was murdered. Second, his murder was committed by, or on the orders of, this man who calls himself Ira Dei.’ He paused and looked sideways at Cranston.

‘And third?’ Gaunt questioned.

‘Your Grace, it is obvious. Fitzroy’s death has not been announced publicly. This proclamation, pinned on the Guildhall doors, proves one of two things: either Ira Dei is present in this room and had one of his henchmen attach such a notice, or one of his henchmen is now with us and this Anger of God, as he terms himself, pinned up the notice himself.’

‘What about the guards?’ Cranston asked. ‘We saw them as we came in.’

‘They were withdrawn into the Guildhall once the banquet had begun,’ Gaunt replied crossly.

‘In which case, my clerk must be right,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Whatever interpretation you put on it, Your Grace, you have a murderous traitor in your midst!’

Athelstan’s words had already provoked raised eyebrows. When they were repeated by the Coroner, consternation broke out.

‘What are you saying?’ Goodman shouted, getting to his feet, all court etiquette forgotten.

‘It’s imperative!’ the foppish Denny shouted. ‘Your Grace, we must inspect the gold each of us deposited in the chest in the Guildhall chapel.’ He pulled out the key hanging from his neck on a silver chain, very similar to the one Clifford had removed from the dead Fitzroy.

‘I agree,’ the red-haired Sudbury declared, his face even more flushed from the claret he was gulping. ‘Your Grace, this is a disaster. For all our sakes, the chest must be examined.’

Gaunt looked at Clifford who nodded perceptibly. The Regent removed a silver chain from round his own neck. The key which swung from it glinted in the candlelight.

‘It’s best if we do,’ he agreed.

Clifford called the guards and, led by four serjeants-at-arms bearing torches, Gaunt and his now subdued guests, Cranston and Athelstan included, marched along the vaulted passageways, up the wide wooden stairs and into the small Guildhall chapel. They stood for a while just within the door, peering through the darkness, smelling the fragrance of incense; the guards lit flambeaux, as well as the candles they found on the high altar. The chapel, a small jewel with polished marble pillars, mosaic floor and painted walls, flared into life. The marble altar at the far end was covered by pure white cloths. They walked towards it. Gaunt deftly pulled the cloths aside. Beneath the altar, supported on four pillars, sat a long wooden chest reinforced with iron bands. Even in the poor light, Athelstan could see the six locks along one side.

‘Pull it out!’ Gaunt ordered.

Two soldiers brought it forward so that it stood before the altar. Even this action caused consternation for the chest seemed surprisingly light. Gaunt shouted for silence as he, followed by Clifford, who held Fitzroy’s, inserted and turned their keys. The Guildmasters followed suit, the clasps were lowered and the chest opened. Athelstan and Cranston peered over the shoulders of the others.

‘Nothing!’ Marshall breathed.

Cranston, quicker than the rest, pushed forward and plucked up the piece of yellow parchment lying on the bottom.

‘“These taxes have been collected”,’ he read aloud, ‘“by the Great Community of the Realm.” Signed, Ira Dei.’

‘This is intolerable!’ Denny shouted. ‘My Lord of Gaunt, we have been betrayed in this matter!’

But the Regent, his face white as a ghost, sat slumped in the sanctuary chair, staring into the darkness, his lips moving wordlessly. Cranston, who had known John of Gaunt since he was a boy, had never seen him look so frightened or bewildered.

‘This is the devil’s work,’ Gaunt muttered.

His words were ignored as the other Guildmasters shouted and cursed. Clifford stood, mouth agape, staring down at the empty chest. Cranston shook him roughly by the shoulder.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed. ‘Clear the chapel. This does no one any good.’

Clifford broke out of his reverie and clapped his hands loudly. ‘My Lord of Gaunt must ponder this matter!’ he shouted above the hubbub.

‘What matter?’ Sudbury screamed back. ‘My Lord of Gaunt stretches out his hand and we clasp it. He talks of amity between himself and the city – now two of our company are dead. The gold we deposited here has been stolen and the miscreant, Ira Dei, not only murders and robs but makes a mockery of us all. What shall we report to our Guilds, eh? How do we tell our brethren that thousands of pounds sterling are now missing?’

‘My Lord of Gaunt will act,’ Cranston replied. ‘He is Regent, acting for the Crown. Is any man here going to commit treason and claim my Lord of Gaunt is responsible for this?’ He stared at Goodman the Mayor, leaning against the altar, a look of stupefaction on his face.

‘The chapel is to be cleared. My Lord Mayor, you should stay.’

At last Cranston’s authority prevailed and the Guildmasters, muttering amongst themselves and throwing black glances over their shoulders, trooped out of the chapel. Gaunt waited until the door closed behind them then lifted his face from his hands.

‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I thank you for that.’ He got to his feet. ‘But what shall we do? The Guildmasters are right. Each has lost a thousand pounds sterling. Mountjoy and Fitzroy are dead, and Ira Dei dances round me as if I was some bloody maypole.’ He gestured with his hand. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, Goodman and Lord Adam Clifford likewise. Gaunt covered his face with his hands then rubbed his eyes and looked at Cranston.

‘What do you propose, My Lord Coroner?’

Cranston shook his head. Athelstan caught a spark of anger in the Regent’s eyes. Sir John would have to move quickly or he might well become the scapegoat for the rage boiling in the Regent’s heart.

‘Your Grace.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. He tried to shake off his own tiredness, curbing his desire to flee back to his own quiet church in Southwark.

‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘two men have been foully murdered, but all assassins make mistakes and we have yet to reflect upon the events of this calamitous day. However, the removal of the gold from a chest which could only be opened by six separate keys is most mysterious. I have a number of questions. First, who made the chest?’

‘Peter Sturmey,’ Clifford replied, ‘a trusted locksmith whose services are retained by the Crown. I doubt very much whether he would act the traitor in this. His own son is an Exchequer official who was recently in an affray at Colchester whilst trying to collect taxes.’

Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Then what about the chest itself? My Lord Regent, perhaps we might examine it?’

Gaunt grunted his assent and Athelstan, assisted by Cranston and Clifford, with Goodman looking on, turned the chest over, knocking at the wooden panelling, examining the locks.

Cranston shook his head. ‘Good and true,’ he breathed, getting to his feet. ‘The chest has no secret compartments.’ He studied the clasp and locks. ‘None of these has been tampered with.’

Athelstan flicked the dust from his robes. ‘Therefore, my third question. Could there have been a master key?’

‘Impossible!’ Clifford snapped. ‘Each lock is unique.’ He drew out two of the keys which the Guildmasters had left, I am no locksmith, Brother, but study these carefully. Look!’ He held both of them up against the candlelight. ‘See the curves and notches of each key? They are quite separate and distinct. Indeed, my Lord of Gaunt insisted that they be so.’

Athelstan rubbed his mouth to hide his dismay.

‘Your fourth question begs itself,’ Clifford added. ‘Did Sturmey make a duplicate of each key? But that,’ he continued hurriedly, seeing the Regent shake his head, ‘would make Sturmey a traitor who cheerfully handed over his keys to another for the locks to be opened.’

‘Devil’s tits!’ Cranston murmured. ‘How could it be done? Was the chapel guarded?’

Goodman shrugged. ‘No, why should it be? The chest was heavy with gold, and with six locks . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘Who planned all this?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, the gold ingots, the chest?’

Clifford pulled a face and looked at Goodman. ‘The idea of the chest and the gold being deposited there,’ he replied, ‘came from my Lord of Gaunt, though it was myself and Sir Gerard Mountjoy who chose Sturmey.’ He smiled. ‘The Guildmasters insisted on that.’

‘Because they didn’t trust me!’ Gaunt snapped. ‘I had nothing to do with the construction of the chest or the fashioning of its locks or the making of its keys. Both I and the Guildmasters decided we should best leave that to our worthy city officials here. They brought the chest and the keys direct from Sturmey’s shop this morning.’

‘And, before you ask,’ Lord Adam intervened, ‘never once did any of them hold all six keys together. My Lord Mayor bought three, Mountjoy the rest. The transaction was witnessed by both Fitzroy and Sudbury and the chest was carried by city bailiffs.’

Cranston looked, narrow-eyed, into the darkness, a gesture the Coroner always used when he was deep in thought.

‘Sir John Athelstan exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’

Cranston smacked his lips, a sure sign that, even at this very late hour, he was beginning to miss his claret.

‘Sturmey,’ he said. ‘The name of Sturmey means something to me. Now why is that, eh? Why should a reputable locksmith, patronized by the great and the noble, strike a chord in my old memory?’

Athelstan grinned. Cranston’s memory was prodigious. He knew the names and most of the faces of London’s rogues and, even in a crowded Cheapside, could bellow out warnings to pickpockets and foists.

‘What does Sturmey’s name mean to you?’ Gaunt asked quickly.

The Coroner shook his head. ‘It will come.’ He bowed. ‘My Lord Regent, if you will excuse me and my clerk, it is imperative we call on this locksmith tonight. Where does he live?’

‘In Lawrence Lane, just off the Mercery,’ Clifford replied.

‘Then,’ Cranston grinned at Athelstan who just glared back in tired annoyance, ‘we’d best call upon master locksmith of Lawrence Lane near the Mercery and ask him a few questions, eh?’ He bowed to the Regent once more. Gaunt looked away. Cranston shrugged and walked down the church, a despondent Athelstan trailing behind.

‘Cranston!’

Sir John turned. Gaunt was now standing on the altar steps.

‘You know the Guildmasters will be back. Oh, they’ll be reasonable. They’ll demand their gold and their answers within a set time.’ He wagged a finger. ‘I need answers, too, my Lord Coroner, within ten days at the most.’ He left the unspoken threat hanging in the air as Cranston spun on his heel and walked out of the Guildhall chapel.

Once out in Cheapside Cranston stopped and stared up at the moon. ‘The devil’s piss on them!’ he cursed. ‘Cock’s blood! What a stinking pot of turds! What a mess! The whoreson, beetle-headed, fat-bellied, treacherous bastards!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘You are, My Lord Coroner, referring to our brothers in Christ, the Guildmasters?’