The Anger of God (12 page)

The door was flung open and a small, hairy-faced little creature appeared. A veritable mannikin. Athelstan smiled at Robert Burdon, father of at least thirteen children and constable of the gate tower.

‘Oh, it’s you, Cranston. What do you want?’

‘Can I come in?’ Sir John asked.

‘No, you bloody well can’t! I’m busy!’

Cranston stared up at the spikes above the gatehouse and their grisly burdens: the decapitated heads of traitors and malefactors.

‘Fine,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But who’s stealing the heads?’

‘I don’t bloody well know!’ Burdon replied, sticking his thumbs in his belt, his little dark eyes glaring at Athelstan. ‘What am I supposed to do, Father? My job is very simple. I’m to guard the gatehouse and place the heads on the spikes, and I always look after them. However, if some vile viper wishes to come and steal them, what can I do?’ He puffed his little chest out till he reminded Athelstan even more of a cock sparrow, I am a constable, not a guard.’

‘Robert!’ The woman’s voice inside was soft and alluring.

‘My wife,’ Burdon explained. ‘She’ll tell you the same. I don’t know what happened, Sir John. I goes to bed, the heads are there. I wakes up and, though there’s a guard here, the heads are gone.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think it’s witch hags,’ he whispered, ‘The night riders.’

‘Bollocks!’ Cranston roared.

‘Well, that’s the only bloody answer you’re going to get from me, so sod off!’ Burdon disappeared, slamming the door behind him.

Cranston sighed, shook his head and took a generous swig from the wineskin.

‘Come on, Brother.’

‘Who do you think is stealing the heads?’ Athelstan asked, threading Philomel’s reins round his wrist and riding alongside Cranston.

‘God knows, Brother. This city is full of every fiend in Hell. It could be a warlock or witch. The Corporation were particularly angry at the disappearance of the head of that French privateer, Jacques Larue – you remember, the one taken off Gravesend? Mystery after mystery,’ Cranston moaned. He stopped outside the chapel of St Thomas built midway along the bridge.

‘Forget the stealer of heads,’ he muttered. ‘Who gives a damn? Burdon doesn’t, and the guards of the Corporation are half-sodden with drink.’ He nodded at the iron-studded chapel door. ‘Years ago, when I was lean and lithe, a veritable greyhound, Oliver Ingham and I came here to take our vows as knights and consecrate our swords to the service of the King. So many years ago.’ The tears pricked at Sir John’s eyes.

‘Now I’m fat and old and Oliver lies murdered, left stinking in his bed, with the rats gnawing at his corpse, by a hard-hearted harridan from hell. She murdered him! You know that, Athelstan. I know that. She knows that.’

‘And so does God,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘Come on, Sir John, leave it be.’

They crossed the bridge and turned right into Billingsgate where the fish market was in full swing. The din of the cries and commotion of both sellers and buyers beat against their ears like the buzzing of a hornet’s nest. The whole of the wharf seemed to be covered in hand barrows: some laden with baskets, others with sacks. Alongside the river bank, the tangled rigging of the fishing boats reminded Athelstan of seaports; the smell of fish, whelks, red herrings, sprats and cod was almost overpowering.

‘Handsome cod, best in the market!’ a stall owner bawled at them. ‘Beautiful lobsters, good and cheap! Fine cock crabs, all alive!’ another shouted.

Cranston and Athelstan led their horses past stalls where the white bellies of turbot shone like mother-of-pearl next to blood-scarlet lobsters. Brown baskets full of wriggling eels stood round bowls of whelks being boiled alive above steaming cauldrons.

‘Where are we going to?’ Athelstan whispered.

Cranston pointed to a large tavern which stood in splendid isolation at the far end of the market. ‘The Ship of Fools,’ he said.

Athelstan groaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, you have had claret enough.’

‘Sod that!’ Cranston shouted back above the din. ‘We are here to see the Fisher of Men.’ But he refused to elaborate any further.

In the tavern yard an ostler took their horses and they walked into the great taproom which stank of beer, ale and salted fish.

‘Your servant.’ A bandy-legged tavern keeper touched his forelock, his small, greedy eyes never leaving the heavy purse on Sir John’s belt.

‘A cup of claret for me, some . . .’

‘Ale,’ Athelstan supplied.

‘Ale for my clerk, and another cup of claret for the Fisher of Men. I, Sir John Cranston, Coroner, wish to see him.’

The landlord’s manner became even more servile. He conducted Cranston and Athelstan as grandly as he would any prince to a small alcove with a table beneath a window overlooking the river. He fetched two deep bowls of claret, a stoup of ale, and gushingly assured Sir John that he had already sent a boy for the Fisher of Men.

‘Who is this?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The Fisher of Men,’ Cranston replied, sipping from his cup, ‘is a Crown official. There are five in all, working the banks of the river. This one has authority from the Fish Wharf near St Botolph’s down to Petty Wales next to the Tower.’

‘Yes, but what do they do?’

‘They fish bodies from the Thames. Murder victims, suicides, those who have suffered accidents, drunks. If a man’s alive they are paid twopence. For a murder victim threepence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’

‘Sir John.’

Athelstan looked up as a tall, thin figure silently appeared beside them. Cranston waved to the stool and cup of wine.

‘Be our guest, sir.’

The man stepped out of the shadows. As he sat down Athelstan fought to hide his distaste. The fellow had red, lanky, greasy hair which fell to his shoulders and framed a face as grim as a death mask, alabaster white, a mouth like that of a fish, a snub nose and black button eyes. Cranston made the introductions and the Fisher of Men glanced expressionlessly at the friar.

‘You have come to view the corpse?’

Athelstan nodded.

‘Bobbing he was,’ the man replied. ‘Bobbing like a cork. You see, most murder victims are loaded with stones but this one was strange.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you see, Sir John,’ the man sipped from his wine cup, face rigid, eyes unblinking, ‘it’s very rare I meet my customers before they die,’ he explained. ‘But yesterday, later in the afternoon, just after the market closed, I came out of St Mary at Hill for my usual walk along the wharf. I like to study the river, the currents, the breeze.’ The strange fellow wanned to his theme. ‘The river tells you a lot. If it’s rough or the wind is strong, the corpses are taken out mid-stream. Yesterday I thinks: The river’s calm, she means me well. The corpses will be lapped into shore.’

Athelstan hid a shiver.

‘Now there was a man walking up and down, up and down, as if he was waiting for someone. Oh, I thinks, a suicide if ever I saw one. However, I didn’t wish to be greedy, so I walks away. The man was standing behind the stalls, between them and the riverside. I hears a cry. I looks around. The man has gone.’ The fellow sipped from his wine cup. I runs back along the quayside and there he is, bobbing in the river, arms extended, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. I had my fishing line.’

The fellow tapped the leather pouches round his waist. ‘I had him in, clipped my mark on his chest and took him to my shop.’

‘Shop?’ Athelstan queried.

‘You’ll see.’

Cranston looked warningly at Athelstan.

‘But there was no one else?’ the Coroner asked. ‘You saw no one around?’

The fellow shook his head.

‘No one at all. I tell you, Sir John, the place was deserted. I saw no one. I heard no one.’

‘But how?’ Athelstan broke in. ‘How can someone approach Sturmey, stick a knife in his heart then disappear like a puff of smoke?’

The Fisher of Men shrugged and drained his wine cup. ‘I only takes the bodies out,’ he replied. ‘I don’t account for why they died. Come, I’ll show you.’

He led them out of the tavern, down a side street and turned into a narrow alleyway. He stopped beside a long barn-like structure and opened the padlocked door. Athelstan immediately covered his face and mouth against the terrible stench. The Fisher of Men lit torches, the pitch spluttered into life and Athelstan gazed round at the trestle tables, about a dozen in all, which filled the room. Some were empty but others bore bundles covered by leather sheets.

‘Now, which one’s Sturmey?’ the Fisher of Men muttered to himself. He pulled back one sheet. ‘No, that’s the suicide.’ He stopped, a finger to his lips, and pointed to another covered bundle. ‘And that’s the drunk. So this,’ he said triumphantly pulling back the sheet, ‘must be Sturmey!’

The dead locksmith lay sprawled there, his face a ghastly white, his hair and clothes sodden. In the centre of his chest was a dark purple stain. Beside the corpse lay a long knife. Athelstan picked it up gingerly.

‘The same type, ‘he murmured,’ as used on Mountjoy.’ He took another look at the corpse. Cranston turned away and busily helped himself to his wineskin.

‘How do you know it’s Sturmey?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He had a list of provisions in his wallet with his name on,’ the Fisher of Men replied. ‘And My Lord Coroner had already directed myself and others of my Guild to search for this man.’ His face became even longer. ‘The rest you know. Have you seen enough?’

‘Hell’s teeth, yes!’ Cranston snapped. ‘Cover his face!’

‘When you pay the threepence, Sir John, I’ll release the corpse.’

Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘All right! All right!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Athelstan, let’s get out of here!’

Cranston and Athelstan walked back to collect their horses from the stable.

‘A cup of claret, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Tell me, have you remembered why you knew Sturmey’s name?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘But one thing I do know: Brother, Sturmey was killed because he knew something. He could solve the mystery of how the chest was robbed.’ Cranston stared as two lepers, garbed completely in black, crept along the street, fearful of being recognized. ‘Sturmey was lured,’ he continued, ‘down to Billingsgate. But why? What forced a reputable locksmith to become involved in treason and robbery?’

‘There’s only one answer, Sir John. I doubt if he was bribed so the answer must be blackmail. If you search your prodigious memory, I am sure you’ll find something rather unsavoury about Master Sturmey.’

Cranston nodded and they led their horses further up the street, where their attention was drawn to a huge crowd which had assembled around a sinister figure dressed in goatskin. The man had long, grey hair falling down over his shoulders, the lower half of his face was hidden behind a thick, bushy beard; strange mad eyes scanned the crowds, fascinated by this latter-day prophet and the tall, burning cross he was holding. The latter, coated with pitch and tar along the cross beam, burnt fiercely, the flames and black smoke only emphasizing the mad preacher’s warnings.

‘This city has been condemned like Sodom and Gomorrah! Like those of Tyre and Sidon and the fleshpots of the plain to bear the brunt of God’s anger!’ The man flung one sinewy arm towards Cheapside. ‘I bring the burning cross to this city as a warning of the fires yet to come! So repent ye, you rich who loll in silk on golden couches and drink the juices of wine and stuff your mouth with the softest meats!’

Cranston and Athelstan watched the man rant on, even as soldiers wearing both the livery of the city and of John of Gaunt began to make their presence felt, pouring out of alleyways leading down to the Tower. The soldiers forced their way through the throng with the flats of their swords in an attempt to seize the mad prophet. The mob resisted, their mood sullen; fights broke out and, when Athelstan looked again, the preacher and his fiery cross had disappeared.

‘Come on, Sir John, I have a confession to make.’

He led the Coroner further away from the tumult.

‘What is it, Brother?’

‘This leader of the Great Community, Ira Dei. He has sent me a warning.’ Athelstan carefully described his strange visitation earlier in the day as well as the proclamation pinned to his church door.

Cranston, tight-lipped, heard him out, so concerned he even forgot his miraculous wineskin.

‘Why would they approach me?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston blew out his lips. ‘Fear and flattery, Brother. Fear because he knows you are my clerk and secretarius.’

‘And secondly, Sir John?’

Cranston gave a lop-sided smile. ‘You are rather modest for a priest, Athelstan. Haven’t you realized how in Southwark, amongst the poor and the downtrodden, you are respected, even revered?’

Athelstan blushed and looked away.

‘That’s ridiculous!’ he whispered.

‘Oh no, it isn’t!’ Cranston snapped, moving on. ‘Forget Ira Dei, Brother. When the rebellion comes, it will be priests like yourself, John More and Jack Straw, who will lead the commons.’

‘I’ll hide in my church,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Speaking of which . . .’ He stopped outside St Dunstan’s, looping Philomel’s reins through one of the hooks placed on the wall.

‘What’s the matter, Brother?’

‘I want to think, Sir John, and pray. I advise you to do likewise.’

Muttering and cursing, Cranston hobbled his own horse, took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin and followed Athelstan into the cool, dark porch.

Inside the church was lit by the occasional torch with candles placed around statues of the Virgin, St Joseph and St Dunstan, as well as the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows which made the pictures depicted there flare into life in glorious rays of colour. Athelstan stared admiringly up at these.

‘I’d love one of those!’ he whispered. ‘Just one for St Erconwald!’

He looked again and, as he did so, Cranston took one small nip from his wineskin and followed the friar down the nave to sit on a bench before the rood screen. Behind this, in the choir stalls, the master singer and his choir were rehearsing the Mass of St Michael. Athelstan sat on the bench, closed his eyes and listened to the words.