Once he did, Cranston introduced his eccentric-looking visitor, Bartholomew Shoreditch, commonly known as the firedrake ‘for his skill, knowledge and expertise with all forms of fire’. The firedrake was a short, dumpy man clothed entirely in dark red including his cloak, cowl and soft Spanish boots. He preened himself like a peacock as Cranston went on to explain how the firedrake was one of his confidants, much respected by the London guilds, especially the chandlers, wool and coal merchants not to mention the great lords of the Guildhall. The firedrake was all neat and precise in his actions with closely shorn greying hair, his snub-nosed face clean-shaved and oiled. The firedrake definitely loved all things glittering. Rings shimmered on his fat fingers. Around his neck hung a collection of gold and silver chains adorned with medals depicting martyrs such as St Lawrence the Deacon who’d been grilled to death over a slow fire.
‘He used to start fires himself, did little Bartholomew,’ Cranston explained, ‘until his uncle Jack caught him, pilloried him, put him in the Fleet prison and gave him a lecture he’ll never forget all the God-given days of his life. Isn’t that right, my lovely?’
‘Truly, Sir John.’ The firedrake extended a hand gloved in a gauntlet of blood-red velvet studded with imitation diamonds.
Athelstan grasped this.
‘I’ve now seen the error of my ways, Brother. Good to meet you, Sir John often talks about you.’
‘What exactly do you do?’ Athelstan asked when the firedrake released his hand.
‘I am a journeyman, Brother. I advise my many customers and clients about candles, fires and chimney stacks as well as the storing and charging of faggots, the properties of oil, the difference between waxes, coal and charcoal, not to forget the careful preservation of cannon powder.’
Little wonder, Athelstan thought, the fellow looked so prosperous, especially at this time of year.
‘Brokersby’s death?’ Cranston declared. ‘The firedrake wants to discover what happened.’
Athelstan took their guest out into the precincts. The abbey was still disturbed by the cruel death of Leda. No one interfered when Athelstan escorted the firedrake to the guest house to inspect the charred, derelict chamber. The firedrake moved swiftly. He scrutinized the floor, walls and ceilings, concentrating on where the bed, table and candle had stood. He opened his pannier, donned a leather apron, took off his gauntlets, crouched and sifted amongst the ash, dust and fragments, letting them run through his fingers whilst questioning Athelstan on what had actually happened and what he had learnt. The firedrake picked up a piece of charred leather rim and the blackened remains of what looked like a stopper to a wineskin. He held these up.
‘You are correct, Brother Athelstan. The candle provided the spark but something else started the fire, yet how that was done I truly don’t know. Look,’ he pushed back his sleeves, ‘can I talk to the abbey chandler? Afterwards just leave me – out of friendship for you and Sir John, I will do what I can.’
Athelstan agreed. He took the firedrake across to the abbey chandlery. At first the brother responsible was wary and suspicious but the firedrake’s enthusiasm swiftly charmed him and soon both were immersed in discussing the properties of wax and which were the most important to use. Athelstan left them to it and joined Sir John sitting on a turf bench overlooking the abbey herb gardens. For a while they sat in silence. Athelstan thought about the swan, the ugly warning behind its brutal death and that painting of the beautiful Susannah. He recalled the anchorite all agitated and fearful.
‘How times change, Sir John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lady Purity,’ Athelstan asked, ‘otherwise known as Mistress Quicksilver – that was her reputation?’
‘I am as certain of it as I am sitting here.’
‘Then, Sir John, I want you to seek an urgent interview with Lord Walter, I mean now. The woman calling herself Eleanor Remiet must also be present.’
‘The abbot’s private life is not within our writ, Friar.’
‘He certainly needs to be warned about the Upright Men.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And his doxy, his leman, needs to be counselled on the evils of blackmail.’ Athelstan grinned at the surprise on the coroner’s face.
‘Please,’ Athelstan squeezed Cranston’s hand, ‘let me collect my thoughts. All will be revealed.’
The coroner rose and strode off, clapping his hands against the cold. Athelstan went into the abbey church. He lit a candle before the lady altar and stared up at the subtle carving of the Virgin and Child, an excellent copy of the famous Walsingham Statue. Athelstan earnestly prayed three Aves for wisdom then left. By the time he reached the abbot’s lodgings, Mistress Eleanor, haughty face all flushed, was being ushered in to join Lord Walter sitting disconsolate by the hearth, three white downy feathers on his lap. He greeted them dolefully, motioning to the other chairs. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, both expressing their deep regrets on the death of Leda. Abbot Walter, face still tear-streaked, nodded as he stroked the feathers. Mistress Eleanor just sat to the abbot’s left, impatiently tapping the arm of her chair.