‘Sir John?’ Lady Helen, eager to exert her authority, reappeared in the doorway.
‘Not yet, my Lady.’ Cranston pointed at the sheeted corpse. ‘Though your husband’s corpse can be taken away, perhaps to your own bed chamber?’
A short while later Crispin and a few servants entered. Cranston supervised the removal of the corpse whilst Athelstan studied the tapestry hanging above the wainscoting. A vision of hell rich with gory scenes of the avaricious swallowing fiery coins, vomiting them up, then being forced to re-devour them under the supervision of a wrathful goblin. A synod of demons watched this torture. They all sat in council around Hell’s dread Emperor enthroned under a purple-black awning. On either side of him clustered night-hags and hell-hounds.
‘Wait!’ the coroner ordered. ‘Don’t move the corpse yet.’
Athelstan broke from his reverie.
‘Lady Helen, Mistress Alesia?’ Cranston called.
Both women, Adam Lestral slipping in behind, entered the chamber.
‘My ladies,’ Cranston made a bow, ‘once again, my condolences. However, His Grace the Regent is not only concerned about the mysterious death of Sir Robert but the safety and security of the Passio Christi.’
‘He kept it here.’ Alesia declared. ‘Always in this chamber. The room is so secure. You’ve seen the door?’ She gestured at the small oriel windows filled with painted glass. ‘Those are too small for entry, and there are no secret entrances or closets.’
‘And which coffer or casket holds the bloodstone?’
‘This one.’ Crispin crossed and picked up a small iron-bound casket with a barrel-shaped lid, three stout locks ranged along its lip.
‘And the keys?’
‘Three separate locks each with its own unique key,’ Crispin muttered.
‘And?’ the coroner demanded.
‘Only Sir Robert kept them.’
‘I know where.’ Athelstan smiled, recalling the jingling as he examined the dead man’s belly. Athelstan crossed to the stretcher, each of its poles held by a servant. He ran a finger round the dead man’s neck and pulled free the chain, undid the clasp and gently drew it away.
‘That should be done . . .’ Lady Helen gasped.
‘This shall be done by the King’s coroner,’ Cranston snapped, and took the keys. After a great deal of trial and error, he inserted each into its appropriate lock. Whilst the coroner was busy, Athelstan studied Kilverby’s household gathered in the doorway then gazed round that opulent chamber. He was certain of this: under the cope of night, murder had slipped like some silent fury into this locked chamber and snatched Kilverby’s soul. The Apostate Angel hovered in that wealthy house, brushing them all with his wings. Murder had certainly unfurled its dark banners but how had this bloody mayhem been so cunningly executed? He half expected Cranston’s cry of surprise, echoed by the others, as the coffer lid snapped back.
‘Empty!’ Cranston whirled round. ‘The Passio Christi has gone!’
‘Impossible!’ Crispin blurted out. ‘It was there yesterday, I and others were present when Sir Robert showed it to the two monks from St Fulcher’s. We were there later in the solar when he put it back. I . . .’
Athelstan glanced at the others. Alesia stood, her mouth gaping. Helen, face in her hands, peered through her fingers. Kinsman Adam just stared at the open coffer and the empty dark blue samite which once held the bloodstone.
‘His Grace will not be pleased,’ Cranston muttered. ‘He’ll claim treason and vow that someone will hang for this.’
‘We have not taken it,’ Alesia cried.
‘Taken what?’ a voice shouted from the stairwell. Theobald de Troyes, the local physician, shoved his way in coughing and spluttering as he apologized for his tardiness. Unaware of the confusion in the chamber, Theobald pulled back the shroud and stared down at the cadaver.
‘He’s dead!’ he bellowed. ‘And that will cost you five shillings.’ He turned to go but Cranston caught at his costly, ermine-trimmed robe and dragged him back.
‘Master Theobald,’ he said mockingly, ‘good day!’
‘And good day to you, Sir John. I . . .’
‘I am not in the best of tempers,’ Cranston bellowed. ‘You . . .’ he jabbed a finger at the terrified-looking Crispin, ‘take the corpse to your mistress’s bed chamber. You, master physician, examine it most carefully then come back here and you,’ he gestured at the others, ‘wait for me in the solar.’
Once they’d all gone, Cranston slumped down on the stool cradling the empty casket.