‘Are you saying,’ Samson accused, ‘that we are their retainers, members of their coven? Is that why we have been brought here, to be questioned?’
‘Hush now,’ Samuel intervened, ‘Brother Athelstan, I’m sorry, but this is . . .?’ He gestured at Cranston.
‘Sir John Cranston,’ Athelstan finished the sentence. ‘My friend, also Lord Coroner of London, the King’s law officer.’ Athelstan stared around. ‘Sir John is no retainer or lackey of this lord or that lord but the keeper of the King’s peace. Nevertheless, he, like me, like you, has little knowledge about what is truly happening here.’ Athelstan paused as a snow-white cat slipped through the buttery door and padded softly down the hall. Athelstan wondered how his constant companion, the one-eyed Bonaventure was faring.
‘Brother Athelstan is correct,’ Cranston, basking in the heat from the fire, stirred and stared round the semicircle of anxious faces. ‘Yes,’ he breathed, still jovial and benevolent after the claret he’d supped. ‘We truly are in the kingdom of mayhem and mystery.’ He smiled at his description taken from Athelstan. ‘Though some things are becoming clearer.’ He pointed at the fire. ‘Those explosions before the two men were struck were caused by cannon powder, I suspect – small leather pouches wedged between the charcoal.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement.
‘Now,’ Cranston smacked his lips and straightened up, ‘I am the Lord Coroner. Murder has been committed.’
‘Is this an inquisicio?’ Samuel protested.
‘Yes and no,’ Cranston retorted. ‘Let us at least determine where we were. Brother Athelstan and I stayed in the chapel. What happened to you?’
‘When the second man was struck,’ Judith replied, screwing up her eyes as she peered at the coroner, ‘we all fled. We were frightened.’ Her voice broke. Samson went to stroke her arm and she shrugged him off, a look of distaste on her face. Rachael leaned over, murmuring comfortingly.
‘We ran down the steps with the rest,’ Judith continued in a rush, ‘out into the snow.’
‘Do you all know where you were?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Brother,’ Rachael replied, ‘we were terrified. We all fled. I cannot remember who was where.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement. He realized it would be futile to ask anybody where they had been. All was confused. Everyone would describe not so much what happened but how they perceived it. The assassin would certainly not betray himself. Moreover, there were others, such as the leading citizens, whom he could never question. ‘Asking people where they were, when and what they were doing is not helpful,’ Athelstan conceded. He stared down at the floor, tapping his sandal-clad feet. ‘We do not even know when the severed heads were placed. Before or after the explosions? During the attacks, before or after?’ He shook his head.
‘Did anyone see Barak leave?’
‘Brother,’ Judith retorted, ‘we’ve told you. We fled. God knows who went where.’
A sharp discussion broke out about what happened after the two attacks. The more he listened, the more convinced Athelstan became that establishing the whereabouts of anyone was a fairly fruitless path to follow. The Straw Men grew increasingly vociferous about who was where and when.
‘Except you!’ Athelstan pointed at Eli. ‘You stayed. You hid beneath one of the tables?’
‘I was terrified,’ the mummer replied. ‘True, I hid beneath a table, behind its drape. I then decided to move out. I lifted the cloth and saw the heads.’
‘And nobody else?’
‘No, Brother.’
Athelstan, just for a moment, caught a fleeting look, a glance as if Eli was hiding something, then the rest joined in, talking vigorously about their perception of events.
‘My friends,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘we, like you, are detained here. God knows how long we will have to dance attendance upon our masters.’ Athelstan held his hands up. ‘Remember that the questions we ask, others undoubtedly will, eventually.’ He paused. ‘Barak? Was he a supporter of the Upright Men? Did he plot rebellion? Come now,’ he urged, ‘you travel the length and breadth of both the Kingdom and this city. You see and hear things. You are patronized by no less a person than Lord John of Gaunt . . .’
‘Barak.’ Rachael cast off Eli’s restraining hand. ‘Barak,’ she repeated, ‘lived only for the play, the mummery, the masks. He had no time or inclination to meddle in such matters. He was absorbed in his lines. He lived for the performance.’