Athelstan paused, listening to the faint sounds from outside. Darkness would be falling, and the freezing cold would keep most of his parishioners indoors. ‘I wonder,’ Athelstan put down his spoon and stroked Bonaventure, ‘has Gaunt, my learned cat, truly placed a spy here in my parish?’ He stared at the crucifix fastened above the hearth. ‘None of my parishioners were present in Saint John’s Chapel, thank God.’ Athelstan swiftly crossed himself. ‘But Bonaventure, a clever assassin certainly was.’ Athelstan rose to put a log on the fire; when he turned back Bonaventure was finishing his soup. ‘Wretched cat!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘But who was that Judas man in the chapel? How did he kill? At first I suspected he used Hell’s mouth to shield and hide himself but, to do that, he would have to detach it from the rood screen, and that never happened.’ He breathed out noisily. ‘Yet how could that assassin loose two bolts and not be seen, leave those severed heads and not be detected? And how did the assassin trap Barak in that crypt, strike him at the back of the head, strap on the war belt, thrust a crossbow into his hand then hurl him from that window?’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘All a great mystery, even more so Eli’s death. Imagine a chamber like this, Bonaventure. No secret entrances, the window shuttered both within and outside, the door locked and barred. So how was Eli killed by a crossbow bolt? The eyelet was sealed and stuck?’ Athelstan moved to the door. ‘Even if it wasn’t, if I open the eyelet here and slide the shutter back, I’d see a weapon thrust against the gap. I’d already be vigilant – that’s why we use an eyelet – even more so if I glimpsed a crossbow.’ Athelstan went and stood before the hearth. ‘And that mysterious fire? I am sure it was a diversion so Eli’s killer could slip through the darkness. Why Eli? A simple player? To spread terror or,’ Athelstan wagged a finger, ‘did he see something untoward in that chapel? Or was he simply murdered because he might have done? Yes,’ Athlestan rubbed his hands, ‘that’s a start. After Oudernarde was struck, everyone, including myself, was at the far end of that nave, except Eli. Why was he slain? And, above all,’ Athelstan went back to his chair, ‘how was it done?’ He stared into the fire. As he stroked Bonaventure, his eyes grew heavy so he put his head down on his arms and slept. A loud knocking on the door eventually aroused him. Athelstan glanced at the hour candle – an entire ring had burned. He hurried to the door.
‘Brother Athelstan, it’s me, Flaxwith, and two of my bailiffs.’ Athelstan drew the bolts and let them in. All three were draped in cloaks and mantles, mufflers and hoods pulled close. Flaxwith’s mastiff stayed obediently outside; he and Bonaventure had met before and both nourished a lasting hatred for each other.
‘Sir John sent you this.’ Flaxwith handed over a small cream-coloured scroll tied with a green ribbon. Athelstan undid this, offering his visitors blackjacks of ale. They refused but gratefully ladled out some of the hot soup while Athelstan read the itemized list of information about Humphrey Warde and his family. The details were succinct and clear. According to Sir John, Warde was a very successful spicer who’d mysteriously left his shop in Cheapside. Rumour had it that he’d fallen on hard times. However, Sir John had learnt on good authority from whisperers in the Guildhall that Warde still enjoyed a lucrative trade with the spicery department of Gaunt’s wardrobe as well as those of the royal household.
‘Spices be damned!’ Athelstan whispered, rolling up the scrap of parchment.
‘You sound exactly like Sir John.’ Flaxwith put down the bowl, smacking his lips.
‘Master Flaxwith, come with me. Leave one of your men to guard my house. He may eat and drink whatever, within reason. Bonaventure will tell me if he doesn’t.’ Athelstan grabbed his cloak, put on his stout walking boots and, followed by a surprised Flaxwith and one of his bailiffs, swept from the house. It was a black night, freezing hard, the ground under foot glitteringly treacherous, a trap for the unwary. The friar recalled the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Was that against him or someone else? To kill or to frighten? Athelstan hurried past his church, his mind teeming with problems and questions. God bless both him and them but what if Pike and the others were correct? Humphrey Warde could well be a spy, a cockle planted deep in Athelstan’s wheat field, a collector of intelligence for his sinister masters at the Savoy palace. Athelstan walked on. The snaking lanes and paths were deserted. Chinks of light gleamed at windows and doors. Snow slid from roofs peppered with icicles. A rat scrabbled across the frost. A black shadow pursued; in the corner of a runnel the hunted gave an eerie screech as it was caught. From somewhere a voice chanted a common song and then faded. Athelstan reached Rickett Lane. Down under the leaning, cramped, crooked little houses, much decayed and held up by crutches, Athelstan found Warde’s narrow, two-storey tenement. The front was boarded up but the door hung slightly open, unlatched and unlocked. A cold and unreasoning dread seized Athelstan as he pushed back the door. Inside the stone-flagged passageway was lit by greasy tallow candles in their niches. Somewhere a child whimpered. Athelstan paused. The house was cold but the air fragrant from the smells of crushed spices stored in the small shop immediately to his left. Athelstan was about to walk on when he glimpsed the shadow slumped between the two tables where the spices were prepared and weighed. He grabbed the box lantern off its hook just within the doorway and walked in. Humphrey Warde lay sprawled on his back, the crossbow bolt almost buried in his chest. The blood from the wound had clotted in an icy puddle. Athelstan murmured a prayer and moved on. Katherine Warde lay face down in the small kitchen, killed by a crossbow bolt to the back of her head. In a small cot beside her, baby Odo murmured fretfully.