‘As I said, Sir John, logic and a little evidence, some speculation, and perhaps some help from Mistress Fortune. In the end we will grasp the truth. I don’t particularly mourn the four who died. What bothers me, what’s making me sour and evil-tempered, is that the murderers are here, laughing at us, watching us fumble. They shall pay for that enjoyment. We can all murder, Sir John.’ He rose, dusting the crumbs from his habit. ‘Cain is in each of us. We lose our temper, feel cornered and frightened, it can be the work of an instant. But to savour murder - that’s not the prompting of Cain, that’s Satan!’

Cranston, his mouth full of hot food, simply mumbled his reply. Athelstan felt the thick ale seep into his stomach, making him relaxed, even sleepy.

‘Come on, Sir John. Chief Justice Fortescue awaits us and, as you know, justice waits for no man!’

Sir John glared, stuffed the rest of the food in his mouth and drained his tankard in one final gulp.

They hurried out into Fleet Street, Sir John wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, hitching his sword belt, shouting that he would revisit the tavern at his earliest convenience. They were halfway down Fleet Street when suddenly the Coroner’s mood changed. He stopped abruptly and gazed round, staring back at the throng they had pushed through.

‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’

The coroner chewed his lip. ‘We are being followed, Brother Athelstan, and I don’t like that.’

He looked round and went over to a tinker’s stall. Athelstan saw money change hands and Cranston came back with a thick broomstick.

‘Here, Athelstan!’

The friar looked in surprise at the long, smoothly planed ash pole.

‘I have no need of a staff, Sir John.’

Cranston grinned, his hands falling to the dagger and great broad sword he carried.

‘You may have, Athelstan. Remember what your psalmist says: “The devil goes around like a lion seeking whom he would devour.” I believe a lion or a devil, or both, are trailing us now!’

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

As they hurried down Fleet Street Athelstan wondered if perhaps Sir John had drunk too deep. They turned abruptly into the long gardens of the Inner Temple, fenced off from sightseers. The gatekeeper, recognising Cranston, let them in without a word. They hurried through the tranquil, fragrant-smelling garden, past the Inner and Middle Temples, and down Temple Stairs where they hired a wherry to take them to Westminster. Cranston, despite his bulk, jumped into the boat, pulling a surprised Athelstan along with him. He tripped on his staff and nearly pitched head first into the water. The boatman cursed, telling them to sit down and keep still, and then, puffing and sweating, he pulled his craft out midstream through the flocks of swans who arched their wings in protest as if they owned the river.