‘Sir John is correct,’ Athelstan took up the story. ‘A priest can go anywhere, be it in his master’s chamber to poison a chess piece, around the house at the dead of night to comfort poor Brampton, to say prayers at St Mary Le Bow . . . whereas in fact on the night Vechey died Father Crispin disguised himself as the red-haired whore and went hunting his prey amongst the riverside stews.’ Athelstan paused and looked quickly at Fortescue. ‘I told Sir John that there was more than one murderer. In a sense I was correct. You are two people, Father, the hobbling priest and the cunning assassin.’

Athelstan noticed how the Chief Justice’s face had become so pale it looked as if he was going to vomit.

‘Of course, Crispin,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you had your accomplice. Someone you had met at your master’s table. Someone who could tell you where we went so you could have assassins lying in waiting. You remember the gospel, Father, and the man who claimed his name was Legion, so many devils possessed him? He would recognise you, Priest. You murdered for revenge, for profit, but also for the sheer malicious delight of plot and counter-plot.’

‘What has that got to do with the carving in the Springall yard?’ Gaunt sharply interrupted.

Athelstan looked at Sir Richard.

‘You should have examined that carving,’ he remarked. ‘Especially the shoemaker. He is very like our Father Crispin. He has a clubbed foot.’

Athelstan ignored Lady Isabella’s gasp. Instead he looked up at young King Richard, who seemed fascinated by the priest, whilst Gaunt was now staring at Fortescue out of the corner of his eye.

‘And Father, who is the patron saint of shoemakers?’

Athelstan admired the priest’s composure, not a muscle twitched in that gaunt, haunted face.

‘Come, Father, you know. Crispin Crispianus! We celebrate his feast in October. Sir Thomas was mocking you. The insult would be carried throughout the length and breadth of London and afterwards it would ridicule you every time you entered the small chapel in Sir Thomas’s house. Perhaps one day a more astute person might notice it. Allingham certainly did, didn’t he, Father? He began to wonder, as well as to remember Vechey’s absorption with the number thirty-one!’

Cranston belched and rose to his feet unbidden, as if he had forgotten he was in the presence of royalty.