The cries rose like a demonic chorus. Carts rumbled by, now empty after a morning’s trade, their owners desirous of getting clear of the city gates before the curfew tolled. A group of aldermen attired in long, richly furred robes were rudely mocked by a troupe of gallants resplendent in gold, satin garments and cheap jewellery, the air thick with their even cheaper perfume. A party of horsemen trotted in from the fields, hawks on their wrists. The fierce birds, their blood hunger satisfied, sat quietly under their hoods. Cranston stopped by a barber’s shop, fingering his beard and moustache, but one look at the steaming blood in the bowls beside the chair changed his mind. They continued back up Cheapside.

‘You know the house, Sir John?’

Cranston nodded and pointed. ‘It is there, the Springall mansion.’

Athelstan paused and took Cranston by the elbow. ‘Sir John, wait awhile.’ He pulled the bemused coroner into a darkened doorway.

‘What is it, Monk?’

‘I am a friar, Sir John. Please remember that. A member of the preaching order founded by St Dominic to work amongst the poor and educate the unenlightened.’

Cranston beamed. ‘I stand corrected. So what is it, Friar?’

‘Sir John, the warrants? We should inspect them.’

The coroner made a face, pulled out the scrolls handed to him by Fortescue. He broke the seals and opened them.

‘Nothing much,’ he muttered, reading them quickly. ‘They give us full authority to investigate matters surrounding the death of Sir Thomas Springall and oblige all loyal subjects, on their loyalty, to answer our questions.’ He looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘I wonder if that includes the Sons of Dives?’

The friar shrugged.

‘You know the city better than I do, Sir John. Every trade has its guild, every coven its patron saint. I suspect the Sons of Dives is a title fabricated to cover the less salubrious dealings of certain of our rich merchants. They do not plot treason but profit.’

Cranston grinned and stepped out of the doorway.

‘Then come, trusty Dominican, let us discover more!’

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The house was a fine building, very similar to that of Lord Fortescue, though today great black banners of costliest lawn hung from the upstairs windows and the broad shield of the goldsmith above the main door was hidden under black damask. An old manservant, dressed like death itself, answered the door; his face was soaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed from crying.

‘Sir John Cranston, coroner, and Brother Athelstan,’ the friar quietly announced.