They stopped. A little boy ran up, face dirty, clothes dishevelled, his breath coming in short gasps so he could hardly speak. Sir John stood back and Athelstan smiled. Cranston always seemed to have a fear of small boys. Perhaps a memory from childhood when a fat Cranston must have been mercilessly teased by others. Athelstan knelt before the child, taking his thin, bony hand.

‘What is it, lad?’ he asked gently. ‘What do you wish?’

‘I bring a message from the Sheriff,’ the boy gasped. ‘Master Vechey . . .’ The child closed his eyes to remember. ‘Master Vechey has been found hanged under London Bridge. The Sheriff says it’s by his own hand. The body has been cut down and lies in the gatehouse there. The Sheriff sends his com—’

‘Compliments,’ Athelstan interrupted.

‘Yes.’ The boy opened his eyes. ‘Compliments, and wishes Sir John to go there immediately and examine the corpse.’

Cranston, standing behind Athelstan, whistled softly.

‘So, we were right, Brother,’ he said, tossing a coin to the boy who scampered away. ‘There is evil afoot. One murder can be explained, one suicide can be accounted for, but another suicide?’ His fat face beamed. ‘Ah, no, Sir Richard may be pompous, Lady Isabella frosty, Dame Ermengilde may strike her cane on the floor in temper, but Vechey’s death cannot be dismissed. There is evil here, and you and I, Athelstan, will stay like good dogs following the trail until we sight our quarry. Come! The living may not want to talk to us but the dead await!’

And, without even a reference to refreshment, Cranston waddled off down Cheapside with Athelstan striding behind him. They pushed their way through the morning crowd: monks, friars, hucksters and pedlars, ignoring the shouts and screams of the city as they turned into Fish Hill Street which led down on to London Bridge. They stopped at the Three Tuns tavern to ensure their horses had been well stabled. Cranston paid the bill. Philomel, happy to see his master again, nuzzled and nudged him. The road down to the bridge was packed so they decided to leave their horses rather than ride.

At the entrance, just near the gatehouse door, Cranston stopped and knocked hard at an iron-studded door. At first there was no reply so, picking up a loose brick, Cranston hammered again. At last the door was opened. A small, hairy-faced little creature appeared, a veritable mannikin who glared up at Sir John.

‘What do you want?’ he roared. ‘Bugger off! The gatehouse is closed on the king’s orders until the arrival of the coroner.’

‘I am the coroner!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘And who, sir, are you?’

‘Robert Burdon,’ the mannikin retorted. He rearranged his cloak and stuck his thumb into the broad leather belt at his waist like a wrestler waiting for his opponent to attack. Sir John ignored him and pushed forward into the dank entrance of the chamber.