‘Nothing, just a feeling of unease.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Cranston bellowed. ‘What do we have here? A merchant who likes riddles is murdered by his servant, who later hangs himself; a small, fat, morose man who thinks he is a Hector with the ladies and, when he realises he is not, goes out and hangs himself. A few riddles written on paper. Let’s face the truth. That group over there,’ he nodded in the direction of the Springall mansion, ‘do not mourn for anyone. I suspect they are glad Sir Thomas is dead! And Brampton! And Vechey! More money, less fingers in the pot and a larger portion of the spoils. All you can feel, Brother, is human greed. Look around, there’s a whole sea of it lapping at us everywhere we walk, sit, eat, and pray!’ He glared at the friar. ‘Come, Brother,’ he concluded wearily, ‘let us tie the ends of this and call it suicide.’

‘In a while,’ Athelstan murmured.

He asked for a cup of water, finished it, and leaving Cranston to his drinking, went outside. It was now mid-afternoon. The stalls and booths along Cheapside were plying a busy trade, the shouts of their keepers and the bold imprecations of the apprentices creating an unbearable din. A knight broke through on his way to a local joust or tournament, his steel codpiece carved as large as a bull’s whilst the helmet which swung from his saddle bow was fashioned in the macabre mask of a hangman. The helmet gave Athelstan an idea. He was curious and, shouldering his way through the crowd, made his way to St Mary Le Bow.

Father Matthew was resting, Athelstan suspected he was half drunk, but he welcomed the friar cheerily enough, trying to force a cup of Rhenish into his hand. Athelstan promptly refused, for the few mouthfuls of ale he had already drunk bit at his stomach. He also felt rather sick when he recalled how in the ale house he had just left, he had seen a hen roosting on the brim of an uncovered beer tub. He just hoped the ale wife strained the ale before she served it to Sir John! Chicken dung would not do even the coroner’s innards any good.

The priest listened to Athelstan carefully.

‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured. He knew the Springalls, a good but rather secretive family. They attended Mass on Sundays, they gave generously to the poor, the chancery priest sometimes celebrated Mass at St Mary’s. They were always generous at Christmas, Epiphany and Maundy.

‘And the funeral of Sir Thomas?’ Athelstan asked.

‘It will take place tomorrow morning. Once the Requiem Mass is sung, the coffin will be buried here.’

‘And Brampton, the suicide?’

The priest, lounging in his chair, shrugged, wiping his greasy hands on his gown.

‘What can we do? Brampton has no relatives and he is a suicide. Canon Law has laid down . . .’