Hob’s cottage was a dour, earth-floored building divided into three rooms; one a bedroom for Hob and his wife, the second for his four children, the third a scullery and eating-place. It was poor but swept clean, a few pewter pots and pans, scrubbed in boiling water, hanging from nails in the wall. Inside, at the far end of the hut, Hob lay on a bed, his face white, the red blood frothing at his lips. Athelstan blessed the man, holding his hand, reassuring his good wife that all would be well whilst trying not to look at the blood. He gave the man the Viaticum and blessed him, anointing him on the head, chest, hands and feet. Afterwards he had a few words with Hob’s wife, the children cowering around her. Athelstan promised he would do something to help her and left quietly, the cope still round his shoulders, Crim jumping up and down in front of him all the way back to the church.

Ranulf the rat-catcher was waiting for him just outside the door, a sleek, well-fed Bonaventure in his hands. He waited until Athelstan had put the black pouch back into the tabernacle and Crim had taken his penny and fled like the wind, before putting the cat down and approaching Athelstan.

‘I found him waiting, Father, but if you want to sell him?’

Athelstan smiled.

‘If you want him, Ranulf, he’s yours. But I doubt if he will leave.’

The friar knelt down and tickled the cat between his ears. He looked up at the lined, seamed face of the rat-catcher, framed by his black, tarry leather hood.

‘He’s a mercenary. If you took him away, he’d be back tonight!’

Bonaventure agreed, stretched, and walked back to his favourite place at the base of the pillar.

Once Ranulf had gone, Athelstan sat on the altar steps, his mind going back to the corpses he had seen: Vechey’s lying cold amongst those dreadful heads on the tower gate of London Bridge; Brampton’s sheathed in dirty canvas in the death house of St Mary Le Bow; Springalls lying alone under its leather covering in the great four poster bed in his mansion. What eluded him still? He thought of Hob dying in his hovel, his wife frightened of the future. Surely he could get some money for her from somewhere? He lifted his hands to his face and smelt the chrism he had used on Hob’s head, hands, chest and feet. The feet!

Athelstan jumped up. Of course, that was it, Brampton’s feet! The manservant hadn’t committed suicide. He couldn’t have done. He had been murdered!

Athelstan looked around the church. He wished Cranston were here. The sun streamed through the horn-glazed windows and Bonaventure stretched out, relaxing after a good night’s hunting. Athelstan turned from the familiar, domestic sight and knelt before the altar, his eyes fixed on the red light.

‘Oh, God,’ he prayed, ‘help me now. Please!’