‘Secondly,’ Athelstan continued writing, ‘we have Brampton, steward of Sir Thomas Springall, who died apparently by his own hand in the garret of Springall’s house.’

Cranston watched Athelstan’s pen race across the page.

‘We know it was murder not suicide, but how and by whom?’

Another question mark.

‘Finally,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘Sir Thomas Springall was murdered in his own bed chamber by a cup of poisoned wine which was placed there by Brampton. But we have Dame Ermengilde’s assurance that no one went up to Sir Thomas’s chamber after Brampton had visited him. Nor did anyone enter the chamber after he retired. We know Sir Thomas drank the poisoned cup inside the room and not at the banquet, otherwise his death would have been public and in company.’

Athelstan wrote carefully. Cranston, craning his neck, followed the words forming quickly in the blue-green ink.

‘So many questions, Sir John, so few answers. So where do we begin?’

Cranston jabbed one stubby finger at Athelstan’s last few words.

‘We will begin there. We have not fully scrutinised Springall’s death. That is the key. If we solve that, the rest will unravel like a piece of cloth.’

‘Easier said than done, Sir John, and you have only had one cup of refreshment!’

‘Enough for the day is the evil thereof, friar. You should know that.’

Athelstan picked up his quill again. ‘We have three riddles. First, Genesis, Chapter Three, Verse One; secondly, the Book of the Apocalypse Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And, thirdly, the shoemaker.’

‘The shoemaker means nothing to me,’ Cranston replied. ‘But the verses...apparently Sir Thomas liked to tease his colleagues, and they would be curious. Vechey probably carried the verses around trying to solve the riddle. Oh,’ the coroner grinned, ‘my apologies for not telling you about Eudo the page boy but, according to my memory, there was nothing suspicious, just a fall from a window.’

The friar made a face. ‘If Chief Justice Fortescue asked for a report, we could pose many questions and few solutions, Sir John.’

‘That is why,’ the coroner barked, getting up, ‘we are off to Newgate to see Solper.’ He grinned at Athelstan. ‘Every morning the Guildhall send me a list of those indicted to hang. Young Solper was on this list, not before time. A rat from the sewer, but one of my best informants. Let us see if he wants to live!’

He strode away, leaving Athelstan scrambling - to clear his writing tray, repack the leather bag and follow him out to the yard. Cranston had already ordered their horses to be brought out into Cheapside. They rode through the market place. The noise, clamour and dusty heat prevented any conversation. Cranston looked around him.