The grille slammed shut and they heard the noise of footsteps. A small postern door in the great gate opened. A guard stepped out with a club, forcing others back as Cranston and Athelstan were waved in. They shoved by, the stale odour of the gatekeeper’s body making them choke. They stepped into the lodge or small chamber where the keeper always greeted new prisoners.

‘I wish to see the keeper, Fitzosbert!’ Cranston snapped.

The fellow grinned and took them along a dark, smelly passageway into another chamber where the keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert, was squatting behind a great oak table like a king enthroned in his palace. Athelstan had heard about the fellow but this was the first time he had met him. Indeed, anyone who had any business with the law in London knew Fitzosbert’s fearsome reputation. A very rich and therefore powerful man, as head keeper of Newgate, Fitzosbert had the pick of all the prisoners’ possessions as well as the sale of concessions, be it beds, sheets, coals, drink, food, even a wench. Anyone who entered the prison had to pay a fee and Athelstan recollected that one of his parishioners, too poor to pay, had been beaten up for his poverty whilst Fitzosbert had stood by, smiling all the time. The keeper, Athelstan concluded, was not a pleasant man and on seeing him the friar believed every story he had heard. He had a louse-ridden face, dirty blond hair and carmine-painted lips. Fitzosbert’s sunken cheeks were liberally rouged and this made his bulbous grey eyes seem even more fish-like. The friar just stared at him and concluded that Fitzosbert would have liked to have been born a woman. Only that would explain his short lace-trimmed jerkin and the tight red hose. Athelstan smiled, revelling in fantasies of revenge. One day perhaps, he thought, the bugger might be caught for sodomy and Athelstan vowed that for the first time in his life he might attend an execution. Fitzosbert, however, had already dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes and was staring coolly at Sir John as if to prove he was not cowed by any show of authority.

‘You have warrants, Sir?’

‘I don’t need warrants!’ Cranston snapped. ‘I am the king’s coroner. I wish to see a prisoner.’

‘Who?’

‘Nathaniel Solper.’

Fitzosbert smiled. ‘And your business with him?’

‘My own.’

Again Fitzosbert smiled though Athelstan had seen more humour and warmth on the silver plate of a coffin lid.

‘You must explain, Sir John.’ The fellow placed two effete ring-bedecked hands on the desk before him. ‘I cannot allow anyone, even the regent himself, to come wandering through my prison asking to see prisoners, especially such as Solper. He’s a condemned man.’