‘Ah, yes! Let me introduce you, Brother,’ Cranston said. ‘Master Solper, counterfeiter, thief, footpad and seller of relics. Two years ago, Master Solper could get you anything; a piece of cloth from the napkins used at the Last Supper, a hair from the beard of St Joseph, part of a toy once used by the Baby Christ. Master Solper has tried his hand at - well, God only knows! You are marked?’

The young man nodded and pulled down his dirty jerkin. Athelstan saw the huge ‘F’ branded into his right shoulder, proclaiming him a felon.

‘Twice indicted, the third time caught,’ Cranston intoned. ‘You are due to hang, and yet you may evade justice.’

Athelstan saw the hope flare in the young man’s eyes. He squirmed nervously on the stool.

‘What do you want? What do I have to do?’

‘The Sons of Dives, have you ever heard of them?’

The young man pulled a face.

‘Have you or haven’t you?’

‘Yes, everybody has. In the guilds,’ the young man continued, ‘there are always small groups or societies prepared to lend money at high interest rates to the nobles or to other merchants. They take names and titles: the Keepers of the Gate, the Guardians of the Coffers.’ He shrugged. ‘The Sons of Dives are another group.’

‘And their leader?’

‘Springall, Sir Thomas Springall. He’s well known.’

‘Now, another matter.’

Cranston delved into a small leather pouch he had taken from his saddle-bag, undid the cord at the neck and drew out a small vase containing the poison he had taken from Springall’s house. He unstoppered the jar and handed it over.

‘Smell that!’

The young man gingerly lifted the rim to his nose, took one sniff, made a face and handed it back.

‘Poison!’

‘Good man, Solper, poison. This is the real reason I came, I half guessed who the Sons of Dives were. But if I wanted to buy poison, a rare exotic poison such as belladonna, crushed diamond or arsenic, where would I go?’

The young man looked across at Athelstan.

‘Any monastery or friary has them. They are often used in the paints they mix for the illuminated manuscripts.’

‘Ah, yes, but you can’t very well knock on a monastery gate and say, “May I have some poison?” and expect the father abbot or prior to hand it over without a question. Without taking careful note of who you are, why you asked and what you want it for. So where else? The apothecary, Master Solper?’

Cranston eased his great bulk on the table. Athelstan watched nervously. The table, not being of the strongest, creaked and groaned in protest under his weight.