The Anger of God by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

Lord Adam smiled at Athelstan.
    ‘Some play,’ he murmured. ‘Gentlemen, I think we should follow His Grace.’
    In the arbour Boscombe’s nervousness returned; he shook like a jelly as Cranston led him across to the blood-stained turf seat.
    ‘Right!’ Cranston beamed at Gaunt and the others standing at the gate. ‘Now, Master Boscombe,’ he drew his own long stabbing dirk, ‘I want you to murder me.’ Cranston slumped down on the turf seat, impervious to the blood congealing there, and smiled across at the Mayor. ‘Sir Christopher, of your mercy, a cup of that wine you are drinking?’
    The Coroner mopped his brow with his hand and wetted his lips. Goodman was about to protest but Gaunt snapped his fingers. The Mayor hurried away and returned with a cup slopping at the brim which he thrust into the Coroner’s fat paw. Cranston silently toasted the Regent and then gazed at the pathetic Boscombe who stood, gingerly holding the dagger, as if terrified of cutting himself, never mind Sir John.
    ‘Right!’ Cranston barked, sipping from the cup. ‘Kill me, Boscombe!’
    Athelstan stepped forward. ‘Go on, man,’ he murmured. ‘Do it now!’
    Boscombe, holding the dagger out, lumbered towards Sir John. Athelstan wasn’t sure what happened next. Cranston continued to sip from the wine goblet, Boscombe struck – but the next minute the Coroner had knocked the dagger from his hand and sent the servant sprawling on to the grass. Cranston drained the cup and got to his feet.
    ‘My Lord Coroner has made his point,’ Athelstan tactfully intervened. ‘Boscombe doesn’t even know how to hold a dagger. Like Sir John, Sir Gerard was a fiery man. He, not to mention his dogs, would have put up some resistance. More importantly, My Lord,’ Athelstan addressed Gaunt, ‘if Boscombe had struck a dagger so deep, he’d bear blood-stains on his hands and sleeves. But,’ he added, helping Boscombe to his feet, ‘there are no such stains.
    Gaunt stared heavy-lidded at Athelstan, then at Boscombe. He sighed and blew out his cheeks, dug into his purse and flicked a coin at Boscombe who, despite his nervousness, deftly caught it.
    ‘Master Boscombe, a grave injustice has been done. Wait over there!’
    He scuttled away as fast as a rabbit to sit with the two great wolfhounds. Gaunt walked towards Cranston and Athelstan, rubbing his finger round the rim of his cup.
    ‘If Boscombe didn’t do it,’ he whispered, ‘then who did?’
    Athelstan and Cranston stared back.
    ‘More importantly,’ Gaunt continued, ‘how was it done? The garden is enclosed. Mountjoy was a soldier, guarded by dogs. We have examined his wine cup. He was not drugged, so how did someone get so close to kill such a man?’ Gaunt wagged a finger at Sir John. ‘You, My Lord Coroner, and your clerk will be my guests at tonight’s banquet. You are under orders to resolve this matter, and do so quickly.’ He looked over at his companions. ‘Sirs, we must leave this matter in the capable hands of My Lord Coroner.’
    ‘Have you resolved the other business?’ Goodman spitefully called.
    Cranston blushed with anger at the laughter this provoked. Sir Nicholas Hussey, whom Cranston secretly respected, looked embarrassed.
    ‘What business is this?’ Gaunt asked.
    ‘Oh,’ Goodman brayed, walking forward, ‘the heads and bloody parts of traitors filched from London Bridge and other places. Sir John has been trying to catch the thief for weeks.’
    Athelstan would have liked to have smacked the Mayor full in his red, fleshy face but instead looked down and hoped Cranston would not give vent to his fiery temper. Sir John did not disappoint him. He stepped forward, his face only a few inches away from Goodman’s.
    ‘I shall not only resolve that matter,’ he whispered, yet loud enough for the others to hear. ‘But, I assure you, sir, when this business is finished there will be fresh heads on London Bridge!’
    They all made to leave and were about to