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carved on the walls of the King of Babylon’s palace by the finger of God and translated by the prophet Daniel. ‘I have numbered, I have weighed in the balance and I have found wanting.’
    ‘Beowulf!’
    Athelstan turned quickly.
    ‘Beowulf!’ the coroner grimly repeated. ‘You have not heard of him, Brother?’
    ‘Of course. The Saxon warrior hero, the keeper of the shield-ring, the slayer of the monster Grendel and its mother.’
    ‘It’s not that,’ Thorne declared, ‘is it, Sir John?’
    Athelstan blinked and took the parchment down; it felt soft and yielding. ‘I’ve heard something …’
    ‘A skilled assassin,’ Cranston explained, ‘hired by, or certainly working for the Upright Men. He, she, they – whoever the demon is – has wreaked grievous damage.’
    ‘Of course.’ Athelstan breathed. ‘Justice Folevile and an escort of three men-at-arms at Ospring on the road to Canterbury. They stayed at The Silver Harp. All four were brutally murdered.’
    ‘Robert de Stokes,’ Cranston took up the story, ‘and his clerk collector of the poll tax in south Essex. Both were found dead, stripped naked in a filthy ditch.’ Cranston waved his hand. ‘And so on, and so on. A true will-o’-the-wisp, a sinister shape-shifter, a Hell-born wraith.’ Cranston warmed to his theme. ‘Beowulf being Saxon stands for the Great Community of the Realm against their Norman French masters. Gaunt, of course, is the monster Grendel, and his mother the power which spawned him.’
    ‘And Beowulf was responsible for all this murderous mayhem?’ Athelstan shook his head in wonderment. ‘Master Thorne, I would be grateful if you would help Mooncalf. I want every cup, platter and morsel heaped in that washtub. Meanwhile …’ Athelstan and Cranston searched the chamber as well as the panniers and chancery satchels of the murdered men. These were full of memoranda, billae, indentures and rolls of greasy thumb-marked parchment. The more he searched the more suspicious Athelstan became.
    ‘Mauclerc was a skilled chancery scribe, Sir John?’
    ‘One of the Master of Secrets’ favourites, a veritable ferret of a man. He was Thibault’s spy, a henchman appointed to watch Marsen. Why, little monk?’
    ‘Friar, Sir John. I am a friar.’
    Cranston grinned and took another sip from the miraculous wineskin. ‘Why, my little friar?’
    ‘I am sure these panniers and saddlebags have been riffled. Someone has gone through them. Certain items were taken, just by the way the scrolls are piled together.’ Athelstan paused. ‘One other thing: have you noticed, Sir John, that none of the victims have coins on them? They were killed and their bodies robbed. Even the whores! From the little I know don’t such ladies of the night ask for coin before custom?’
    ‘They certainly do, little friar, and look at this.’ The coroner, crouching down, had moved a stool. He now held up a gauntlet and a piece of shiny, oiled chainmail. The gauntlet was an exquisite piece of craftsmanship: the velvet coat over the stiffened Cordova leather was finely stitched in gold, with small pearls along the finger furrows. Athelstan took both items over to the squat, evil-smelling tallow candle and examined them carefully. The chainmail was finely wrought. Athelstan suspected it was the best, probably Milanese; the links were fine and shiny with clasps on each corner. The gauntlet was also costly. Athelstan noticed the fingertips were smudged with dry blood. He glanced swiftly at the hands of the four murder victims: the two whores would not wear such items, whilst the gauntlet would certainly not fit the stout-fingered hands of Marsen or Mauclerc.
    ‘The chainmail,’ Cranston called out, ‘probably served as a wristguard.’
    Athelstan summoned Thorne, but the taverner could not recall Marsen or any of his group carrying such items.
    ‘Both are the property of a knight,’ Thorne declared, scratching his reddish face with stubby fingers.