The Anger of God Read Online Free PDF Page B

gash. Cranston and Athelstan stepped back.
    The arbour was cleverly contrived, a garden within a garden: a turf seat against the trellised fence, a narrow pavement of coloured stones with a table which also served as a bird bath, and raised banks of fragrant herbs. A peaceful, pleasant place on a late summer’s day had it not been for the man sprawled against the fence, a thin dagger thrust deep in his chest. A grotesque sight: mouth gaping, eyes open and slightly crooked as if the corpse was staring down in amazement at the bloody wound staining his russet gown.
    Cranston studied the snub, brutish, dead features of one of London’s most feared Sheriffs and walked back to the group.
    ‘When did this happen, My Lord?’
    Gaunt shrugged his shoulders elegantly as he wiped his hands on his blue samite gown.
    ‘We had Mass this morning followed by a meeting in the Council Chamber. We were all preparing for the banquet tonight. Sir Gerard was apparently taking the air and a cup of claret in his own private arbour when a guard found him like that.’ He pulled a face. ‘Those damned dogs won’t allow us anywhere near him.’
    ‘If they won’t allow you,’ Gaunt nodded down the garden, where a group of crossbow men wearing the livery of Lancaster were patiently waiting, ‘they will have to be killed.’
    Athelstan, standing at Cranston’s elbow, stared at these powerful, rich men. They, together with Gaunt, controlled not only London but the kingdom: their silver fuelled the King’s armies, provisioned the fleet and controlled Parliament. He sensed they were shocked by Mountjoy’s death but quietly pleased to see the demise of a powerful rival, for Mountjoy, a merchant in his own right, had been as power-hungry as any of them. The Regent, however, a man of marble face and steely heart, was fighting hard to curb fury, for his attempt to control these powerful merchants had been rudely checked by Mountjoy’s death.
    ‘Well?’ Goodman snapped. ‘Sir John, you are the King’s Coroner in the city. Sir Gerard has been murdered and foully so. We know who did it, so get rid of those dogs!’
    ‘Oh?’ Sir John smiled wryly. ‘You have caught the assassin red-handed?’
    ‘For God’s sake, man!’ Goodman snarled. ‘Look at the arbour. On two sides is the garden fence, the far side is the wall of the Guildhall and the fourth is protected by the pentice.’
    Cranston and Athelstan stared at the long narrow lean-to structure built against the buttress of the Guildhall; roofed with old shingles, this covered passageway connected the kitchens to the Guildhall proper.
    ‘How could anyone,’ Goodman continued slowly, as if Cranston and Athelstan were dim-witted, ‘enter that garden, stab Sir Gerard and walk quietly away without being torn to pieces by those dogs?’
    ‘What My Lord Mayor is saying,’ Clifford spoke up, ‘is that the two dogs were Sir Gerard’s constant companions. Mountjoy was a bachelor. They were his wife, children, family and kinsfolk. The only man who could approach the Sheriff without disturbing the dogs is his retainer and steward, Philip Boscombe.’
    Cranston nodded and looked back at the arbour.
    ‘Sir Gerard,’ Clifford continued, ‘was always fearful of assassination. No one here – no official, no alderman, no burgess – could approach him unless the Sheriff had instructed his dogs to be friendly. Boscombe was the only exception. It must have been him. Servants didn’t even hear the dogs bark.’
    Cranston walked back. Standing well out of harm’s way, he peered into that blood-soaked arbour. The two great hounds lay at their master’s feet, now and again looking up as if expecting him to waken and call them. They could sense something was wrong and the smell of blood only made them more aggressive; they turned and growled towards the gate.
    ‘Clifford must be right,’ Athelstan whispered, coming up beside Cranston. ‘The knife couldn’t be thrown. There’s no vantage point for