'By all that's holy!' Bladdersniff coughed. 'Brother, you must have the second sight.'
'No, I had Father Anselm.' Athelstan grinned. 'He owned a very hard ferrule.' He rubbed his fingers. 'Father Anselm believed in teaching logic through the knuckles. It's a marvellous way of concentrating the mind.'
'Athelstan! Athelstan!'
The friar lifted his head.
'All things conspire together,' he said to himself. He walked across to the doorway. 'Sir Jack, I'm in here!'
Bladdersniff cringed against the wall as Sir John Cranston, the most august coroner of the city of London, red face beaming, white moustache and beard bristling, strode like an angel come to judgement into this gloomy room of murder.
'Well! Well! Well!' Sir John stood, legs apart, thumb tucked into the belt from which hung the miraculous wineskin. 'Heaven bless my poppets! There's murder all around, Athelstan, and I need you in the city!'
Chapter 2
Athelstan dolefully followed Sir John down the steps and into the waiting barge to take them across the Thames. The coroner had almost dragged him out of the ruins and back to St Erconwald's to collect his cloak and chancery bag.
'You've got to come,' Sir John said heatedly.
He added how something evil was going to happen but, for the rest, he kept tight-lipped. Instead he rounded on the friar with a whole litany of questions.
'Three murder victims in St Erconwald's parish!' he exclaimed as they settled in the barge and Moleskin pulled away.
Athelstan winked at his burly friend and glanced quickly at Moleskin. Whenever the boatman pulled his hood up and bent over his oars as if absorbed in his task, that was the sign Moleskin was intently listening to what was happening.
'Old Moleskin won't tell anyone!' Sir John bawled for half the river to hear. 'I saw the three corpses and that good-for-nothing Pike. He told me where you had gone. Three victims!' he repeated. 'And you know, Athelstan, I took a good look at that young man, the one without the boots. I think I've seen him somewhere.'