He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John's outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner's sleeve.

'Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?'

Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.

'Lord save us, friar, I did.' He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. 'I am sorry, in the excitement

I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?'

Athelstan nodded.

Sir John swallowed hard. 'I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.'

Athelstan's face paled. 'Oh no!' he groaned.

Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.

'I think he was called Miles Sholter.' 'Heaven forfend!'

'According to the law,' Sir John continued, 'if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.' He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. 'Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion. The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald's parish and elsewhere.'

'I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,' Athelstan intervened. 'They'll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.'

'The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn't pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.'

'But…?'

'Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!'

Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.

'Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,' Sir John remarked. 'Brother, they must have found something.'