This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man's finger.

'It bears the royal insignia,' he declared, getting to his feet. 'There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.'

Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.

'A pit of putrefaction,' Sir John breathed. 'They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!' He faced the friar. 'Satan's bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!'

They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.

'Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.'

'There may be more,' Flaxwith pointed pout.

'Aye, there may well be.' Sir John wiped the sweat from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.

'What's the matter, Sir John?'

The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.

'Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying their bodies out on the moors.'