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through Southwark. Of course, a gaggle of strange characters gathered; I’m sure some of these were despatched by the Upright Men who would have loved to take Marsen’s ugly head.’ He grinned. ‘We even had some of your parishioners, Brother; Pike the Ditcher, Watkin the dung collector, golden-haired Cecily the courtesan and Moleskin the boatman.’
    Athelstan sighed and put his face in his hands. If he questioned his parishioners they would blink like baby owls and murmur all innocence even though Athelstan knew that the likes of Watkin and Pike were high in the hierarchy of the Upright Men.
    ‘But nothing untoward happened?’ Athelstan took his hands away.
    ‘No, Brother.’ Thorne sipped from his tankard. ‘Marsen would be up with the dawn. He and his coven would break their fast and go about their evil business, returning to the tavern at twilight after the market horn had sounded. They kept to themselves. Food and drink were served. Mauclerc went out to find whores for both himself and his master. They wallowed like pigs in their filthy muck. The Barbican became their sty.’
    ‘And where were these whores from?’
    ‘Oh, the stews of Southwark, a notorious brothel, a house of ill repute well known as the Golden Oliphant. It’s under a very strict keeper; she calls herself the “Mistress of the Moppets”. The two whores, I don’t know their names …’
    ‘We will find out,’ Cranston broke in. ‘I know the Mistress of the Moppets very well as she is widely advertised in the city. Despite their death wounds those two whores in life were very pretty young women. The mistress only hires the best but whether we get the truth from her is another matter.’ He jabbed a finger at Athelstan. ‘When we get the time we will give the mistress a visit.’
    ‘Would that explain why they were not carrying money? Marsen would do business with their keeper?’
    ‘Possibly, Brother,’ Cranston replied. ‘I suspect a man like Marsen got what he wanted free of any charge.’
    ‘But they were carrying something,’ Mooncalf broke in, surprising even his master.
    ‘What’s that, boy?’ the taverner asked.
    ‘One of the whores, she was carrying a leather bag and it clinked. I met her at the wicket gate and she stumbled. She could curse like the best of them but I heard it clink, the bag she was carrying.’
    Cranston stared at Athelstan, who just shook his head. ‘We found no such bag in the Barbican, Sir John.’
    ‘Then the killer must have taken it,’ Mooncalf insisted. ‘I definitely saw it, I definitely heard it.’
    ‘Apart from the whores, were there any other visitors?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Thorne replied, ‘a black-garbed fellow, hair of the same colour drawn tightly back and tied behind the head, harsh-featured with the unblinking stare of a hawk.’
    ‘Lascelles,’ Cranston broke in. ‘Master Thibault’s henchman. When did he come?’
    ‘The night before last. He met Marsen in the Barbican then left. Sir John, I know nothing of their business.’
    ‘And this morning?’ Athelstan glanced at Mooncalf.
    ‘As usual I went to wake them. I found the two archers as you did. I hurried across to the Barbican and hammered on the door.’
    ‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, boy?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to the miraculous wineskin.
    ‘Anything at all?’ Athelstan insisted.
    ‘No. Pedro the cruel,’ Mooncalf grimaced, ‘the tavern boar, was sleeping outside his sty. Sometimes he does that. Anyway,’ he shook his head, ‘I became frightened and hurried back to the tavern to raise the alarm.’
    Athelstan turned to Thorne.
    ‘I came out with the others, all shaken from our sleep. You’ve seen the Barbican, Brother, it is built for defence. Apart from the heavy door the only way through is the window. There is no ladder long enough so I put the one we have on a handcart and climbed up. The outer shutter was still hooked. I inserted a blade and lifted that; the door