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victim for slaughter?
    ‘No.’ Cranston’s beaming smile was eloquent enough. ‘Beowulf hunts Gaunt’s creatures, the minions of Master Thibault.’
    ‘And who are the other guests, those who roomed here last night?’ Athelstan hid his relief beneath his question to Thorne.
    ‘Philip Scrope, the physician, Sir Robert Paston, a member of the Commons from the shire of Surrey, together with his daughter Martha and his clerk, William Foulkes.’
    ‘I know Paston.’ Cranston spoke up. ‘Gaunt’s most bitter enemy. A critic of the poll tax, Gaunt paid him back in equal coin. Sir Robert is a seasoned mariner who believes he should have been appointed as admiral of the king’s ships from the mouth of the Thames along the east coast to the Scottish March. Instead, Gaunt appointed one of his own favourites. Paston constantly criticizes the lack of war cogs to protect English merchantmen. Paston should know. He makes his wealth out of wool. He would be no friend of Marsen.’
    ‘Ah, Sir John, Brother Athelstan.’ Thorne leaned forward. ‘I am sorry, I should have told you this but it slipped my mind. Two nights ago, just after Marsen returned from collecting the tax, the same evening Lascelles appeared here, Sir Robert and Marsen met in the Dark Parlour. There was an angry exchange of words, fingers falling to daggers.’
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked. ‘What happened?’
    ‘Sir Robert called Marsen a robber, a wolfshead, a vile plunderer.’
    ‘And Marsen?’
    ‘He just jeered and jibed. He said he knew all about Sir Robert and didn’t care for him, though he would more than welcome a visit during the night from Paston’s daughter – that’s when fingers fell to daggers. I intervened. Marsen just sauntered off, laughing over his shoulder.’
    ‘What do you think Marsen meant when he said he knew all about Sir Robert?’
    ‘Brother Athelstan, you must ask Sir Robert yourself. I suspect Marsen was quietly mocking Paston for not being appointed as Admiral of the Eastern Seas. I know Sir Robert was very sensitive on the issue.’
    ‘And the rest of the guests?’ Cranston asked. ‘How were they to Marsen?’
    ‘I would say they were just as hostile but that’s based on tittle-tattle. There’s Brother Roger, a Franciscan from their house at Canterbury. I have mentioned the physician who claims he has been on pilgrimage to Glastonbury. Finally, there’s a professional
chanteur
, minstrel or whatever else he proclaims himself. I understand he enjoys quite a reputation as a troubadour. He calls himself Ronseval. I cannot say whether he was baptized as such; he claims he is against anyone who fetters the human spirit.’
    ‘In which case,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he must champion most of London. I presume they are all waiting for us in the refectory?’
    ‘Then come.’ Cranston heaved himself up.
    They left, crossing the Dark Parlour into the refectory. Five people sat around the common table. Athelstan was aware of hostile looks and bitter grimaces as introductions were made and they took their seats. Mine Host and Mooncalf stood in the doorway. Cranston asked if they wished for anything to eat or drink but all he received were muttered refusals. Athelstan sketched a blessing. Cranston then clapped his hands and moved swiftly to business.
    He asked what each of them had done the previous evening and received the expected, perfunctory replies. All the chamber guests, as Thorne described them, had eaten supper, returned to their chambers and retired to bed. They had neither seen nor heard anything to report. Athelstan sensed they were lying. He was certain that the killer must be in this tavern, even though logic dictated the very strong possibility that last night’s massacre was the work of a professional assassin despatched by the Upright Men. Athelstan studied the guests closely. He noticed the easy flow of conversation, the relaxed attitude between them all and concluded they liked each other.
    Sir Robert