Free The Anger of God by Paul Doherty Page B

bewildered.
    ‘This is the devil’s work,’ Gaunt muttered.
    His words were ignored as the other Guildmasters shouted and cursed. Clifford stood, mouth agape, staring down at the empty chest. Cranston shook him roughly by the shoulder.
    ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he hissed. ‘Clear the chapel. This does no one any good.’
    Clifford broke out of his reverie and clapped his hands loudly. ‘My Lord of Gaunt must ponder this matter!’ he shouted above the hubbub.
    ‘What matter?’ Sudbury screamed back. ‘My Lord of Gaunt stretches out his hand and we clasp it. He talks of amity between himself and the city – now two of our company are dead. The gold we deposited here has been stolen and the miscreant, Ira Dei, not only murders and robs but makes a mockery of us all. What shall we report to our Guilds, eh? How do we tell our brethren that thousands of pounds sterling are now missing?’
    ‘My Lord of Gaunt will act,’ Cranston replied. ‘He is Regent, acting for the Crown. Is any man here going to commit treason and claim my Lord of Gaunt is responsible for this?’ He stared at Goodman the Mayor, leaning against the altar, a look of stupefaction on his face.
    ‘The chapel is to be cleared. My Lord Mayor, you should stay.’
    At last Cranston’s authority prevailed and the Guildmasters, muttering amongst themselves and throwing black glances over their shoulders, trooped out of the chapel. Gaunt waited until the door closed behind them then lifted his face from his hands.
    ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I thank you for that.’ He got to his feet. ‘But what shall we do? The Guildmasters are right. Each has lost a thousand pounds sterling. Mountjoy and Fitzroy are dead, and Ira Dei dances round me as if I was some bloody maypole.’ He gestured with his hand. Athelstan and Cranston sat down, Goodman and Lord Adam Clifford likewise. Gaunt covered his face with his hands then rubbed his eyes and looked at Cranston.
    ‘What do you propose, My Lord Coroner?’
    Cranston shook his head. Athelstan caught a spark of anger in the Regent’s eyes. Sir John would have to move quickly or he might well become the scapegoat for the rage boiling in the Regent’s heart.
    ‘Your Grace.’ Athelstan rose to his feet. He tried to shake off his own tiredness, curbing his desire to flee back to his own quiet church in Southwark.
    ‘Your Grace,’ he repeated, ‘two men have been foully murdered, but all assassins make mistakes and we have yet to reflect upon the events of this calamitous day. However, the removal of the gold from a chest which could only be opened by six separate keys is most mysterious. I have a number of questions. First, who made the chest?’
    ‘Peter Sturmey,’ Clifford replied, ‘a trusted locksmith whose services are retained by the Crown. I doubt very much whether he would act the traitor in this. His own son is an Exchequer official who was recently in an affray at Colchester whilst trying to collect taxes.’
    Athelstan held up his hand. ‘Then what about the chest itself? My Lord Regent, perhaps we might examine it?’
    Gaunt grunted his assent and Athelstan, assisted by Cranston and Clifford, with Goodman looking on, turned the chest over, knocking at the wooden panelling, examining the locks.
    Cranston shook his head. ‘Good and true,’ he breathed, getting to his feet. ‘The chest has no secret compartments.’ He studied the clasp and locks. ‘None of these has been tampered with.’
    Athelstan flicked the dust from his robes. ‘Therefore, my third question. Could there have been a master key?’
    ‘Impossible!’ Clifford snapped. ‘Each lock is unique.’ He drew out two of the keys which the Guildmasters had left, I am no locksmith, Brother, but study these carefully. Look!’ He held both of them up against the candlelight. ‘See the curves and notches of each key? They are quite separate and distinct. Indeed, my Lord of Gaunt insisted that they be so.’
    Athelstan rubbed his