By Murder's Bright Light Read Free Page B

under-sheriff walked on, Cranston hurrying behind him.
    ‘They say you are a bastard,’ Cranston murmured. Though a fair bastard.’
    ‘Aye, Sir John, and I have heard the same about you.’ Shawditch looked over his shoulder, back at the stocks. ‘I thought as much.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That bloody pickpocket has just filched my coin from the beadle!’
    Cranston grinned and held a gloved hand up against an ear which was beginning to ache in the stinging cold.
    ‘Too bloody cold for anything,’ he murmured as they turned into Bread Street.
    ‘Not for the burglars,’ Shawditch replied.
    He stopped before a tall timber-framed house, well maintained and newly painted. Cranston stared appreciatively at the gaudily painted heraldic shields above the door.
    ‘Selpot must have sold a lot of skins,’ he commented.
    ‘Aye,’ Shawditch replied. ‘Including those of many of his customers.’
    They knocked on the door. An anxious-faced steward ushered them into a small comfortable parlour and pushed stools in front of the roaring fire.
    ‘You want some wine?’ He looked at Shawditch.
    This is the city coroner, Sir John Cranston,’ the under-sheriff told him. ‘And you, I forget your name?’
    ‘Latchkey, the steward!’
    ‘Ah, yes, Master Latchkey.’
    ‘We’ll have some wine,’ Cranston trumpeted. ‘Thick, red claret.’
    He looked around the small room, admiring the gleaming wainscoting, the rich wall-hangings and a small painted triptych above the fireplace. Bronze hearth tools stood in the inglenook and thick woollen rugs covered the stone floor.
    ‘I am sure Master Selpot has some good burgundy,’ he continued, threateningly.
    Latchkey hurried across to a cupboard standing in the window embrasure and brought back two brimming cups.
    ‘Well, tell us what happened.’ Cranston drained the wine in one gulp and held his hand out for a refill. ‘Come on, man, bring the jug over! You don’t happen to have a spare chicken leg?’
    The fellow shook his head dolefully, then refilled Sir John’s cup before telling his sorry tale – his master was absent from the city and, on the previous night, some felon had entered the house and stolen cloths, precious cups and trinkets from the upper storeys.
    ‘And where were you and the servants?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Oh, on the lower floor, Sir John.’ The man gnawed at his lip. ‘You see, the servants’ quarters are here, no one sleeps in the garret. Master Selpot is insistent on that. I have a small chamber at the back of the house, the scullions, cooks and spit boys sleep in the kitchen or hall.’
    ‘And you heard nothing?’
    ‘No, Sir John. Come, let me show you.’
    Latchkey promptly led them on a tour of the sumptuous house, demonstrating how the windows were secured by shutters that were padlocked from the inside.
    ‘And you are sure no window was left open?’
    ‘Certain, Sir John.’
    ‘And the doors below were locked?’
    ‘Yes, Sir John. We also have dogs but they heard nothing.’
    ‘And there’s no secret entrance?’
    ‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’
    ‘And the roof?’
    Latchkey shrugged and led them up into the cold garret, which served as a storeroom. Cranston gazed up but he could see no chink in the roof.
    ‘How much has gone?’ he asked as they went back downstairs.
    ‘Five silver cups, two of them jewelled. Six knives, two of them gold, three silver, one copper. A statuette of the Virgin Mary carved in marble. Two soup spoons, also of gold. Five silver plates, one jewel-rimmed.’
    Shawditch groaned at the long list.
    Downstairs Cranston donned his beaver hat and cloak.
    ‘Could the servants have done it?’ he asked.
    Latchkey’s lugubrious face became even more sombre.
    ‘Sir John, it was I who discovered the thefts. I immediately searched everyone. Nothing was found.’
    Cranston raised his eyes heavenwards, thanked the steward and, followed by an equally mystified under-sheriff, walked back into the freezing street.
    ‘How many