Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘Do you think he was poisoned?’ Athelstan asked.

He studied the ring of faces in the flickering light of the single lantern. Minter’s vinegarish features broke into a crooked smile.

‘Oh yes, Father, he was poisoned. But not,’ he added hastily, ‘as you think. Belly cramps, stomach bile, dysentery, inflammation of the bowels and rectum are common on ships. Rats shit on our food, the water’s brackish and the biscuits have more weevils than flour.’

‘How many people died on this voyage?’

‘Two. The captain and the cook, Scabgut.’

‘What did the latter die of?’

‘He suffered from similar cramps. But there’s usually a death on every voyage – if it’s not the food, then a man falls overboard.’

‘So,’ Cranston intervened, ‘there was nothing suspicious about Roffel’s death?’

‘Nothing whatsoever. Though he did have his own supply of wine.’

‘But I drank from that as well,’ Coffrey the clerk intervened.

‘In which case,’ the surgeon concluded, ‘Captain Roffel ate and drank nothing we didn’t.’

‘We understand,’ Athelstan said, ‘that Captain Roffel was a hard man?’

‘Like flint,’ Cabe replied. ‘Hard as rock. He had a stone for a heart.’ He smirked. ‘God’s Bright Light! What a name for the devil’s own ship!’ He lifted a hand. ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, Roffel was successful. We always came back with our holds full of treasure. But we took no prisoners. Roffel always made sure of that.’

‘And Ashby?’

‘No bloody use at all!’ Peverill the master-at-arms snorted. Athelstan caught the jeering note in his voice.

‘A landsman if there ever was one. Sir Henry Ospring always insisted that he joined us for at least part of the voyage. No bloody use, was he?’

A murmur of approval greeted his words.

‘Sick as a dog he was,’ Cabe added. ‘He hated ships and he hated the sea. I think that’s why the old bastard sent him. Captain Roffel was always taunting and making fun of the lad.’

‘And Ashby hated Roffel?’ Cranston asked.

‘No, he didn’t hate him, he despised him. Almost as badly as he did Sir Henry Ospring.’

‘Well, it may come as news to you,’ Cranston said ‘but Ospring’s dead and Ashby’s in flight.’

His words created little surprise and the coroner quickly gathered that both Roffel and his patron Sir Henry Ospring had been hated as iron-hard taskmasters.

‘But Ashby had left the ship before Roffel died?’

‘Yes, he landed at Dover on 19th October. Our holds were full of booty and Sir Henry’s estates lie two miles to the north of the port. Ashby took his master’s portion, a very generous one too, and left.’

‘And Roffel was sickly then?’

‘Yes, he had been for some days, Sir John.’

‘We have questioned Ashby.’ Athelstan ignored Cranston’s warning look. He wanted to shake the hardened contempt of these sailors. They sat as if they couldn’t give a damn about the mysterious death of their captain or the disappearance of three of their shipmates. ‘Ashby maintains that, after you took a small fishing smack which was slipping between French ports, Roffel seemed especially happy. Is this true?’

Athelstan looked around the group. He caught the hooded look in Cabe’s and Coffrey’s eyes; even Peverill seemed a little discomfited – his expression shifted momentarily and his lips tightened. Men who had been sitting at their ease now shuffled their feet. Both Cranston and Crawley sensed the change of mood.

‘What is this, eh?’ the admiral asked. ‘What’s this? A ship?’

‘As the good Father says,’ Cabe replied, measuring his words, ‘the captain was very happy after the taking of the French ship. We found some wine aboard, some very good claret. There’s still some left.’

‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Cabe snapped. ‘Why, should there be more?’

‘Let’s move on.’ Athelstan smiled faintly. The ship dropped anchor two days ago.’

‘Aye.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘Well,’ Peverill intervened. ‘My archers were paid off and given shore leave. We unloaded most of our plunder, what was left after Ospring had taken his portion. Sir Jacob here sent down the wagons.’

‘It’s taken to a warehouse,’ Crawley explained, ‘and guarded until it’s sold. I collect the proceeds. Some goes to the crew, with a large portion for the captain, some to the exchequer. Of course, Sir Henry, if he had been alive, would have received his portion.’

‘Go on,’ Athelstan urged, looking at Cabe.

‘Well, the crew were given shore leave. We began to check the ship for damage done, repairs to be made, stores to be bought.’

‘And Roffel’s body?’

‘Oh, the first mate, Bracklebury, took that ashore at first light – that and the captain’s personal possessions. He handed them over to his widow.’

‘Were there any visitors during the day?’

‘I came on board,’ Crawley replied, ‘for the usual inspection and routine questions.’

‘You were not upset that you’d lost a good captain?’

Crawley shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a good captain, Father. He was a good seaman. Personally, I couldn’t stand him. I know, I know, the man’s dead, God rest him, but I’ll say it now, I did not like him!’

‘Then in the afternoon,’ Cabe quickly picked up the conversation, ‘as is the custom, some whores came on board.’ He looked away sheepishly. ‘You know how it is, Father? Men at sea for some time, especially the young ones, if they don’t get their greens, they desert.’

Cranston coughed. ‘And the whores did their business?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Cabe replied tartly. ‘They stood in the stern and sang carols!’ He caught the warning look in Cranston’s eyes. ‘Of course they did, but we had them off the ship before darkness fell, when most of the crew left.’

‘Were there any other visitors?’

‘Bernicia,’ Minter the surgeon said with a smirk.

‘Who’s she?’

Now even Crawley was smiling.

‘Well, come on man, share the joke!’

‘She’s a whore, Sir John. Well, Roffel’s mistress. A pretty little thing. She has a house in Poultney Lane near the Lion Heart tavern. She didn’t know that Roffel was dead.’

‘And?’

‘When we told her the captain was dead, coffined and sent to his wife, she started blubbing. We let her stay for a while in the captain’s cabin, smacked her bottom and sent her ashore. No more bloody fingers for her.’

‘What do you mean, bloody fingers?’ Cranston asked.

Cabe leaned forward, out of the shadows.

‘When we took ships, Sir John, we were always in a hurry. We boarded them, despatched the crew, grabbed the plunder, sank the ship and left. Roffel always scrutinised every corpse for valuables, particularly rings. If they didn’t come off fast enough, he hacked the fingers off. He thought it was a joke. He used to give the rings, fingers still in them, to Bernicia his doxy.’

Athelstan looked away in disgust. He had heard about the war at sea, bloody and vicious on both sides, but Roffel seemed the devil incarnate. No wonder his wife could hardly be described as the grieving widow.

‘And after Bernicia had left?’ Cranston asked.

‘Everything was done. Bracklebury fixed the watch – himself and two other reliable fellows. We had our purses full of coins, so we took a bumboat and went ashore.’

‘Wasn’t the watch rather small in number?’ Cranston asked.

‘Not really,’ Crawley said. The ships are moored in fine on the Thames. An officer and at least two men should stay on each vessel, one at the stern and one in the bows.’ His eyes fell away.

‘But not really enough?’ Cranston insisted.