Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

This is the devil’s own ship, Sir John,’ Coffrey said. ‘We wanted to get off. Especially after . . .’

‘After what?’ Athelstan asked quietly.

‘Children’s nightmares.’ Crawley laughed. I’ve heard of this.’

‘During the afternoon,’ Cabe explained, ‘when the day began to die and the mist started rolling in, some of the men said the ship was haunted by Roffel’s ghost.’ He shrugged. ‘You know sailors. We’re a superstitious lot. They talked of feeling cold, of an unseen presence, of scrabbling noises from the hold. They put this to the mate, he asked for two volunteers to stay, the rest of us went ashore.’

‘So, after dark,’ Athelstan said, ‘there was only the mate and two of the watch? Did anyone here approach the ship?’

There was a chorus of denials.

‘But we keep in contact,’ Crawley explained. ‘On every hour, when the candle flame reaches the ring, the password is sent along from ship to ship by speaking trumpet. On the half-hour, a shuttered lantern on each ship sends three quick flashes of light as a sign that all is well.’

‘So.’ Athelstan stretched. ‘Further up the river you have the Holy Trinity. The watch on that ship would pass the message to the God’s Bright Light. A password on the hour, a lantern flashing every half-hour?’

Crawley nodded.

‘And was this done?’

‘The watch on the Holy Trinity did it.’

‘But did the God’s Bright Light pass it on to the Saint Margaret? ’

‘Oh yes,’ Crawley replied. ‘That’s where the mystery comes in. You see, Father, the Holy Trinity is my own ship. I let my men go ashore and I myself commanded the night watch.’

‘And the messages were sent from you?’

Crawley nodded. ‘At five o’clock I sent on the password, through a speaking trumpet. At half-past five the lamp winked three times.’

‘And at six?’

‘Ah, there were no more messages. One of the crew returned with a whore. He found the ship deserted and raised the alarm. He forced the whore to help him and rowed, with her screaming and shouting, over to my ship. I and my two men went aboard. It was like a ghost ship. The cabin was tidy, the decks in order, nothing amiss. The lantern on top of the mast was still burning as was the shuttered lantern in its recess outside the cabin door. No mark of violence, nothing missing.’

‘So’ – Athelstan picked up his quill to make a few more notes – ‘let us say this sailor returned fifteen minutes after the last message was sent and fifteen minutes before the password. According to his story and to yours, Sir Jacob, in that time three able-bodied sailors disappeared from this ship?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘And the ship’s boat wasn’t missing?’

‘No!’ Crawley snapped his fingers. ‘You might as well question the man yourself.’

Cabe went out and returned with the monkey-faced fellow who had first greeted them; he told his story in a strange, sing-song accent and it agreed exactly with what Cranston and Athelstan had already been told.

‘As you approached the ship,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you notice anything untoward?’

‘No, Father.’

‘And once on deck?’

‘Quiet as a grave.’

Athelstan thanked him and the fellow left.

‘Could someone have come aboard by boat?’ Cranston asked. ‘And left again after inflicting some terrible damage?’

‘Impossible,’ Cabe replied. ‘First, the watchers on the other ships would have seen it.’

There was a river mist,’ Cranston pointed out.

‘No.’ Cabe shook his head. ‘Even if you were half-asleep you’d hear the splatter of the oars, the boat bumping alongside. Secondly, any approaching boat would have been hailed. Thirdly, Bracklebury would have fought any boarders. The sound would have carried and the alarm raised. None of this happened. Everything was in order. Even the galley. We haven’t touched it.’

‘There’s one possibility,’ Cranston suggested. ‘Maybe the mate and the two sailors abandoned ship? Swam to the shore and disappeared?’

‘Why should they do that?’ Cabe asked. ‘And if they did, someone on the other ships would surely have seen them.’

Coffrey spoke up. ‘This is the devil’s ship, Sir John. Many of the men think Satan came aboard to claim Roffel’s spirit for his own and took Bracklebury and the others with him!’

Athelstan shivered; even by these cynical, hardened men, Coffrey’s pronouncement was not disputed.

Cranston and Athelstan brought the meeting to an end and the seamen went back to their duties. The admiral took Cranston and Athelstan around the ship, showing them the broad deck, the cavernous, smelly hold partitioned into sections, the primitive living quarters of the crew and archers, the storage space for weapons and the small, fetid galley. Everything was clean and in order, though Athelstan flinched as the occasional dark, furry rat scampered across the deck or scurried along the timbers.

‘Was anything amiss when the ship was inspected?’

Crawley shook his head. ‘Not even in the galley. The cups were cleaned and the fleshing knives back on their hooks.’ Crawley rubbed the side of his face. ‘It was as if a devil had climbed on board and simply swept all three sailors away.’

‘And there’s been no sign of them since?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Crawley took them back on deck and summoned a bumboat. The coroner and Athelstan took their leaves and clambered down, Sir John muttering that he was no wiser than when he arrived.

‘Where to now?’ Athelstan asked, settling himself in the stern next to Cranston.

As they were rowed back across the choppy Thames towards Queen’s hithe the coroner studied the darkening sky.

‘It’s late,’ he murmured, ‘but perhaps we should inspect Captain Roffel’s corpse before the requiem is sung and he is committed to the grave.’

Cranston and Athelstan found the church of St Mary Magdalene on the corner of Milk Street cloaked in darkness. The parish priest, Father Stephen, had been asleep in his chair before a roaring fire in the presbytery. He greeted them owl-eyed, his aged face heavy with sleep, but he greeted them kindly. He held up the lantern and peered at the coroner.

‘God bless my tits!’ he said. ‘It’s Sir John!’

Cranston shoved his face closer. ‘Why, it’s Stephen Grospetch!’

The two men shook each other warmly by the hand.

‘Come in! Come in!’ the priest invited. ‘I have heard of your exploits, Sir John, but you are too busy for old friends.’

Cranston tapped him affectionately on the shoulder and smacked his lips.

‘Yes, Sir John, I have some claret.’ Grospetch pulled two stools before the fire. ‘Sit down! Sit down! Father Athelstan?’

The priest gripped Athelstan’s hand as the coroner finished his introductions.

‘Well, well, well, Cranston and a Dominican. You always told me you didn’t like friars, Sir John.’ Father Stephen winked mischievously at Athelstan.

‘You are a lying mongrel!’ Cranston answered, pretending to be cross. He eased himself on to a stool, spreading his great hands before the flames. Father Stephen bustled about bringing cups of claret. Athelstan thought it was a miracle he didn’t trip, for the room was shrouded in darkness, except for the single candle on its spigot and the light from the roaring fire.

The old priest sat in his chair. He toasted Cranston and Athelstan, slurping merrily from his wine cup.

‘This priest,’ Cranston explained, turning to Athelstan, ‘was chaplain in the retinue of the Prince Edward. He could say the quickest Mass and sometimes had to. The French were bastards’ – the coroner glowered – ‘they never gave us time to finish our prayers.’