Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

For a while Father Stephen and Cranston exchanged pleasantries and news of old comrades. Then the old priest put his cup on the floor and rubbed his hands.

‘Right, Sir John. You are not here to kiss my lovely face. It’s business isn’t it?’

‘Captain William Roffel,’ Cranston replied.

‘Gone to God,’ the priest said. ‘And where to next is up to the good Lord.’

‘Why do you say that, Father?’

‘Well, he was in my parish yet I never saw him or his wife darken my church. She came to see me yesterday. She wanted a Christian burial for her husband and paid a fee for a Mass to be said. Last night, I received the corpse, all encased in its cedar coffin. It now lies before the high altar and will be buried tomorrow.’

‘So you know nothing about the Roffels?’

‘Not a thing. The wife was calm. She claimed other business had kept her from attending our church.’

‘So, she wasn’t the grieving widow?’

‘Now, Sir John, don’t be harsh. She was very agitated.’ The old priest shrugged. ‘But I get many such requests. And you know canon law? Unless a person has been publicly excommunicated, Christian burial must be provided as speedily as possible.’

‘And did she hire mourners? You know, people to keep vigil.’

‘She and her maid attended when the corpse was received into the church. They went away. Mistress Roffel returned just before midnight and I allowed her to stay there until dawn this morning.’

Cranston looked over the old priest’s shoulder and winked at Athelstan. But Father Stephen was quicker than he seemed and caught the glance.

‘Come on, you old rogue, what do you want?’

‘Father, is it possible for us to look at the corpse?’

The priest rubbed his lips. ‘It’s against canon law,’ he replied slowly. ‘Once a corpse has been sheeted and coffined-’

‘God would want it!’ Athelstan broke in quietly. ‘Father Stephen, on my oath as a fellow priest, terrible crimes may have been committed.’

‘You mean Roffel?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied brusquely. ‘He may have been murdered.’

Father Stephen stood and picked up his cloak. He lit a lantern and shoved it into Athelstan’s hand.

‘As soon as I clapped eyes on Cranston,’ he grumbled, ‘I knew it was bloody trouble.’

Returning the banter, Cranston and Athelstan followed the priest out into the cold, wind-swept churchyard. Father Stephen unlocked the church door and they entered. Athelstan later swore that he would never forget the scene awaiting them. The nave of the church was black and cold. The lantern’s flickering light made it all the more eerie as they walked up towards the sanctuary. They all stopped, Cranston cursing, as a loose window shutter banged shut.

‘That shouldn’t happen,’ Father Stephen whispered. He took the lantern from Athelstan, walked past the pillars and into the transept. He stopped and looked up at where the shutters clattered against the stonework.

‘I closed these,’ Father Stephen explained over his shoulder, his words ringing hollow through the church. ‘There’s no glass here, so anyone can get in.’

Athelstan walked over. He took the lantern and held it close to the ground.

‘Well, whether you like it or not, Father, you have had unexpected visitors. See, the mud-marks and scraps of dried leaf?’ He moved the lantern. ‘Look, a faded footprint.’

‘Oh, no,’ Father Stephen moaned. ‘Oh, don’t say they’ve rifled the sanctuary again!’ His face looked ghostly in the lantern light. ‘Or worse,’ he whispered. The lords of the crossroads, the black magicians, are always searching for sacred vessels to use in their blasphemous rituals. Come on! Come on!’

They hurriedly walked up the church, Athelstan’s sandals slapping against the paving stones, and went through the rood screen.

Not as grand as mine, Athelstan thought, but then quietly prayed for forgiveness for such childish thoughts. Father Stephen edged slowly forward, the circle of light from the lantern preceding him.

‘I can see nothing wrong!’ he exclaimed.

Athelstan glimpsed the faint outline of the coffin and the six great purple candles surrounding it. They walked nearer. Athelstan gasped – the coffin still lay on its trestles but the lid was thrown back. The casket was empty, its white linen lining gleaming in the poor light

‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston breathed.

Father Stephen hurried towards the altar where he scraped a tinder to light candles. Athelstan stared around the sanctuary.

‘Oh, Lord, look at that!’ Cranston muttered.

Athelstan followed his pointing finger. Sitting sprawled in the heavy, ornate sanctuary chair was the corpse of Captain Roffel. His throat had been slashed and someone had daubed in blood on a piece of parchment pinned to his chest the word ASSASSIN.

When Father Stephen saw it, he was so overcome that he sat on the sanctuary steps and sobbed. Cranston and Athelstan took two of the candles from the altar and walked gingerly towards the ghastly corpse, which slouched grotesquely in the high-backed chair. The pennies had been removed from Roffel’s eyes, which were now half-open. The jaw strap had been removed and the wound across the neck was a dull scarlet gash. Cranston looked at the scrap of parchment and realised that the perpetrator of this blasphemy had used his finger to draw the letters. He and Athelstan, seeing how Father Stephen was so overcome, moved the corpse gingerly back into the coffin. Cranston whispered he had seen worse in France when he helped fill the burial pits. Athelstan, however, despite his attendance at many deaths, trembled at how cold the corpse felt, half-expecting it to come back to life. They arranged the corpse as decently as possible in the coffin. Only then did Athelstan study the hard face, high cheek bones, thin, bloodless lips and narrow, skull-like head of Captain William Roffel.

‘Dreadful in life, dreadful in death,’ Athelstan muttered.

He sketched a blessing above the corpse and, without further ado, undid the points on its jerkin. He pushed back the cambric shirt and studied the torso carefully. Someone had punctured the belly so it would not swell but Athelstan also saw tell-tale dull, reddish blotches. The friar smiled in satisfaction and, with a sigh of relief, asked Cranston to help him with the coffin lid.

Cranston pointed to the piece of parchment.

‘Shouldn’t we remove it?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘God forgive me, Sir John, but I see little point. It tells the truth. Captain Roffel was the devil’s own man. His corpse was disturbed and his throat cut as an act of vengeance.’ Athelstan replaced the lid on the coffin. ‘But I tell you this, he was murdered. His belly bears the tell-tale signs of poison.’

They made sure the church was secure and took a still-trembling Father Stephen back to his house. Athelstan poured him a goblet of wine, made sure he was settled and then joined Cranston outside.

‘My bloody wineskin’s empty!’ the coroner snapped. ‘I don’t care what you say, Athelstan, I definitely need refreshment after that.’

The friar linked his arm through the coroner’s and led him back to the now deserted Cheapside, steering him carefully around mounds of refuse, and into the Holy Lamb of God. Two sips of claret and Cranston relaxed, beaming around at the rest of the customers.

Athelstan was more sombre. He gripped the fat coroner’s wrist. ‘We know Roffel was murdered, but by whom or why or how is a mystery. We must also face the possibility that the first mate and his two companions may have suffered a similar fate.’

‘Do you think Ospring’s death is connected with this?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, no, Ospring’s was a crime of passion. A murder committed without a second’s reflection. There’s a mystery there but the mystery we must resolve, Sir John, is what happened during that voyage – how three able-bodied sailors disappeared from their ship at night even though, according to the admiral himself, signals were being sent from the God’s Bright Light until only minutes before that sailor and his girl came back on board.’