Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

Athelstan stood at the foot of the sanctuary steps, staring at the two anxious, white-faced lovers.

‘Do you have any proof?’ he asked.

‘I thought you might ask that,’ Aveline replied.

Before Athelstan could stop her, she unbuttoned the top of her dress and pulled it down. ‘Only this,’ she said. ‘It came up later.’ And Athelstan glimpsed the purple bruise on her milky-white shoulder.

That’s where Sir Henry gripped me,’ she said, and, free of any embarrassment, pulled the dress back and re-tied the little thongs. ‘Am I guilty of a great sin, Father?’

Athelstan stared at her now-covered shoulder. That bruise could never have been self-inflicted. He believed both she and Ashby were telling the truth. He sketched a blessing in the air.

‘I absolve you,’ he said. ‘Though God knows what I am going to do now.’

‘You could speak for us,’ she said hopefully.

‘Who would believe me?’ Athelstan replied. ‘And what you have told me is bound by the seal of confession. No, no. What I must do is ponder carefully and coolly on a solution to all this. Look, let us leave that for the moment. I wish to question you on other matters. Sir Henry provided monies for Captain Roffel and the ship God’s Bright Light?

Ashby nodded.

‘And you joined the ship in September but left when it docked at Dover?’

‘Yes.’

‘During the voyage did anything happen?’

‘I have told you, Roffel was the same. Dour and secretive, except after taking that fishing smack.’

‘What else do you know about Roffel?’

‘He drank a great deal.’ Ashby smiled bleakly. ‘Not just wine or beer like the rest of us. He drank wine and beer, of course, but he also had a special flask containing a very fiery drink, usquebaugh he called it. Before every voyage he would go ashore and have his flask filled at the Crossed Keys tavern behind a warehouse at Queen’s hithe.’

‘He filled it himself?’

‘Oh, yes, Father. Where Roffel went so did that flask.’

Athelstan smiled as he thought of Cranston’s wineskin. ‘So, no one else was allowed to refill it?’

‘That’s what I said, Father. But we knew he drank from it. Well, not all the crew, but I did. His breath used to smell. He’d take it in very small doses. He once told me it was five times as powerful as any wine and kept him warm at night against the sea chill.’

‘And Roffel was in good spirits at the beginning of the voyage?’

‘Oh, yes. Sir Henry gave me a sealed package to hand to him, but I don’t know what it contained.’

‘Do you, Lady Aveline?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No, no, though my stepfather seemed very pleased with himself.’

Then what?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t really know.’

‘I often took such packages,’ Ashby interrupted. ‘Roffel would read what was in them then toss them into the sea.’

‘Wait!’ Aveline leaned forward. ‘Yes, now I remember. When the God’s Bright Light began its voyage my stepfather was very, very pleased, but when Nicholas returned his temper changed. I heard him say that he didn’t trust Roffel. He claimed the captain was cheating him. He was coming to London to confront Roffel when . . .’ Her voice faded away.

‘Is there anything else?’ Athelstan asked.

She shook her head.

Athelstan crouched down and gripped her hand.

‘You are now your stepfather’s heir,’ he said. ‘Your secret is safe with me and I will think about what I can do. For the moment, however, you should return to the Abbot of Hyde inn. Go through your stepfather’s papers, everything and anything. See if you can find anything that will give some hint, however faint, of the secrets he may have shared with Roffel.’

‘How will that help us?’ she pleaded.

‘God knows!’ Athelstan said. ‘God only knows!’ He genuflected before the altar. ‘You may stay here for a while but, Master Ashby, on no account leave the sanctuary! I have your word on that?’

Ashby nodded just as the church door crashed open and Watkin the dung-collector rushed in.

‘Father! Father! The cart’s arrived!’

Athelstan, breathing heavily and slowly, prayed for patience.

‘Good man, Watkin. Have the other door opened and bring it up into the nave.’

The dung-collector trotted off. The doors opened and, after a great deal of crashing and banging, a huge, four-wheeled cart pulled by Watkin and other parishioners rolled up a makeshift ramp on the steps and into the nave. Athelstan went down to help. His anger at being so rudely disturbed was soon dispelled by the good humour and generosity of his parishioners, who had left their trades to ensure that this cart arrived in time for their mystery play. Panting, shouting, sweating and shouting instructions to each other, the parishioners heaved the cart until it stood in the centre of the nave.

‘There!’ Watkin wiped the sweat from his face. There you are, Father. And,’ he added quickly, his hairy nostrils quivering in the full fury of his self-righteousness, ‘in the play, I’m going to be God, aren’t I?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Pike can’t be God. I am leader of the parish council.’

Pike the ditcher came round the cart. Athelstan sensed that, despite the impending marriage between Pike’s son and Watkin’s daughter, the old animosity between these two men was beginning to reappear.

‘I heard that, Watkin!’ Pike snapped. ‘I’m to be God in the play!’

‘No, you’re not!’ Watkin shouted back childishly.

Both men looked at Athelstan to arbitrate. The priest groaned quietly to himself.

‘Well, Father?’ Pike demanded. ‘Who is God?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘We all are. We are all made in God’s image so, if we are like God, God must be something like us.’

‘But what about the play?’ Watkin insisted.

‘Yes, what about it?’ Hig the pig-man, square-jawed and narrow-eyed, came around the cart and stood beside Watkin. Hig worked in the fleshing yards and his brown gown was stained with offal and blood from the carcases he cleaned. He always wore the same gown and his thick hair was cut as if the barber had just thrust a bowl on his head and trimmed around it. Athelstan didn’t like him. Hig was a born troublemaker, very conscious of his rights and ever ready to shatter the peace of parish-council meetings by fishing in troubled waters.

‘Hig, you stay out of this!’ Athelstan warned.

The pig-man’s close-set eyes narrowed.

‘I know what we can do.’ Athelstan looked at Watkin and Pike. ‘As I said, we are like God. So, Watkin can be God the Father, I can play God the Son and you, Pike, dressed in a white gown with the wings of a dove attached to your back, can be God the Holy Ghost. Now, remember what Holy Mother Church teaches, there are three persons in God and all three are equal.’ He lowered his voice and looked darkly at them. ‘Unless you are going to contradict the teaching of Holy Mother Church?’

Watkin and Pike just stared open-mouthed, then glanced at each other.

‘Agreed,’ said Watkin. ‘But God the Father always does more than God the Holy Ghost.’

‘No, he doesn’t.’

They both stamped off, merrily discussing the finer points of theological dogma. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief. The rest of the parishioners milled around the cart, loudly talking to each other but never bothering to listen. Athelstan slipped out of the church and across to his house.

‘Father, a word?’

Athelstan, his hand on the latch, spun around.

The two cloaked women must have walked over quietly. They stood, white-faced, staring at him.

‘Emma Roffel.’ She pulled back her hood. ‘You remember me, Father?’

Emma’s face was drawn and her grey hair was unruly, as if she had hardly bothered to finish her toilet. Tabitha Velour, standing just a pace behind her, looked similarly drawn and tired.