Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘Who lives here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A big fat merchant,’ Sir John replied. ‘He made a fortune in the wine trade and is now absent from the city visiting friends and relations.’

Cranston hammered on the door. A pale-faced servant opened it. Sir John roared who he was and marched straight in. Shawditch was already in the large, white-washed kitchen questioning the servants, who sat, anxious-faced, around the great fleshing table. Cranston introduced Athelstan, who shook the under-sheriff’s hand.

‘Well, what happened?’ the coroner snapped.

‘The same as ever, Sir John, with one difference. Last night some footpad entered the house. God knows how – the doors were barred and the windows shuttered. He stole precious objects from the upper floors. Unfortunately a linen-maid, Katherine Abchurch, had fallen asleep in one of the chambers. She woke after dark, opened the door and surprised the intruder, who promptly stabbed her to death.’

‘And then?’

‘Disappeared leaving no trace of how he left or how he entered.’

Cranston nodded towards the servants. ‘And you have questioned all of these?’

They can all account for their movements. In fact, the steward here noticed Katherine was missing and went looking for her.’

Athelstan beckoned the under-sheriff closer. ‘Is there anyone here who had anything to do with the previous burglaries?’ he asked.

Shawditch shook his head. ‘No one.’

‘And you are sure that all the entrances and exits were sealed?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘Ah well, let’s see for ourselves,’ Cranston said. ‘Come on, Shawditch.’

The under-sheriff led them along a corridor and up a broad staircase where the oak gleamed like burnished gold. The walls were panelled and the plaster above them painted a soft pink. Heraldic shields hung there and, on one wall, the head of a ferocious-looking boar had been mounted on a wooden plaque. On the second floor just outside a chamber, Katherine Abchurch lay where she had fallen, a woollen blanket tossed over her. Athelstan looked around the corridor. He saw chamber doors, the staircase at the far end and a table with dusty rings on it.

‘Something was stolen from here?’

‘Yes,’ Shawditch replied, then jumped at a loud knocking on the door downstairs.

‘That will be beadle Trumpington,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him to wait below.’

He hurried down the stairs. Cranston and Athelstan pulled back the blanket and stared at Katherine’s mortal remains.

‘God save us!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘She’s only a child.’

He saw the bloody puncture marks on the girl’s dress and his heart lurched with compassion at the terror still frozen on her face. ‘God rest her!’ he said softly. ‘And God punish the wicked bastard who did it!’

He replaced the blanket tenderly, covering the girl’s face. ‘My mind’s a jumble of problems but I will do all I can to bring this assassin to justice!’

Shawditch rejoined them.

‘Let’s inspect the house,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Every floor, every room.’

‘I have asked for all the chambers to be opened,’ Shawditch said.

‘Then let’s begin.’

There was a look of cold determination on Athelstan’s usually gentle face as he moved from room to room. It reminded Cranston of a good hunting dog he had owned as a boy. Athelstan’s irritation at not being able to find any clue, however, grew as they reached the top floor.

‘Nothing,’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Nothing at all.’

They went into the garret, which was dark and chilling – only the beams and the tiles above separated them from the cold. Athelstan kicked among the rushes on the floor.

‘No window. No opening.’ He crouched down and felt the rushes. They were cold and damp to his touch. He walked into the corner of the room and felt the rushes there. He came back shaking his head. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

They returned to the kitchen, where Trumpington the beadle was holding court before the great roaring fire.

‘Sir John, Master Shawditch, have you found anything?’ The beadle’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Athelstan. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Brother Athelstan, my secretarius,’ Cranston replied.

Athelstan stared at the beadle. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘But you, good sir, could do me a favour.’

‘Anything you ask, Father.’

‘But, first, one question.’

‘Of course.’

‘You patrol the streets. You noticed nothing wrong?’

‘Father, if I had I’d have reported it.’

Athelstan smiled.

‘And the favour, Father?’

‘I want you to get a tiler, a good man.’

‘I’ve done that already,’ Trumpington said.

‘To check this house?’

‘No, but he checked all the others and found nothing amiss.’

‘Well, ask him to check again. See if any tiles have been removed. If he finds any aperture we have missed, report your findings to the coroner.’

‘Is that what you want, Sir John?’ Trumpington asked pointedly, throwing a look of disdain at the friar.

Sir John caught the tinge of contempt. ‘Yes it is. And do it quickly!’

They made their farewells and left the house.

‘Well, Brother, did you find anything?’ Cranston asked. Athelstan saw the expectation in his and Shawditch’s faces.

‘Nothing, Sir John.’

Cranston cursed.

There is one thing, though,’ Athelstan said. ‘Master Shawditch, a small favour?’

The under-sheriff looked at Cranston, who shrugged.

‘It’s nothing to do with this business,’ Athelstan went on, ‘but could you ask the boatmen along the Thames if they took anyone out to the ship God’s Bright Light two nights ago?’

‘I’ll do what I can, Father,’ Shawditch replied and hurried off.

‘What’s that all about?’ Cranston grumbled.

‘Well, let me tell you.’

Athelstan pulled Cranston into a small alehouse. Sir John needed no second invitation to refreshment – he immediately began shouting for a cup of claret and a piece of freshly roasted capon. Athelstan sipped at his ale as he watched the food restore Sir John’s good humour.

‘First,’ Athelstan whispered, leaning across the table, ‘Aveline Ospring murdered her father. She told me under the seal of confession but has asked for our help.’

Cranston stared, his mouth wide open, as Athelstan described what he had learnt earlier in the day. The coroner threw the capon leg down.

‘She’ll hang,’ Sir John muttered. ‘Either she’ll hang or he’ll hang or they’ll both hang. She can’t prove what she said. What else, Brother?’

‘Somebody boarded that ship,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and somehow killed those three men. But how and why I don’t know. However, you heard what Crawley said? No one from the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, saw or heard anything amiss and that includes Bernicia’s shouting.’ Athelstan angrily shook his head. ‘Someone is lying, Sir John, and we must discover who. How do we know every sailor left the ship? There could have been someone hiding on board.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Cranston said sarcastically. ‘And he killed those three sailors with no fuss or trace, continued passing the signals and then disappeared into thin air, just like the felon robbing the merchants’ houses?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘No one disappears into thin air, Sir John, and that goes for the house we have just visited. I have a suspicion. No, no.’ He held a finger up as expectation flared in Sir John’s eyes. ‘Not now. Let’s deal with Roffel’s widow. But, before that, do you know a tavern called the Crossed Keys near Queen’s hithe?’

‘Yes, the landlord’s a relative of Admiral Crawley. An old seafarer. Why, what’s the matter, Brother?’