Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan reined Philomel in. Anxious lest Marston and his thugs might have attempted some mischief, he looked towards the church, but all seemed quiet.

‘Crim, what is it?’

‘Father,’ the boy stuttered. ‘It’s Lord Horsecruncher!’

‘You mean Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’

‘Aye, Father, old fat arse!’

‘Crim!’

‘Sorry, Father, but he sent a messenger across. You know, Father, the one with a tight bum who walks like a duck, his face pulled down as if he had smelt something rotten.’

‘And what did this messenger say?’ asked Athelstan patiently.

‘Well, Sir John wishes to see you urgently in Cheapside. The lady Benedicta has left already,’ Crim continued breathlessly. ‘She said she would call in and tell Sir John you are already on your way.’

Athelstan tossed the lad a coin and continued his journey. For the first time in weeks he made Philomel trot and scarcely bothered to acknowledge the greetings and salutations shouted out to him. Clattering on to the bridge, he looked neither to left nor right as he wondered why Sir John so impatiently demanded his presence. As a courtesy, he called at the coroner’s house in Cheapside, but a tight-lipped Lady Maude told him that ‘the bird has already flown’.

‘Gone to his chamber in the Guildhall, or so he says,’ she announced darkly. ‘And you know where that is, Father?’

Athelstan tactfully smiled back. Once the door was closed, he led a snorting, snickering Philomel, still protesting at his recent rough usage, across the busy marketplace. He gave the reins to an ostler and went in to the Holy Lamb of God’s taproom. Sir John was already sitting there, two great empty wine cups before him as well as a few crumbs of a meat pie.

‘Good morrow, Sir John.’

Cranston burped gently.

‘In fine fettle as usual, I see,’ Athelstan continued, joining him.

There’s been another bloody murder,’ Cranston announced. ‘Do you remember Bernicia, Roffel’s little tart? Well, he or she is dead! Throat slashed from ear to ear and the house ransacked.’ Cranston slapped the table top with his hand. ‘God knows whether to call him him or her. Anyway, Bernicia’s dead.’

‘Bernicia lived in the shadows,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I couldn’t give a toss where the creature lived,’ Cranston snapped. ‘God rest the poor bastard! But, listen to this, Brother.’ He eased his bulk on the chair. ‘There’s not many places in London where people like Bernicia can go! Four or five drinking-holes in all and all within walking distance of each other.’ Cranston stopped and paused to roar for another drink. ‘Usually, I leave such places alone. I have a pity for the poor people who use them. However, this morning I went as soon as I had seen Bernicia’s corpse. After the expected protests, the silver-tongued landlord produced a pageboy who swore to a number of facts. First, Bernicia had been there the previous evening. Secondly, the whore had met and left with someone.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘According to the boy, this stranger might have been Bracklebury. Anyway, he was a sailor who knew Roffel and the ship God’s Bright Light. ’

Athelstan leaned back and whistled through his teeth.

‘Strange,’ he whispered. ‘Mistaken logic, Sir John. I always considered all the watch were either dead or had fled.’

‘If it was someone from the watch,’ Cranston continued, ‘we have to draw another picture – and one so simple it’s a wonder we never thought of it before. The first mate killed his two companions and then jumped ship. Why, or with what, we don’t know.’

‘I think we do,’ Athelstan replied.

He produced the crudely drawn map that Aveline had given him that morning and tersely told Cranston of his own conclusions.

Cranston sipped from the cup the landlord had placed before him. ‘So Ospring gave instructions to Roffel to stop and sink that fishing smack. But why? Are you saying that Ospring and Roffel were traitors?’

‘It all depends,’ Athelstan answered, ‘on what the ship carried. To find that out I have sent Benedicta with a petition to St Paul’s. Only our friends the scrutineers can tell us that.’

There are others we need to question,’ Cranston added. That’s why I have invited everyone involved in this business – Sir Jacob Crawley, the other officers, not to mention Mistress Roffel – to meet us in the Guildhall just after midday. I also told the ship’s clerk, Coffrey, to bring the log book.’ Cranston smacked his lips and stretched. ‘So, Father, we have some time to waste. What more can we do?’

Athelstan gazed despairingly at the empty wine cups.

‘There is one further thing, Sir John, the footpad who is house-breaking. I think we can set a trap.’

Cranston slammed his wine cup down.

‘No, don’t ask me how!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I know you, Sir John – you have a generous heart but a wagging tongue. What I want is for one of your powerful merchant friends to go on a journey for two or three days, to take his family with him and to make sure it’s publicly announced.’

Cranston stared up at the rafters. ‘There’s no one,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, my dear physician Theobald de Troyes. He could go to some property he owns in Suffolk. Perhaps I can persuade him?’

‘Do so now,’ Athelstan urged, hoping to put as much distance as possible between Cranston and a cup of wine. ‘But tell him not to leave for two or three days.’

‘And if he doesn’t agree?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Then we’ll have to find someone else.’

Mumbling and protesting, Cranston lumbered out of the tavern. Athelstan sighed, sat back, closed his eyes and wondered if Benedicta had delivered the message.

‘Father, do you wish something to eat or drink?’

Athelstan sat forward and stared into the anxious face of the landlord’s wife.

‘No, thank you.’ He smiled. ‘I think Sir John has done gallantly for both of us.’

The friar felt self-conscious sitting there by himself so he walked back into Cheapside and into the church of St Mary Le Bow. For a while he knelt before the altar and said a few prayers, then he admired the beautiful stained-glass window in the nave. Athelstan could never stop admiring the brilliant colours and skills of the artist. Portraying the risen, glorified Christ, harrowing hell and freeing souls who had waited for his coming, he had expertly caught the rapture on the faces of the saints and the anger on the black-visaged demons, who stood glaring from behind their wall of fire. Cranston had promised that, as soon as the good weather allowed, he would purchase a similar window for St Erconwald’s.

The church bell began to toll on the hour so Athelstan walked slowly back to the tavern. He had hoped to find Sir John. Instead, the two scrutineers sat smiling in unison, almost as if they had been sitting there since the previous evening.

‘We received your request, Brother Athelstan.’

‘I wish all my prayers were answered so swiftly,’ the friar replied.

‘And where is that excellent coroner?’

‘Involved in other business.’

‘And what, my dear priest, do you have to tell us?’

Athelstan again repeated the conclusions he had drawn after his conversation with Lady Aveline and showed both scrutineers the crudely drawn map. The smiles on their faces faded.

‘Very clever,’ Peter, the taller one, replied. ‘Very clever indeed. So, Brother, you think that Sir Henry told Roffel about the ship and our pirate captain sank it?’

‘In a word, yes. What puzzled Sir John and me is why?’

‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ the scrutineer replied. ‘Sir Henry may not have been a traitor, but he was certainly a thief and a murderer. You see, Brother, we thought the ship had been sunk because of our agents and the despatches they carried. Now, I confess, it was sunk because of the belt of silver one of our agents wore.’ The scrutineer waved Athelstan closer. ‘Let me explain. You know the treasury is empty. We therefore take loans at a high rate of interest from men like Sir Henry. We thought he could be trusted. He often landed agents in France. A week before Roffel sailed, we sent one of our agents, a young clerk, to Sir Henry, who provided him with warrants and papers and also gave him a large leather belt with a veritable fortune stitched in the secret pockets within it. Our agent and a companion were to go to Calais and then, on an appointed day, sail from there to Dieppe. That bastard Ospring-’ The scrutineer paused to draw in his breath. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I am losing my temper.’