Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘You can’t do that,’ the other one replied.

‘No, no, I shouldn’t, but it’s apparent that Sir Henry Ospring lent the treasury that silver and saw to the despatch of the agent. He then informed his piratical friend Roffel when the man would sail from our garrison in Calais to Dieppe.’

‘Clever, subtle trickery,’ Paul the scrutineer interrupted. ‘Sir Henry lends his money at a high interest. The treasury is forced to repay it whilst Sir Henry steals back the original amount.’

‘Roffel and Ospring deserved to die,’ his companion declared. ‘Thieves, murderers, Ospring particularly. He met our young agent and, even as he gave him the silver, was planning his death. Believe me, friar, whoever killed Sir Henry Ospring deserves a pardon.’ He caught the smile on Athelstan’s face. ‘Does that amuse you, Brother?’

‘No, sir, it does not. But many a true word is spoken in jest. Sir John and I may return to you on that matter.’

‘What is important,’ Peter remarked, ‘is to discover if Roffel had any accomplices and to get that silver back.’

The two scrutineers got to their feet.

‘We entrust everything to your capable hands, Brother Athelstan,’ the taller one announced. ‘When the game is over and the full truth is known, come back to us.’

Sir John and Brother Athelstan sat at the head of a dusty table in a shabby room on the top floor of the Guildhall. Both stared at their truculent-faced guests. Emma Roffel, pale and anxious, looked eager to be away; Tabitha her maid crouched next to her like some frightened lap dog. At the far end of the room, Sir Jacob Crawley refused to meet their eyes but drummed his fingers on the table top, lost in his own thoughts. The men from the God’s Bright Light – Philip Cabe, Dido Coffrey, Vincent Minter and the master-at-arms Tostig Peverill – looked ill at ease. They had protested at being so peremptorily summoned, only to be roared into silence by Cranston who, to Athelstan’s despair, was now taking generous swigs from his wineskin. The coroner pushed the stopper back and beamed falsely around.

‘Everything we’ve been told is a pack of lies,’ he began sweetly. ‘Except that Captain William Roffel, God assoil him, was a pirate and a thief as well as a murderer.’

Emma Roffel made to protest but she closed her mouth and sat smiling wanly to herself.

‘I object to this,’ Cabe said. ‘Roffel can go to hell and probably has, but that’s no reason to insult us, Sir John.’

Cranston clicked his fingers at Coffrey, the ship’s clerk.

‘You brought the log book?’

‘Sir John,’ the man whined, ‘you looked at that when you first visited us.’

‘Well, I want to look at it again. I also have questions to ask all of you.’

Coffrey pushed the calfskin-bound book down towards him. Cranston, half-watching the admiral from beneath bushy eyebrows, opened the book and leafed through the water-stained parchment. The entries were innocuous enough – they gave the ship’s daily position, recorded the booty taken and noted the occasional alarum or occurrence on board. Cranston closed the book, keeping his podgy finger as a marker, and stared at Sir Jacob.

‘Captain Roffel was under your command?’

‘In theory, yes,’ the admiral replied. ‘But his orders were quite explicit. He was to sail the Narrow Seas, attack enemy shipping and give assistance to any English ship in need of it. But he was free to seek out and take any prizes he could.’

Cranston smiled. ‘In which case, why is there no mention here of a fishing smack, ostensibly French, taken outside Calais? The vessel was destroyed and its crew killed. I believe it was sailing to Dieppe.’

‘Roffel took many ships,’ Coffrey whined.

‘Yes,’ Cranston said. ‘But aren’t you supposed to enter them in the log? Why miss this one out?’

‘It was only a fishing smack,’ Cabe said. ‘Nothing more than a floating log with a ragged sail.’

Cranston, bristling with rage, glared down the table at him.

‘You are a bloody liar!’ he roared. There were men aboard that ship and they weren’t French. Or, at least, not all of them.’

‘These are treasonable matters,’ Athelstan pointed out softly. ‘If we do not get the truth, we can only draw the conclusion that you were accomplices in Roffel’s nefarious activities.’

Emma Roffel made to rise.

‘This is none of my business,’ she declared, clutching at the hem of her cloak. ‘Sir John, I beg you, I have been through enough.’

‘My lady,’ Athelstan answered tactfully, ‘this concerns you very much. Don’t you want to know who murdered your husband?’ He smiled and Emma Roffel sat down.

‘It’s true,’ Tostig Peverill spoke up, ‘that we took a fishing smack outside Calais.’ He blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘Calais is in English hands but we thought it was a French ship – sometimes they do hop between the coastal towns.’ He pointed to the log book. ‘On reflection, however, it was obvious that Roffel was waiting for it. You see, we were fighting a head wind, a blustery north-westerly, and we should have run before it. Roffel, however, insisted we kept into the headland, keeping the coast of France just over the horizon. On the day we took that fishing smack we let bigger craft sail by. When that one appeared, Roffel ran it down.’ Peverill looked around at his companions. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘We all thought it was suspicious. Although it was only a fishing smack, once we were alongside, Roffel ordered my archers to loose as if it was some bloody war cog. He then led the boarding party himself.’

‘How many crew did it have?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No more than six or seven,’ Peverill replied. ‘By the time we reached the deck they were all either wounded or dead. Roffel was like a raging bull and headed straight for the cabin.’ The master-at-arms paused.

‘Then what?’ Cranston asked.

‘None of the rest of us went on board that ship,’ Cabe interrupted. ‘Only Peverill, the captain and fifteen archers.’

‘But something happened?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Master Peverill?’

Peverill closed his eyes before continuing. ‘As I said, the crew were either wounded or dead. I thought they were Frenchmen – but as I turned one over he cursed me in English. Then I heard Roffel talking to someone in the cabin. I am sure the other voice was English. There was a scream and Roffel came out, grinning from ear to ear, carrying a bundle of papers, possibly the ship’s log and manifesto. We took a tun of wine we found below. Roffel ordered the smack to be burnt. He tossed the papers he’d taken into the fire and we sailed on.’

‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked.

Peverill spread his hands. ‘What more should there be, Father? Oh, I confess, looking back, there was something suspicious going on, but Roffel was a cunning, ruthless bastard, a law unto himself.’

‘The crew were French,’ Athelstan mused, ‘but Englishmen was on board. So it must have been from our garrison at Calais.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Coffrey conceded, looking sheepishly around, ‘Roffel was not a man to care about such niceties.’

‘And how-?’ Athelstan broke off as Cranston leaned back in his chair and gave a loud snore. Athelstan gazed in bewilderment at his fat friend, then blushed as he heard a snigger further down the table.

‘The fellow’s drunk!’ Cabe whispered.

‘Sir John is not drunk!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘But tired, exhausted after his labours. So, I ask my question of you, Master Cabe, and I’ll ask it more bluntly, do you know if more was taken from that vessel than a tun of wine and some papers?’

Cabe shook his head.