Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

The man nodded vigorously.

‘So we asked Trumpington if a tiler had been summoned, and when he said yes we accepted his story.’ Cranston leaned over for Lady Maude to fill his goblet. ‘And if the beadle had had the roof examined by a tiler, who had found no signs of disturbance, then this could not be how the thief entered the house. But’ – he waved an airy hand – ‘this is where our logic comes in. Brother Athelstan and I considered the following possibility: what if Trumpington, the beadle, was involved in the housebreaking and the tiler used to check the roofs was also involved?’ Cranston slurped from the goblet. ‘A subtle little piece of trickery that might have deceived us had we not noticed those damp rushes.’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Isn’t that right, Brother?’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘your logic is impeccable. Trumpington and the tiler were working hand in glove. The beadle would find out which houses were empty and how they were organised. Then, while he was patrolling the streets, bawling out all was well, his accomplice was busy robbing the house.

‘Have they confessed?’ Shawditch asked.

‘Oh yes, and some of the plunder has been found in their houses,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are now in Newgate awaiting trial. For the murder of that girl, both will hang.’

He got to his feet and warmed his great backside before the fire. ‘Master Shawditch,’ he said magnanimously, ‘you may have credit for the arrest.’

‘Sir John, I thank you.’

‘Nonsense!’ Cranston replied. ‘Now be off with you. Make sure that all the stolen property is returned to its owners.’

Once the under-sheriff had left, Cranston was about to continue with his tales of triumph, even threatening to go back to his great victory on the river. But Athelstan yawned and stretched.

‘Sir John, I thank you for your hospitality, but the hour is late and tomorrow we have other business.’

‘I know, I know,’ Cranston replied testily. ‘That bloody Fisher of Men is still sending messages to me. He probably wants to be paid for the corpses he’s plucked out of the river.’

Lady Maude got to her feet and pointed to a corner of the parlour.

‘Brother Athelstan, I have made up a comfortable bed for you.’

Athelstan thanked her, rose and stretched.

‘Now, come on, Sir John.’ Lady Maude seized her husband by the elbow. ‘Come. The poppets will be up early and you know they always cry for Daddy.’

Sir John, mollified, headed towards the door and the stairs to the bedchamber. He turned and waggled a finger at Athelstan.

‘You sleep well, Brother, and don’t worry about Gog and Magog. They are both locked in the kitchen. They won’t get out and eat you!’

Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief- Cranston’s new acquisitions, two great Irish wolfhounds, were harmless enough but so boisterous in their greetings they could knock the wind from the unwary visitor.

Sir John and his wife left. Athelstan snuffed out the candles and knelt by his bed to say his prayers, but his mind kept going back to Crawley lying on the deck and to the words he had uttered just before he swooned.

The door opened behind him.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’ Athelstan replied without turning.

‘You know I am a terrible teller of tales?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘You are a great man, Sir John.’

‘No, Brother, it is you who deserve the credit. On behalf of that little murdered girl, I thank you. You saw old Jack do justice.’

The door closed. Athelstan finished his prayers, crossed himself and climbed into bed. He had intended to lie awake and think, but his head had hardly touched the bolster before he was fast asleep.

His awakening the next morning, however, was far from peaceful. He woke to find one of the great wolfhounds lying on top of him. The poppets, who viewed Athelstan as a favourite uncle, were staggering about with pieces of bread smeared with honey. They were screaming with laughter as they tried to force the bread between his lips. Athelstan climbed sleepily from the bed in a whirl of hurling limbs, soft little bodies and pieces of honey-coated bread. The other wolfhound, Magog, also appeared and made his contribution to the growing clamour. If Athelstan didn’t want the bread and honey, the dogs certainly did. They began to butt the baby boys in their fat little stomachs.

Lady Maude arrived and her few quiet words had their desired effect. The wolfhounds disappeared beneath the table. The two poppets would have joined them, but their mother grabbed them both and dragged them off for their morning wash. Boscombe, Cranston’s small, fat steward, a model of courtly courtesy, appeared with soap, towel and razor.

Athelstan washed and shaved before the fire then joined Sir John, dressed now in more sober attire, to breakfast in the kitchen. Leif the beggar also arrived. Athelstan was always astonished at the skinny beggar’s appetite – it was as if he was constantly on the verge of death through starvation. Leif had brought a companion, Picknose – so named because of a disgusting personal habit. The two were listening in rapt admiration as Sir John, using knives and pieces of bread, described Eustace the Monk’s attack along the Thames. Athelstan ignored them all, ate a hasty breakfast and went outside. The morning, despite the clear skies, was bitterly cold. Athelstan crossed to St Mary Le Bow, where the friendly priest allowed him to celebrate Mass in a chantry chapel.

Cranston was waiting when Athelstan left the church. He handed the friar his cloak and staff.

‘I have just visited that old nag of yours,’ he said.

‘Philomel is not an old nag, Sir John. He’s a bit like yourself, a stout warhorse who may have seen better days.’

Cranston roared with laughter as they made their way down Bread Street across Old Fish Street and Trinity towards the quayside. The city was beginning to stir, carts crashed along, pulled by great dray horses with hogged manes, the steam from their sweaty flanks raising clouds in the cold morning air. Pedlars pushed their barrows; sleepy-eyed apprentices, not alert enough for mischief, laid out stalls and extinguished the lamps hanging outside their masters’ houses. Night pots were being emptied from upper windows and a burly-faced trader, covered in someone’s night soil, was fairly dancing with rage. The dung-carts were out scraping the muck from the sewers and picking up the detritus from the previous day, which included dead cats and a dog, its back broken by a cartwheel. A group of Benedictine monks escorted a coffin down towards one of the churches. A chanteur entertained the early morning crowds with a story of being spirited away to a fabulous fairy city under a mountain outside Dublin. Some drunken roisterers, halters around their necks, their hose pulled down about their ankles, were being led up to the Tun to spend the morning in disgrace in the huge cage there. At the entrance to Vintry two poles stuck in the ground bore the heads of executed French pirates, their features unrecognisable under the muck and refuse that had been thrown at them.

Cranston and Athelstan reached the quayside, which was thronged with merchant ships; the sky was almost blacked out by a forest of masts, spars and cranes. They passed the Aleppo, the George, the Christopher and the Black Cock, their holds open to receive bundles of English wool, iron, salt, meat and cloths from Midland towns. Athelstan looked between the ships and glimpsed the war cogs riding at anchor. Cranston led him down to the alehouse where they had last met the Fisher of Men. He quietly asked the tapster to fetch the fellow, ordered two blackjacks of ale, sat in the same corner of the tavern as before and waited. The Fisher of Men soon appeared. His narrow, skeletal face glowed with pleasure at the profits he had harvested by plundering the dead and taking corpses from the river. His gargoyles thronged in the doorway waiting. The Fisher of Men refused Cranston’s offer of refreshment but clapped his hands and gave Cranston and Athelstan a mocking bow.