Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘Oh, of course! We even threatened him with a short sojourn in the Tower’s deepest dungeon.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

‘Very little. But he described a man – a strong, well-built sailor dressed in a battered leather jacket, hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. Or so he thinks.’

‘And his features?’

‘He had his cowl and hood pulled full across his face. The goldsmith did not think it was suspicious. The man claimed the silver was payment for booty handed over to the crown. Of course, any further questions were silenced by the goldsmith’s greed.’

‘And how much was exchanged?’

Ten groats. What concerns us is that it’s easy to chase money in London but what happens if this fellow goes to Norwich, Lincoln, Ipswich or Gloucester?’

Cranston put his finger to his lips as the officers of the God’s Bright Light, led by Cabe, entered the tavern. Most of them looked tired and rather angry at being dragged away for yet another interrogation. One of the scrutineers looked over his shoulder; he tapped his companion on the arm and they both got to their feet.

‘We’ll be back, Sir John.’ They pulled up their hoods and slipped soundlessly out of the alehouse. Cabe, Coffrey, Minter and Peverill now stood over Cranston, thumbs pushed into broad, leather belts, their salt-stained jackets pulled back to display daggers and short swords. Athelstan fleetingly wondered what would happen if all four of these men were taken to that goldsmith? But that would prove little and might only alert suspicions. The goldsmith would be frightened of implicating himself. Moreover, the mysterious sailor who had brought the silver might be an innocent third party only used by the thief and murderer for that particular transaction. Athelstan blinked as Cabe leaned over and whispered to Cranston. The coroner just glared back.

‘I appreciate you coming,’ Sir John declared falsely. ‘My excuse for asking you is that I thought you might want to meet an old friend.’

‘What the bloody hell do you mean?’ Peverill asked.

Cabe stepped back. ‘You are not saying Roffel’s climbed out of his grave?’ Cranston shook his head, grinned and sipped from his wine cup.

‘No, but Bracklebury might have.’

‘Bracklebury!’ Coffrey exclaimed. ‘Have you caught him?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cabe snarled. ‘What is this, Sir John? To be summoned by some benighted sloven from our duties on the quayside.’

Cranston gazed beyond him at the door where Emma Roffel now stood with the ubiquitous Tabitha in tow. Behind her was the thin-faced, red-haired Fisher of Men.

Emma swept grandly towards the coroner.

‘You’d best not be wasting my time, Sir John!’ She flicked a look of contempt at her dead husband’s officers. ‘What is it now?’

‘You’ll see! You’ll see!’ the Fisher of Men called from the door. ‘A mummer’s play is about to begin. The cast is waiting.’

‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. Cranston realised that the ship’s officers and Emma Roffel were in danger of walking off in protest, so he lumbered to his feet.

‘This is no petty matter,’ he said. ‘All of you had best follow me.’

They followed the Fisher of Men, surrounded by his gargoyles, back to the warehouse. He opened the door and ushered them in. While others lit candles and torches, he led them past the grisly, decaying corpses laid out on the floor or on the makeshift tables.

Athelstan watched the others. Emma Roffel, pale at the sights she glimpsed, was supporting Tabitha. The maid clutched her mistress’s arm, her eyes half-closed, her face turned inwards so she did not have to look at the pale faces and open, staring eyes. Even the sailors, used to battle and sudden death, lost their arrogance. Coffrey became distinctly nervous and, on one occasion, turned away to gag at the offensive stench. At last they reached the arrow chest. The Fisher of Men held up a torch, giving the corpse’s face an eerie light of its own.

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Minter the ship’s surgeon crouched down.

Coffrey turned away. Peverill gazed in astonishment. Cabe, who seemingly couldn’t believe his eyes, walked closer and stared at the dead man’s face.

‘Is it Bracklebury?’ Sir John asked.

‘God rest him!’ Minter whispered. ‘Of course it is!’

‘Do you all recognise him?’

‘We do!’ they chorused.

‘Mistress Roffel, is this the man who brought your husband’s corpse back to your house?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is.’

Then I pronounce and declare,’ said Cranston formally, ‘that this is the corpse of Bracklebury, first mate of the God’s Bright Light, murdered by person or persons unknown. May God bring them swiftly to judgement!’ Cranston pointed at the Fisher of Men. ‘You may apply for the reward.’ He turned to the ship’s surgeon. ‘Can you tell us how this man died?’

Minter, overcoming his distaste, pulled the water-sodden corpse from its box and laid it on the ground.

‘Do you need me any more, Sir John?’ Emma Roffel asked.

‘No, no, of course not. I thank you for coming.’

Minter was now stripping the corpse and examining it carefully, turning it over as if it was some dead fish on the quayside.

‘Well?’ Cranston snapped.

‘No signs of any blow to the head or stab wound. No marks of violence, except these-’ He turned the grisly corpse over and indicated the lacerations on each side of the neck and the large purple welt on the chest.

Emma Roffel, turning to leave and still holding the tearful Tabitha, slipped on the wet floor. Athelstan caught her by the hand.

‘Steady!’ he whispered.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘If you could help me, Brother.’

Athelstan helped both women out into the cold, fresh air. Emma Roffel pushed Tabitha away.

‘Come on, woman!’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, it is not you laid out like a fish in a box!’

Tabitha moaned and drew closer to her mistress. Emma looked at Athelstan.

‘When will this business end?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you see, Brother, that those pirates in there are no better than my husband? They know the truth!’ And, spinning on her heel, she led the sobbing Tabitha away.

Athelstan went back to where Cranston and the others were still staring down at Bracklebury’s corpse.

‘Why?’ the coroner asked suddenly.

‘Why what, Sir John?’

‘Well, Bracklebury had apparently been in the water for some time. But no one knows why or what caused these bruises on his chest and neck. Yet what really puzzles me is why his corpse appears now?’

Cranston looked at Cabe, who was leaning against a wooden pillar. Still shocked, the second mate was staring down at his dead comrade.

‘Master Cabe, who were the other two sailors? What were their names?’

Cabe didn’t answer.

‘Master Cabe, the names of the other two sailors?’

‘Eh?’ The second mate rubbed the side of his face.

‘Clement and Alain. They were London men, or I think they were.’

Athelstan was staring at the Fisher of Men, who caught his glance. ‘What is it, Brother?’

‘Can you explain why Bracklebury’s corpse should suddenly appear?’

‘No, Father, I can’t.’

Athelstan recalled the battle on the river. Images flitted through his mind – the catapults being loaded with stones, the galleys crashing against the cog to set it rocking on the swift flow of the Thames. The friar smiled down at the corpse. ‘Of course!’ he whispered and tapped his foot in excitement.

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘I think we should return to God’s Bright Light . Our good friend here, the Fisher of Men, might be able to help us.’