Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘How?’ the strange creature asked.

‘Do you have a swimmer?’ Athelstan continued, indicating that Cranston should keep quiet. ‘Someone who is not freighted of the currents of the Thames?’

The Fisher of Men grinned mirthlessly, put a finger to his lips and gave a long whistle.

‘Icthus!’

One of the hooded gargoyles detached himself from the rest and ran forward.

‘This is Icthus,’ said the Fisher of Men. ‘We call him that because it is the Greek word for fish. Where they can go, he can follow, can’t you, Icthus?’

Icthus drew back his hood. Athelstan gazed at him in a mixture of shock, revulsion and compassion. Either he had been born disfigured or he was the victim of some terrible disease. He was very thin. Although only a boy, he was completely bald. But what caught everyone’s horrified attention was his face. It was the face of a fish – with scaly skin, a small, flat nose, a cod-like mouth and eyes so far apart they seemed to be on either side of his head.

‘This is Icthus,’ the Fisher of Men repeated. ‘And his fee is one silver piece.’

Athelstan forced himself to look at the boy.

‘Will you swim for us?’ he asked.

The cod mouth opened. Icthus had no teeth or tongue, only dark red gums. The only sound he could make was a guttural choking noise. But he nodded vigorously in answer to Athelstan’s question.

‘Good,’ Athelstan said. ‘Now let’s return to that God-forsaken ship.’ He grinned at Cranston. ‘And no questions, please.’

The God’s Bright Light was preparing for sea when Cranston and Athelstan and their two strange companions went aboard. The friar was jovially welcomed by the young captain, who listened carefully, studying the Fisher of Men and Icthus. Then he nodded.

‘Whatever you want, Brother, but the Thames is a broad river.’

Athelstan stared around. All signs of the night battle had disappeared. Thankfully, even the French corpses had been removed. He walked over to the ship’s side and stared out towards Queen’s hithe, trying to imagine that dark night and the lamps winking back and forth. Who, he wondered, had been that watcher on the shore? Who had killed Bracklebury? Athelstan stood back. Someone with sharp eyesight could see him from the shore. But, on the night Bracklebury had disappeared a heavy sea mist had been boiling along the river. Athelstan beckoned Cranston over and, watched by a curious ship’s crew, the Fisher of Men led Icthus across by his skinny arm. Athelstan went and pointed over the starboard side, near the stern.

‘Dive there!’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, Brother!’ the captain breathed. ‘Are you sure? Any corpse would be swept away by the currents.’

Even Cranston looked doubtful.

‘Will you do it, Icthus?’ Athelstan asked gently. He stroked the youngster’s cheek. ‘You needn’t if you don’t want to, but you might help us discover the truth.’

The boy’s strange mouth opened in a grin. He stepped out of his gown, leaving it crumpled on the deck and stood with his thin body clad only in a pair of woollen breech clouts. Ignoring the laughter of the sailors at his thin body, he climbed on to a bulwark, bared his gums at Athelstan in a brief smile and slipped into the river. A few bubbles appeared on the surface and then he was gone. Athelstan stared into the dark water, waiting for the boy to reappear, but time passed and his stomach churned with fear. He looked across at the Fisher of Men.

‘Will he be safe?’

‘Safe as he would be here,’ the Fisher of Men replied caustically, glaring at the sniggering sailors behind him.

Cranston took out his wineskin. He offered it to the captain who shook his head so the coroner took a generous swig, belched and lumbered to the ship’s side.

‘Come on!’ he roared down at the water. ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’

The water rippled and, as if in answer to Cranston’s shout, Icthus appeared. He spluttered, smiled strangely, closed his mouth, breathed through his nose, then disappeared again. He reappeared a bit quicker this time, clapping his hands as he trod water and gestured with his hands in a stabbing motion, holding one finger up.

‘He wants a dagger!’ the Fisher of Men cried. ‘Sir John!’

Cranston took out his long stabbing dagger and tossed it to Icthus, who caught it expertly before disappearing again. This time he re-emerged with a grisly burden in his arms.

‘May God be blessed!’ Cranston breathed. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it!’

Ropes and nets were lowered and sailors ran forward to help. They grasped the body Icthus brought to the surface and pulled both the swimmer and the water-logged corpse on board.

‘It’s Alain!’ Peverill declared, pushing his way through. ‘Hell’s teeth! What’s that?’

Icthus had put his robe on and now crouched by the corpse, in his hand a rope with a metal ball attached. He made signs to indicate that it had been tied around the corpse’s neck. Athelstan stared at the corpse’s thin face, which had turned a pale green and bore the same purple marks as Bracklebury’s. The corpse was sodden with water, disfiguring both features and body. Athelstan noted the purple welts on either side of the neck and the bruise where the ball had hit against the dead man’s chest.

‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked, swaying rather dangerously on his feet.

Athelstan took the heavy, metal ball, noting how the rope was laced through a small loop on top.

‘Captain, the ship’s armament includes these?’

The seaman nodded and pointed further down the deck where crates of similar iron-balls were stacked.

‘We place them in the catapults,’ he explained.

‘Sometimes the rope is hardened with pitch and set alight so the ball not only causes damage but spreads fire.’

The captain stared down in disgust at the corpse. He noticed one of the eyes had been eaten through and walked away.

Minter, the ship’s surgeon, now crouched by the corpse and began to examine it carefully.

‘Whoever killed Bracklebury and Alain,’ Athelstan explained, ‘rendered them unconscious and placed those metal balls around their necks so they would sink to the bottom.’

‘As far as I can see, apart from the lacerations on the neck and the blow to the chest, there is no other wound,’ Minter reported.

Cranston snapped his fingers, inviting the Fisher of Men and his strange companion to join them. He placed a silver coin in Icthus’s hand.

‘Was there any other corpse down there?’

Icthus shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’ Cranston persisted.

Icthus nodded.

Cranston shuffled his feet in anger and stared up at the darkening sky.

‘Hell’s teeth, Brother, what are we to do?’

The friar, too, stared at the sky; his mind was a jumble of different ideas, sensations and impressions. He wanted to go back to St Erconwald’s, sit before his fire and impose order on this chaos.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked suspiciously. ‘Are you all right?’

Athelstan smiled and turned to the captain. ‘Tell me, sir, do the stars move in the heavens?’

Southchurch shrugged. ‘Most people say they do, Father.’

‘And you?’

‘I once served in the Middle Sea. I met an Egyptian sea captain who claimed the stars didn’t move but the earth was a sphere spinning in the heavens.’

Athelstan stared up at the dark clouds. He’d heard such theories before.

‘Athelstan!’ Cranston snapped.

The friar winked at Sir John. He stared across at the officers, watching Cabe carefully. The man still seemed deeply shocked by what he had seen that afternoon.

‘We’ve found Bracklebury,’ Athelstan said, ‘and we’ve found Alain, but where’s poor Clement’s corpse?’