Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

Athelstan dug into his own purse and gave coins to Icthus and the Fisher of Men. He thanked the captain and grasped Cranston by the elbow.

‘Come on, Sir John, enough is enough. God knows I have had my fill of human wickedness.’

A bumboat took them ashore. They walked quietly – back through the warren of streets to the Holy Lamb of God, where Athelstan could collect his horse.

Cranston grew increasingly infuriated at the friar’s prolonged silence. Athelstan even refused refreshment, muttering he must get back to St Erconwald’s.

‘Brother!’ Cranston roared in exasperation as Athelstan made ready to leave. ‘What are you thinking about?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I don’t even know myself, Sir John.’

‘Should I issue a description of Clement?’ Cranston asked. The coroner hawked and spat. ‘At this rate I’m going to make a bloody fool of myself. Every time I look for someone he turns out to be drowned!’ He glanced at his companion. ‘You still haven’t told me how Bracklebury and Alain were killed!’

Athelstan stood in the stable yard waiting for Philomel to be saddled. ‘Bracklebury, Alain and Clement were all drugged.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how or by whom, but when I examined Bracklebury’s corpse I surmised someone had tied a weight around his neck and tossed him overboard. A vigorous man, Bracklebury must have been unconscious not to resist. However, there’s no bruise to his head or wound in his body, hence my conclusion that he had been drugged.’ Athelstan paused to greet Philomel. ‘The same fate befell Alain and Clement. They were probably all thrown overboard from the deck near the stern castle; this, and the heavy river mist, would give the assassin every protection.’

‘So, how did Bracklebury’s corpse surface?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan smiled. ‘For that we must thank Eustace the Monk.’ He grasped the fat coroner’s arm. ‘Just think, Sir John, the dipping oars of the galleys, their crashing into our ships, the corpses tumbling into the river making the water eddy and swirl.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘The assassin must have worked quickly. Perhaps the rope around Bracklebury’s neck wasn’t so secure and worked loose, aided, perhaps, by the battle. The weight slips away, the corpse surfaces.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘And the deep gave up its dead. The discovery of Alain’s corpse simply proves my-’ He smiled. ‘Our theory.’ He patted Cranston’s shoulder. ‘So, forget about Clement, only God knows where his poor corpse is.’

‘And the murderer?’ Cranston snapped.

Athelstan seized Philomel’s reins, mounted and stared down at Cranston.

‘Sir John, go home, kiss the Lady Maude, play with the poppets. Rest and think.’ He urged Philomel forward, leaving an even more infuriated Cranston glaring speechlessly behind him.

Athelstan found St Erconwald’s quiet. Marston had long disappeared and so had the parishioners who had been working on the stage. Huddle’s painting of the backcloth was at last near completion and for a while the friar stood gazing in silent admiration at the great mouth of Hell, from which sprang black demons with the red faces of monkeys. Behind the canvas he found the metal pans and wooden tubs that Crim and the other boys would use to create sounds. He picked up the silver trumpet that would be blown before God spoke. He put it to his lips and blew a short blast then blushed with embarrassment as Ashby suddenly appeared from behind the rood screen.

‘Father, what’s the matter?’

‘Nicholas, I had forgotten you were still here. Are you well?’

‘Yes, Aveline has just left. She says Marston has fled.’

‘And do you need anything?’ Athelstan asked, hoping the young man would not draw him into conversation.

‘No, Father.’ Ashby leaned against the rood screen.

‘I have never rested, eaten or drunk so well in my life.’

He pointed to the stage and the canvas backcloth. ‘It will be a grand play, Father.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘It will be, Nicholas, if my parishioners don’t kill each other first!’

Ashby laughed. ‘Benedicta shooed them all out when Watkin the dung-collector started a row. He claimed that God the Father should sit higher than God the Holy Ghost. You can guess at Pike’s reaction to that.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘And Bonaventure?’

‘Oh, he’s in the sanctuary.’

‘Of course he is,’ Athelstan said to himself. ‘The little mercenary!’

He bade farewell to Ashby and walked out of the church and across to the stable, where Philomel was chomping away at a small truss of hay hung over the door of the stable. Athelstan put his battered saddle away, replenished the old horse’s water and walked back to his house. Benedicta had built the fire up and had left a pie on the small plinth in the inglenook.

‘I am going to reward myself,’ Athelstan muttered.

He went into the buttery and took out a small jug of wine Cranston had given him at Easter. ‘The best of Bordeaux,’ Cranston had described it. Athelstan now unsealed the stopper, poured himself a generous cup and sipped it. He then washed his hands and face in a bowl of rose water, took his horn spoon and sat down to enjoy Benedicta’s pie.

‘Thank God for food!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘And thank God I don’t have to cook it!’

Athelstan finished eating, cleaned his mouth and fingers and went upstairs. He slept for an hour on his small cot bed. He woke refreshed, went downstairs and cleared the table except for the wine cup. After this, he took out a large piece of parchment and began to write down everything he knew about the strange events on board the God’s Bright Light . He scribbled down everything – every thought, every impression. Now and again he had to break off because of minor interruptions. Mugwort the bell clerk claimed that the bell rope was getting frayed and needed to be replaced. Ranulf the rat-catcher wanted Athelstan to say another Mass for his newly formed Guild of Rat Hunters. Crim wanted assurances that he would beat the drum during the play. Pernell the Fleming wanted to know if eating meat on a Friday was a serious sin.

Athelstan went across to the church to ensure all was well with Ashby and, finding it was, locked the church for the night. He went back to his writing. The din from the alleyways and streets around faded until the loudest sound was the hooting of the owls hunting above the long grass in the cemetery. Athelstan carried on. He kept writing and, using pieces of wood, even created tiny models of the war cogs moored off Queen’s hithe. Only when he was satisfied that he had recorded all the information available to him did he attempt to draw conclusions. His vexation grew – time and again he tried to create a case, but it always fell apart like some syllogism which cannot survive the probe of logic. He took a fresh piece of parchment and wrote carefully at the top, ‘ Si autem ?, What if?’ He then began to list his doubts and, when he had finished, rubbed his hands together. He looked at these, fingers splayed.

‘You are soft, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘Soft hands.’

He went back to his writing. A thought occurred to him.

‘What if there are two murderers? What if there are three? Or is there just one? A master of this dance?’

Once again he began to write, taking one central fact as if it were a divinely revealed truth and building his case around it. At last, long after midnight, he finished and threw the quill down.

‘What if?’ he muttered. ‘What if? But how do I prove it?’

Athelstan put his head on his arms and, before he knew it, drifted into one of his nightmares. He was on a boat being rowed by a masked oarsman along a fogbound Thames. The mist cleared and he saw, in the prow of the boat, a hooded, cowled figure. Athelstan knew this must be the murderer. The boat bumped. Athelstan shook himself awake and realised he had knocked the cup off the table. He yawned, stretched, got to his feet and, leaving the manuscripts where they were, damped down the fire and slowly climbed the stairs to his bed.