Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

Cabe got to his feet. He turned to walk away, stopped and looked around.

‘I hope you trap the bastard!’ he hissed. ‘I hope you hang him high!’

Athelstan watched the sailor leave.

‘Do you know what to do now, Sir John?’

‘Yes, Brother, I do,’ Cranston replied. ‘One thing, however, does puzzle me, Brother – how did Roffel and Ospring expect to steal that silver and escape the scrutineers?’

Athelstan sighed. ‘Both men would have lied, perhaps even blamed the spy. Sir Henry was powerful enough to bribe officials.’ He drained his tankard. ‘Sir Jacob is still in St Bartholomew’s?’

‘He is and none the worse for wear.’

‘Good! Then let the dance begin!’

Tabitha Velour answered the door and her face crinkled in a smile as she waved Athelstan in.

‘Good morrow, Brother, surely not more questions?’

She ushered the friar into the small parlour where Emma Roffel sat before the fire, a book of accounts in her lap. She smiled as Athelstan entered.

‘Brother, why are you here? Please take a seat? She turned to Tabitha. ‘Bring Brother Athelstan some ale!’

Athelstan sat down. Tabitha came back with the ale and a platter of fresh milksops which she placed on the corner of the hearth.

‘Well, Brother, what can I do for you?’ Emma Roffel’s face seemed softer, calmer.

Athelstan smiled. ‘I was on my way to see Sir Jacob Crawley at St Bartholomew’s hospital and I stopped by to see if you could stitch this’ – he showed a rent in the sleeve of his robe – ‘as well as to ask you a few questions before this matter is ended.’

‘Ended?’ Emma Roffel straightened up in her chair.

Athelstan nodded. ‘I am going to meet Sir John at St Bartholomew’s. He will be there with bailiffs and warrants to arrest Sir Jacob Crawley for the murder of your husband and of Bracklebury and his two shipmates.’

Emma Roffel closed her eyes. ‘God save us!’ she muttered.

She leaned over and took the sleeve of Athelstan’s gown. ‘As you know, Tabitha is a good seamstress. She can stitch this.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, woman!’

Tabitha hurried to the small box seat under the window, opened it and took out a small casket and crouched beside Athelstan. The friar jumped at a loud knocking on the door.

‘I’ll see to that!’ Emma Roffel declared.

Athelstan heard her go down the passageway, open the door, say a few words and close the door again.

He didn’t look up as she came back into the room.

‘Who was it?’ Tabitha asked.

Emma didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and returned, her hands up the sleeves of her voluminous gown. She sat down and stared into the fire.

‘We have a clever, clever little priest here, Tabitha!’

Athelstan looked up. Emma Roffel’s face was a mask of fury, pale, tight-lipped, her dark, powerful eyes blazing.

‘Mistress?’ he asked.

‘Leave his gown, Tabitha, and come and sit next to me!’

The maid scurried across. Athelstan clasped his arms over his stomach and hoped his fear wouldn’t show. Emma leaned across. ‘A cunning, conniving priest, who’s not going to St Bartholomew’s!’ she spat out. ‘Do you know who knocked on the door, Tabitha?’ Her eyes never left Athelstan’s face. ‘Another priest, that stupid, ancient, dribbling Father Stephen from St Mary Magdalene church.’

‘Why should that alarm you, mistress?’ Athelstan asked innocently.

Emma Roffel shuffled in her seat. She, too, smiled, as if enjoying this clash of minds.

‘You know full well, priest, but tell me anyway!’

‘Oh, yes, I will, madam. I’ll tell you a story about a young Scottish girl born in a fishing village near Edinburgh. She married a defrocked priest, but a marriage she thought was made in heaven became a hatred forged in hell. You, Mistress Roffel, hated your husband. It curdled both your souls. Roffel turned to his male whore Bernicia, and you to your love, Tabitha.’ Athelstan looked at Tabitha, who gazed coolly back. ‘You planned to murder your husband,’ he continued, ‘by poisoning his flask of usquebaugh. You thought that, if this was detected, someone on board the God’s Bright Light would surely be blamed, for your husband was hated by his crew.’

‘But, Father,’ Emma Roffel purred, ‘William always kept the flask by him. He, not I, took it to be filled at Richard Crawley’s tavern.’ She hugged her arms closer. ‘I am sure that, if you and that fat coroner make enquiries, you will find that my husband drank from the flask and suffered no ill effects. Indeed, as you know, I drank from it. You drank from it, too. There was no poison in it.’

‘Don’t mock me, madam,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘I shall tell you what happened. You took that flask when it was empty and put the arsenic in. Captain William filled it with usquebaugh. It would take more than one swig for the poison on the bottom to mingle and make its presence felt. As you planned, it eventually did, but only when he was at sea. Any apothecary will tell you that white arsenic is not a poison that kills immediately. It takes time to build up in the victim’s body.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘When the flask was brought back here, you washed and scoured it. You then found some usquebaugh and refilled it, placing it back among your husband’s possessions as if it had never been disturbed.’

Emma Roffel just gazed coolly at him.

‘Now, the death of your husband,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was reward enough for you, but when Bracklebury brought his corpse back you noticed something amiss. Perhaps Bracklebury made one last search of the corpse? Or did you study the pages at the back of your husband’s book of hours and realise that "in S.L." stood for "in secreto loco, in a secret place". The last entry was fresh, so you knew that your husband had recently taken some-thing precious and hidden it away.’ Athelstan paused to wet his dry lips. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make Bracklebury talk – his only thought was to find that silver.’

‘And?’ Emma Roffel asked, in mock innocence.

‘You knew, God knows how, about this secret place of your husband’s and so you entered into an unholy alliance with Bracklebury. You would find the silver and share it with him. You’d then act the grieving widow, maintaining your cool mistress-and-servant relations with Tabitha until you could both disappear and go to some other city in England or Scotland under new names.’

‘But I never went aboard the God’s Bright Light that night,’ Emma Roffel scoffed. ‘I was in the church of St Mary Magdalene, mourning for my husband.’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You did go aboard that day. You disguised yourself as one of the whores and Bracklebury hid you in the cabin so that you could begin your search – or rather pretend to, because you already knew where the hiding place was. Bracklebury told you about his agreement with Cabe and about the signals that had to be passed between the ships and between himself and Cabe on the quayside.’

‘But how could I do all this,’ Emma insisted, ‘if I was in a church mourning for my husband?’

‘You were not,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Your maid Tabitha was. Father Stephen is old, his eyesight is failing and you, of course, are no church-goer. So you sent Tabitha to the priest’s house pretending to be you. Father Stephen accepted her for what she claimed to be. It was Tabitha who was there that night.’

‘But the funeral?’ Tabitha interrupted. ‘Both Mistress Roffel and I attended the funeral and Father Stephen was there.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you did.’ Athelstan smiled, noting how the maid had lost her cool appearance of severity. ‘Both of you attended, cowled and hooded. But you, Tabitha, maintained the pretence of being Mistress Roffel and she acted the part of your maid. You knew that Father Stephen would soon forget, time would pass. Anyway, you planned to leave the city. And if Father Stephen should visit the house then you could sustain the pretence, even explain away any confusion.’ Athelstan pushed his tankard aside; he had not drunk from it, nor would he. ‘Of course, when Father Stephen came today while I was here you realised that it was no coincidence. Father Stephen was given clear sight of whoever answered that door.’