Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘Do continue,’ Emma Roffel whispered. She sat back in the chair, tense, her chin thrust forward aggressively. ‘Oh, yes, on board the God’s Bright Light ?’

Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts but kept his eyes carefully on Emma Roffel’s hands hidden up the sleeve of her gown.

‘On board the God’s Bright Light ,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you remained hidden from the other two members of the watch as well as from Sir Jacob Crawley when he visited the ship. Nevertheless, the admiral was uneasy. After he left, you carried out your plan and murdered Bracklebury and his companions.’

‘Me, a frail woman?’

‘Who mentioned anything about frailty?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You may not be young but you are vigorous, strong, a fisherman’s daughter. Anyway, it’s not difficult to deal with the bodies of drugged men. Only Bracklebury had access to the cabin where you were hidden. You would declare little success in your search but hold out hope. In fact, you were only waiting to kill Bracklebury and any witnesses and so deepen the mystery further.’ Athelstan paused, hoping that Cranston would soon appear. ‘You laced the cups from which Bracklebury and the other two men were drinking with a powerful sleeping draught. They fell into their drugged sleep, you fastened the weights around their necks and slipped their bodies over the side. I doubt if the poor souls would have regained consciousness.’ Athelstan stared at the lantern over the hearth. ‘Your movements would have been concealed by a heavy sea mist. The same mist, as well as the speaking trumpet, disguised your voice. You had heard Bracklebury say the password and wink the lantern and you kept matters on an even keel. However’ – Athelstan tensed in the chair – ‘that sailor returned, laughing and singing, with his whore. You left at about the same time, a misty, cold dawn when the sailors from the two nearest ships were drowsy and the quayside deserted.’

‘And what did I do?’ Emma cried. ‘Fly!’

‘No, Mistress Roffel, you put the silver belt round your neck, slipped over the ship’s side away from the quayside, and followed the river current downstream, before swimming into shore well away from Queen’s hithe and the watching eyes of the Fisher of Men. You then stripped. Tabitha was nearby with a fresh set of clothing and you returned to your house to continue the role of the withdrawn, grieving widow.’ Athelstan paused, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. ‘You must have enjoyed yourself, Mistress Roffel, watching everyone run around, allegations being laid, Cabe wondering where Bracklebury was. You are a powerful woman, Mistress Roffel.’

‘Not powerful enough for the swim you have credited me with!’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are a fisherman’s daughter. You could swim before you walked, out at sea helping your father with his nets. I felt your hand as you left the Fisher of Men’s warehouse – it was rough, rather callused. You were born with the sea in your blood. You can probably swim better than any man on board those ships waiting in the Thames.

‘You watched us all run around like mice in a cage. You thought you would muddy the water still further as well as take vengeance on the whore Bernicia. Tabitha wrote that note to Cabe, pretending it came from Bracklebury, pointing the finger at Bernicia. All the time you were preparing to leave. You disguised yourself as a sailor, cowled and hooded, and took some of the silver to a goldsmith. This not only deepened the mystery but provided you and Tabitha with the necessary monies to leave London.’ Athelstan leaned forward accusingly. ‘The only flaw in your plan was that Bracklebury’s corpse was discovered.’

Tabitha clapped her hands mockingly. ‘You are right, mistress. A clever, clever little priest!’

‘How did you know Bracklebury’s sign for the letter to Bernicia?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I suppose you found it among your husband’s documents.’ He looked around the room. ‘So tidy,’ he murmured. That’s what Sir Jacob Crawley said. He meant that the galley was so tidy. All the cups and goblets cleaned! As if a good housewife had been there, as well as an assassin, hiding what she had done!’

‘Clever!’ Emma murmured.

‘Not really,’ Athelstan replied. ‘More a motley collection of scraps – finding Bracklebury’s corpse, feeling your callused hand, the cleaning of the galley cups, your talk about your youth, your husband’s book of hours. And, of course, the sheer weight of logic.’

Emma Roffel smiled into the flames of the fire as Tabitha leaned forward to stroke her gently on the knee.

‘Have you ever been to hell, Father?’ she murmured.

‘Sometimes,’ Athelstan replied quickly without thinking.

Emma Roffel sneered. ‘Funny, I have never seen you there.’ She glared at the friar. ‘I have been there, Father. I gave up everything for Roffel, everything for a defrocked priest who turned out to be rotten to the core. A man who used me like a dog with a bitch. He still wasn’t satisfied but hired a succession of pretty bum boys. A man who caused death in my womb and created a wilderness in my heart. Yes, I killed the bastard! Bracklebury didn’t take long to tell me what had happened, he was furious and eager to find that silver. I played with him as you would a fish. The rest is as you say.’ She pulled her face straight. ‘I went on board with the whores and hid. First in the hold, then in the cabin. I heard the password and saw the signals.’ She grinned. ‘That was easy. I drugged the watch and coated my body with grease – an old fisherman’s trick, it cloaks the body against the cold. I waited till the tide turned then swam, like I’d never done before, for my freedom!’ Her voice rose. ‘Freedom from the world of men! Tabitha was waiting with a cloak and some usquebaugh and I was safe. So very, very easy!’ She glared at Athelstan. ‘Until you came along, you with your dark face and hooded eyes. Our lives are ruined, aren’t they, Tabitha? Ruined by clever, clever priests who are not what they appear to be.’ Emma sucked the air in through her mouth. ‘Clever! Clever!’

She moved, her hand snaking out from the sleeve of her gown and the dagger struck straight for Athelstan but the friar moved quickly. He picked up the tankard and, flinging it at her, dodged sideways even as Tabitha grabbed him by his cloak. He and the maid crashed to the floor, rolling on the rushes as he tried to break free. Athelstan looked up and glimpsed the hem of Emma Roffel’s dress as she moved towards him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ a voice roared.

Tabitha was bodily picked up and flung to one side and the coroner grinned wickedly down at him.

‘Brother, what would your parishioners say?’

Athelstan scrambled to his feet. Emma Roffel was held by a burly bailiff whilst the under-sheriff, Shawditch, was helping Tabitha to her feet.

‘God knows what my parishioners would say,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Sir John, you heard?’

‘I did,’ the coroner replied cheerily, staring at Emma Roffel. ‘I also talked to Father Stephen. He quite categorically states that the person who opened the door to him today was not the person by Roffel’s body that night in St Mary Magdalene church. Take them away!’ he ordered Shawditch. ‘Then come back and search this house from garret to cellar!’

‘What are we to look for, Sir John?’

‘White arsenic,’ Athelstan replied, ‘any powder you find hidden away and more silver, Master Shawditch, than you have ever seen in your life!’

The under-sheriff made to lead the two women away.

‘Sir John!’ Emma Roffel struggled and broke free from Shawditch’s grip. ‘On my oath, Tabitha Velour was not a party to the deaths!’