Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘What are you smiling at?’ Cranston asked crossly.

‘Oh nothing, Sir John, I just . . .’ Shawditch’s words trailed away.

‘Anyway,’ Cranston boomed, turning to walk down the street, ‘Athelstan is always saying if there’s a problem there must be a solution, it’s just a matter of observation, speculation and deduction.’

Cranston hopped aside, with an agility even Thomas the toad would have admired, as an upper window opened and a night jar of slops was thrown into the street. Shawditch was not so lucky and his cloak was slightly spattered. He stopped to shake his fist up at the window, then moved as quickly as Cranston as it opened again and another nightjar appeared.

‘There should be a law against that,’ he grumbled. ‘But you were saying, Sir John?’

‘Well.’ The coroner tugged his beaver hat firmly over his large head. ‘Question, how does the footpad get into the houses? Secondly, how does he know they are empty?’

‘As to the second question, I don’t know. And the first? Well, it’s a mystery.’

‘Have you checked the roofs?’ Sir John asked.

‘Yes, Trumpington summoned a tiler, the fellow inspected the roofs and found nothing amiss.’

They reached the corner of Bread Street. Cranston was about to go when Shawditch plucked at his sleeve.

‘I said I had two problems for you, Sir John. The second is more serious.’

Cranston sighed. ‘Well, not here.’

He led the under-sheriff up Cheapside and into the welcoming warmth of the Holy Lamb of God. He roared at the landlord’s wife for his capon pie and bowls of claret for himself and his friend. Once he had taken his first bite, he nodded at the under-sheriff.

‘Right, tell me.’

‘You know the king’s ships have been at sea against the French?’

‘Aye, who doesn’t?’ Cranston munched at his pie.

John of Gaunt, pestered into action by parliament, had at last assembled a flotilla of fifteen armed ships to carry out reprisals against French privateers in the Channel as well as surprise attacks on towns and villages along the Normandy coast.

‘Well,’ Shawditch continued, ‘some of the flotilla are berthed in the Thames opposite Queen’s hithe, among them the cog God’s Bright Light. ’ Shawditch sipped at his wine. ‘The ship was commanded by William Roffel. It returned to port two days ago, after capturing and sinking a number of French vessels. Roffel, however, on the return voyage, caught a sudden sickness and died. His corpse was taken ashore. The crew were paid their wages and given seven days’ shore leave. Now, last night, the only watch left on the ship was the first mate and two other sailors. One in the bows and one at the stern.’ Shawditch gnawed at his lip. ‘A lantern was left on the mast and the ship was in earshot of others riding at anchor.’

‘What happened?’ Cranston interrupted him impatiently.

‘Just before dawn a sailor came back with his doxy. They climbed on board and found the ship deserted – no first mate, no watch.’

‘So?’

‘Well, no one had seen anyone leave or approach the ship, although it’s true there was a thick river mist that night. But that’s only half the mystery, Sir John. You see, an hour before the sailor returned, in accordance with the admiral’s instructions, the watch on board the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, asked if all was well? A voice from the God’s Bright Light replied, using the established password.’

‘Which was?’

‘The glory of St George.’

Cranston sat back. ‘So, what you are saying is that nothing apparently untoward happened on board this ship? The watch even responded with the correct password to the neighbouring vessel?’

‘Aye, and then passed it on to another ship, the Saint Margaret, ’ Shawditch answered.

‘And yet,’ Cranston continued, ‘a short while later the ship is found deserted. No trace whatsoever of the first mate or the rest of his watch, two able-bodied sailors?’

‘Exactly, Sir John.’

‘Could they have deserted?’

Shawditch pulled a face.

‘And there was no sign of violence?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Anything stolen?’

Shawditch shook his head.

‘Well! Well! Well!’ Cranston breathed. ‘I wonder what Athelstan will make of this?’

‘God knows!’ Shawditch replied. ‘But the mayor and council demand an answer.’

Brother Athelstan sat at the table in his kitchen in the small priest’s house of St Erconwald’s in Southwark and stared moodily into the fire. He’d celebrated morning Mass. He’d cleaned the church with the help of Cecily the courtesan and talked with Tab the tinker about mending some pots. After that he had said goodbye to the widow Benedicta, who was going to spend a few days helping a relative across the river who was expecting a baby.

Athelstan got up and went to stir the porridge cooking in a black cauldron above the flames. He looked over his shoulder at Bonaventura, the big one-eyed tomcat, who was sitting patiently on the table, daintily washing himself after a night’s hunting in the alleyways around the church.

‘It will soon be ready, Bonaventure. Some hot oatmeal with a little milk, spice and sugar. Benedicta herself prepared it before she left. It will taste delicious. For the next week we will break our fast like kings.’

The cat yawned and stared arrogantly at this strange Dominican who constantly talked to him. Athelstan wiped the horn spoon, put it back on its hook, stretched and yawned.

‘I should have gone to bed myself,’ he murmured. Instead he had climbed the tower of his church to study the stars, watching in awe the fiery fall of a meteor. He walked back to the table, sat down again and sipped his watered ale.

‘Why?’ he asked Bonaventure. Tell me this, most cunning of cats. Why do meteors fall from heaven but not stars? Or,’ he continued, seeing he had the cat’s attention, ‘are meteors falling stars? And, if they are, what causes one star to fall and not another?’

The cat just blinked with its one good eye.

‘And the problem becomes even more complicated,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Let me put it this way. Why do some stars move? The constellation called the Great Bear does but the ship’s star, the North Star, never?’

Bonaventure’s reaction was to miaow loudly and slump down on the table as if desperate at the long wait for his morning dish of oatmeal. Athelstan smiled and gently stroked the cat’s tattered ear.

‘Or should we ask questions?’ he whispered. ‘Or just gaze in admiration at God’s great wonder?’

He sighed and returned to the piece of parchment he had been studying the evening before. On it was a crude drawing of the church. The parish council, in their wisdom, had decided that on their saint’s day they would produce a mystery play in the nave of the church. Athelstan was now drawing up a list of the things they’d need. Thomas Drawsword, a new member of the parish, had agreed to refurbish a large wagon which would act as the stage, but they would need more. Athelstan studied his list:

Two devils’ coats

Two devils’ hoods

One shirt

Three masks

Wings for the angels

Three trumpets

One hell’s door

Four small angels

Nails

Last, but not least, a large canvas backcloth

The play was called The Last Judgement and already Athelstan was beginning to regret his enthusiasm for the venture.

‘We are going to be short of wings,’ he muttered, ‘and we can’t have one-winged angels.’ He groaned. All this was nothing to the arguments over who would play the different characters. Watkin the dung-collector insisted on being God, but this was bitterly disputed by Pike the ditcher. The civil war had spread to their children, who were quarrelling over who would act the roles of the four good spirits, the four evil spirits and the six devils. Watkin’s large wife, who had the brassy voice of a trumpet, had declared that she would be Our Lady. Tab the tinker was threatening to withdraw from the pageant if he was denied a principal role.