Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

Sir John walked across to her. ‘In which case,’ he told her, ‘she may go free. But you, Mistress Roffel, deserve to die.’ He laughed sourly. ‘Not for Bracklebury, but for two sailors – good, hard-working men and loyal subjects of the king. Those poor bastards paid with their lives because of your greed and murderous malice!’

He walked back to Athelstan.

‘Shawditch!’ he called over his shoulder, ‘take both of them to the Fleet!’

Cranston waited until the door closed behind them. The house fell silent and the coroner grinned sheepishly at the friar. ‘You know, Brother, I never thought you were in any danger but then I remembered that her husband was once a priest. I wondered what would happen when another priest confronted her with her crimes.’ He rubbed his thigh. ‘I am getting too old to climb walls. But enough of that! Athelstan, my son, you owe me a drink!’

Three days later Athelstan wearily made his way down the Ropery, turning right at Bridge Street and on to the crowded bridge back to Southwark. He’d spent the afternoon at Blackfriars reporting to the prior what had been happening, both in the parish and in his work with Cranston. The old Dominican had heard him out, whistling softly under his breath at Athelstan’s description of the mystery surrounding the God’s Bright Light .

‘You are to be congratulated, Brother Athelstan,’ he concluded. ‘You and Sir John. For no man or woman should be able to slay and hide from the hand of God.’ He beamed across the table and wagged a bony finger at Athelstan. ‘You were always sharp, Brother.’ Then he sat back, fingers to his lips. ‘Are you tired of your work, Brother?’

‘No, Father Prior, it’s God’s work.’

‘But God’s vineyard is a wide one. Would you like to return here? You could lecture in logic, philosophy and astronomy. I know your skills would be appreciated, even in the halls of Oxford.’

Athelstan gazed in astonishment. ‘You want me to leave St Erconwald’s, Father Prior?’

The old man had smiled. ‘It’s not what I want, Athelstan,’ he replied quietly. ‘Like me, you have taken a vow of obedience to the Order, nevertheless, it’s what you want. Now think on that.’

Athelstan had and, as he fought his way across the thronged bridge, he sensed the temptation in the prior’s words. No more grubbiness, no more violent deaths. He remembered Emma Roffel, her face a white mask of fury above the stabbing knife. He paused for a while, stopping in the church of St Thomas Becket which jutted out over the bridge. He crouched just within the entrance and gazed unblinkingly at the red sanctuary light. He thought of all the violence – the murdered merchant Springall, Sir Ralph Whitton killed in the Tower, other murders in Southwark and at Blackfriars. Athelstan chewed his lip and rested his face against the cold wall. Yet there were also rewards. Pardons had been issued to Ashby and Aveline. The two love-birds had ridden off into the sunset, shouting that Athelstan would have to visit them as soon as possible. The scrutineers were delighted to get back the silver that had been found in the cellar of Roffel’s house and Sir Jacob Crawley’s name had been cleared. Moleskin the waterman was now a local hero and, of course, there was always old Jack Cranston. Athelstan crossed himself. He rose, genuflected towards the tabernacle and went back on to the bridge. Darkness was beginning to fall as he made his way through the alleys back to St Erconwald’s. He felt hungry so he stopped at Merrylegs’s bakery to buy a meat pie, his first meal of the day. A beggar on the corner of Catgut Alley, however, looked so plaintive that Athelstan groaned and handed it over to him.

Athelstan had expected to find the church deserted and was rather surprised to see an excited group of parishioners standing on the steps thronging around Watkin and Pike. The portly dung-collector had his back to the door as if guarding it.

‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan asked.

Watkin looked worried as he put his finger to his lips.

‘Father, do you have a crucifix or holy water?’

‘Yes, of course I do. Why?’

‘Well, there’s a demon in the church!’

‘A what? Watkin, have you been drinking?’

‘Father, there’s a demon! Crim saw it. Standing in the entrance to the rood screen!’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ Athelstan said. ‘Watkin, stand out of the way!’

‘I don’t think you should go in, Father!’

‘Don’t be stupid! Out of my way!’

Athelstan pushed by and entered the darkened nave. No lights or candles burnt and, peering through the dusk, he could make out the outlines of the stage, the entrance to the rood screen and the red tabernacle light winking in the sanctuary. Athelstan carefully walked down the church, surprised to feel the fear starting in his belly.

‘Who’s there?’ he called.

No answer.

In the name of God!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘Who is there?’ He heard a sound and his anxiety deepened. A tall, dark figure appeared in the entrance to the rood screen, dressed in black from head to toe. He looked like some huge goat with demon features, huge sweeping horns, made all the more ghastly by the thick, fat tallow candle he carried.

‘Go and hang thyself, priest!’

Athelstan relaxed and closed his eyes.

‘Sir John, for the love of God! You’ve got half of my parish terrified!’

Behind the mask Sir John’s laugh boomed louder than ever. The coroner swaggered down the church, every inch the terrible demon.

‘Do you like my costume, Brother? I thought I’d give you a surprise. You should have seen old Watkin move!’ Cranston’s voice boomed like a bell. ‘I never knew the tub of lard could skip so quickly!’

Take it off, Sir John.’

The coroner struggled and lifted the mask. His great, red face was bathed in sweat and wreathed in a wicked smile.

‘The Drapers’ Guild lent me it,’ he declared, holding the mask up appreciatively. ‘What do you think, Father?’

‘Even the Lord Satan himself would be envious, Sir John.’

‘Good, I thought you would say that.’

Cranston went and sat at the foot of one of the pillars. He put the candle down beside him and beckoned Athelstan to join him.

‘Come on, priest. I am not only here for pleasure; there has been another murder.’

Athelstan sat beside him and stared at the flickering candle flame. He felt a tingle of excitement in his stomach and knew the prior was wrong; he would never exchange this for some dry, dusty schoolroom.

‘There’s been a murder,’ Cranston went on, ‘in an alley just off Walbrook. At the Golden Magpie – a fine tavern with a boisterous landlord. To cut a long story short, earlier today mine host was found in a cellar with his brains dashed out, yet the door to the cellar was locked and no one saw anyone go in or leave.’

‘And you have begun questioning already, Sir John?’

‘Yes, I have. Now, tell me, Brother, how can anyone get into a cellar, dash a man’s brains out, yet the door be locked from the inside? There’s no sign of forced entry. No one saw anyone go anywhere near that door.’

Athelstan scratched his chin. ‘But that’s impossible, Sir John.’

The coroner began to shake with laughter. ‘Of course, it is. I made it up.’

Athelstan nudged him vigorously in the side. The coroner threw his head back and roared with laughter.

‘No, no, Brother, we have had murders enough. The only business that concerns me is that Alice Frogmore has brought a fresh bill of trespass against Thomas the Toad. Have I ever told you about Thomas the Toad?’

Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. ‘No, Sir John, you have not. But I have a dreadful feeling you are going to!’