Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

‘I will count to ten,’ he threatened.

By the time the coroner had reached five the rest of Marston’s group were standing like frightened boys around their leader. They stared up in awe at the great cloak-swathed figure standing, legs apart, on the church steps. Marston, his face covered in blood and bruises, still had fight left in him. Sir John waggled a finger warningly.

‘You asked who I am. And, now you have left the church, I’ll inform you. I am Sir John Andrew Patrick George Cranston, personal friend of the king. I am coroner of this city, law officer, husband to the Lady Maude and the scourge of thugs like you. So far, my buckos, you have committed a number of crimes. Trespass, blasphemy, sacrilege, attempting to break sanctuary, attacking a priest, threatening a law officer and, ipso facto’ – Cranston hid his smile – pro facto, et de facto, guilty of high treason, not to mention misprision of treason. I could arrest you and you’d stand trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster!’

The change in Marston was wonderful to behold. He forgot his blood and bruises, his mouth gaped open and his arms hung limply on either side of his body as he stared fearfully at the coroner.

‘Now, my lads.’ Sir John tripped down the steps of the church, Athelstan following him. Tell me what happened, eh?’

Marston wiped the blood away. ‘We are the retainers of Sir Henry Ospring of Ospring Manor in Kent. Our master was staying at the Abbot of Hyde inn in Southwark whilst journeying into the city.’

‘Oh, yes, I have heard of Ospring,’ Cranston said. ‘A mean-spirited, tight-fisted varlet I gather.’

‘Well, he’s dead,’ Marston went on. ‘Stabbed in his chamber by the murderer now sheltering in that church.’

‘How?’

Marston licked his lips, feeling the lower one tenderly because it was beginning to swell.

‘I went up to the chamber this morning to rouse Sir Henry. I opened the door and my master lay sprawled in his nightshirt, on the floor, the blood pumping out of him. Ashby knelt above him grasping a dagger. I tried to arrest the bastard but Ashby fled through the window. The rest you know.’

‘The Abbot of Hyde inn?’ Cranston queried. ‘Well, let’s see for ourselves.’ He turned to Athelstan. ‘Lock the church, Father. Let’s visit the scene of the crime.’

Athelstan did what he asked. Cranston strode off up the alleyway, leaving the rest to hurry behind him. They found the Abbot of Hyde a scene of chaos and commotion – slatterns crying in the taproom, other servants sitting around looking white-faced and terrified. The landlord was gibbering with fright. He bowed and scraped as Cranston made his entrance and demanded a tankard of sack. Draining it immediately the coroner swept up the broad wooden stairs. Marston hurried before him along the passageway to show him the murder chamber.

Cranston pushed the door open. Inside all was confusion. Sheets had been dragged from the great four-poster bed, half-open coffers lay overturned and a cup of spilt wine was nestling among the rushes on the floor. What caught their attention, however, was the corpse lying near the bed, its arms spread wide, its thin hairy legs pathetic as they peeped out from beneath a cream woollen nightshirt. The dagger in the man’s chest was long and thin and driven in to the hilt. The blood had splashed out in a great scarlet circle. The corpse’s face, lean and pointed like that of a fox, still bore the shock of death in its open, staring eyes. From a corner of the gaping mouth ran a now dry trickle of blood.

‘God have mercy!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Help me, Sir John!’

Together they lifted the corpse on to the bed. Athelstan, ignoring the blood spattering the white hair, knelt down and spoke the words of absolution into the man’s ear, sketching a benediction in the air.

‘Absolvo te,’ he whispered, ‘ a peccatis in nomine Patris et Filii. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son.’

Cranston, more practical, sniffed at the wine jug and, whilst the friar performed the last rites, walked around the chamber picking up pieces, handling cloths, sifting among the rushes with the toe of his boot.

‘Tell me again what happened,’ Cranston muttered over his shoulder to a now more subdued and respectful Marston.

‘Ashby is Sir Henry’s squire. He’d just returned from a sea voyage on the God’s Bright Light. ’

Cranston turned his face away to hide his surprise.

‘Sir Henry was coming to London to meet Roffel, the ship’s captain.’

‘Do you know that he’s dead too?’ Cranston snapped the question.

Marston’s eyes rounded in surprise. ‘You mean Roffel-?’

‘Yes, he’s been dead two days. Taken ill on board ship. By the time they reached the port of London, he was dead.’ Cranston nodded at Athelstan’s surprised face. That’s why I came to Southwark. Not only did Roffel die in rather mysterious circumstances but last night the first mate and the two men on watch aboard the God’s Bright Light disappeared. However, let’s leave that.’ He turned back to Marston. ‘Continue.’

Marston scratched his head. ‘Well, Sir Henry was coming in to have words with Captain Roffel. He always stayed here and took a barge down-river to meet the captain.’ Uninvited, Marston slumped down on a stool. This morning I came to arouse Sir Henry. The door was off the latch. I pushed it open. Ashby was by the corpse, his hand round the hilt of a dagger. Then’ – Marston pointed to the open window – ‘he fled. The rest you know.’

‘Was the window closed last night?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Aye, closed and secure.’

Athelstan pulled a sheet over the corpse and closed the curtains around the four-poster bed.

‘Why should Sir Henry be visiting a captain of a fighting ship?’ he asked.

‘I can answer that,’ Cranston replied. The exchequer is almost empty. Great landowners and merchants like Sir Henry agree to fit out the ships. In return, they not only receive royal favour but a percentage of any plunder taken. Isn’t that right, Marston?’

The henchman nodded.

‘A lucrative trade,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘which ensures that the captains not only defend English shipping but constantly search for well-laden French ships or the occasional undefended town along the Seine or the Normandy coast. Sometimes they even turn to piracy against English ships.’ Cranston took his beaver hat off and rolled it in his large hands. ‘After all, if an English ship goes down, it can always be blamed on the French.’

‘Sir Henry was not like that,’ Marston snapped.

‘Aye,’ Cranston said drily. ‘And cuckoos don’t lay their eggs in other birds’ nests.’

The coroner paused at a tap on the door. A young woman entered, her face as white as a sheet, her corn-coloured hair loose. She was agitated, her fingers lacing together, and she played nervously with the silver-tasselled girdle around her slim waist. Her red-rimmed eyes flitted to the great four-poster bed. Marston rose as she entered.

‘I am sorry,’ she stuttered. She wiped her hands on the tawny sarcanet of her high-necked dress.

Athelstan strode across the room and took her hand. It was cold as ice.

‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘You had best sit down.’ He took her gently to the stool Marston had vacated. ‘Do you wish some wine?’

The young woman shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the great four-poster bed.

‘It’s Lady Aveline, Sir Henry’s daughter,’ Marston explained. ‘She was next door when Ashby was in here.’

Athelstan crouched down and stared into Aveline’s doe-like eyes.

‘God rest him, my lady, but your father’s dead.’