Paul Doherty - By Murder's bright light

The young woman plucked at a loose thread on her dress and began silently to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘I don’t want to see him,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t bear to see him, not in a nightshirt soaked in blood.’ She looked at Marston. ‘Where’s Ashby?’

‘He’s taken sanctuary in a church.’

Suddenly there was a commotion in the passage outside. The door was flung open and a tall woman with steel-grey hair swept into the room. Behind her followed another woman, rather similar in appearance but more subdued. Both women wore heavy cloaks with the hoods pushed back. The innkeeper followed, waving his hands in agitation.

‘You shouldn’t! You shouldn’t really!’ he spluttered.

‘Shut up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Who are you?’

The first and taller of the two women drew her shoulders back and looked squarely at Sir John.

‘My name is Emma Roffel, wife to the late Captain Roffel. I came here to see Sir Henry Ospring.’

Cranston bowed. ‘Madam, my condolences on your husband’s death. Was he a sickly man?’

‘No,’ she replied tartly. ‘As robust as a pig.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you. You’re Cranston, Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city. What has happened here? This fellow’ – she indicated the innkeeper – ‘says Sir Henry has been murdered!’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan tactfully intervened, seeing the look on Cranston’s face. ‘Sir Henry has been murdered and we have the culprit.’

Emma Roffel’s face relaxed. Athelstan studied her curiously. She was rather pretty, he thought, in a tired-looking way. He was always fascinated by women’s faces and Emma’s struck him as a strong one, with its high-beaked nosed and square chin. Its pallor emphasised lustrous dark eyes, though these were now red-rimmed and tinged with shadows. She let her cloak fall open and he glimpsed her black widow’s weeds. She smiled at Athelstan.

‘I apologise for my entrance but I couldn’t believe the news.’ She pointed to the other woman, quiet and mousey, standing behind her. ‘This is Tabitha Velour, my maid and companion.’

Aveline still sat on the stool, her face white with shock. Emma Roffel went over and touched the girl gently on the shoulder.

‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Truly sorry.’ She glanced up at Cranston. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Stabbed by his squire,’ Cranston said. ‘Nicholas Ashby.’

Emma Roffel pulled her face in surprise.

‘You find that difficult to believe, madam?’ Athelstan asked.

The woman pursed her lips and stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I do. Ashby was quiet, more of a scholar than a soldier.’

‘But he sailed with your husband?’

Emma Roffel smiled cynically. ‘God forgive me and God rest him but Sir Henry was a suspicious man. Yes, squire Ashby was often sent by his master to make sure his investment gained a just return.’

‘And you came here to inform Sir Henry of your husband’s death?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. But there’s little point,’ she said with a half-smile, ‘for I suppose they can talk to each other now.’

‘Madam,’ Cranston barked, ‘I need to talk to you about your husband’s death!’

‘Sir, you can. I live in Old Fish Street off Trinity on the corner of Wheelspoke Alley. But now I must go. My husband lies coffined before the altar of St Mary Magdalene. Sir John, Father.’ And Emma Roffel spun on her heel, leaving the chamber as dramatically as she had arrived.

‘What will happen now?’ Marston grated.

Sir John walked slowly over to him. ‘Ashby can have sanctuary for forty days. After that he has two choices – he either surrenders himself to the king’s justice or he walks to the nearest port and takes ship abroad. If any attempt-’ Cranston glared at Marston. ‘If any attempt is made to take him by force from St Erconwald’s, I’ll see the perpetrators dangle on the end of a noose at Smithfield! Now, I suggest you look to your master’s corpse and secure his belongings. I want the dagger removed and sent to my office at the Guildhall.’ Cranston turned to where Aveline sat. ‘Madam, please accept my condolences. However, I must insist that you stay here until my investigation is finished.’ Then, gesturing to Athelstan, Cranston left.

‘What’s this business about the ship God’s Bright Light? ’ Athelstan asked once they had left the Abbot of Hyde’s courtyard.

‘As I said,’ Cranston answered between swigs from his wineskin, ‘the ship’s at anchor in the Thames. Last night the first mate and two other members of the crew disappeared whilst on watch. We also have the strange business of Captain Roffel’s death. The murder of Sir Henry Ospring and the flight of Nicholas Ashby have muddied the waters even further.’ He popped the stopper back in and hid the wineskin beneath his cloak. ‘I am hungry, monk.’

‘I’m a friar and you’re always hungry, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘So, you came to collect me, to go where?’

‘Downstream to the good ship God’s Bright Light. The admiral of the eastern seas, Sir Jacob Crawley, is waiting to grant us an audience, but’ – Cranston sniffed the air like a hunting dog – ‘I can smell pies.’

‘Round the corner,’ Athelstan said wearily, ‘is Mistress Merrylegs’ pie shop. She’s the best cook in Southwark.’

Cranston needed no second bidding and was off like a greyhound. A short while later, as he and Athelstan fought their way back through the thronged, narrow streets of Southwark, Cranston chomped greedily on one of Mistress Merrylegs’ rich, succulent beef pies.

‘Lovely!’ he breathed between mouthfuls. The woman’s a miracle, a genuine miracle!’

Athelstan smiled and stared around. Now and again he shouted greetings to members of his parish. Ursula the pig-woman was sitting on a stool in the doorway of a house, her large pet sow crouched beside her. Athelstan could have sworn the sow smiled back at him. Tab the tinker was beating out pots on an anvil just inside his shop. Athelstan would have liked to have stopped but Sir John pushed his way, true as an arrow, through the crowd, returning with vigour the usual cat-calls and good-natured abuse.

‘Father! Father!’ Pernell the Fleming, her hair dyed a grotesque red, bustled up in a shabby black dress, a necklace of cheap yellow beads around her scrawny neck. Pernell reminded Athelstan of a rather battered crow.

‘Father, can you say a Mass?’

A thin, dirty hand held out two farthings. Athelstan closed the fingers of the hand gently.

‘A Mass for whom, Pernell?’

‘For my husband. He died sixteen years ago today. The Mass is for the repose of his soul.’ The woman smiled in a display of yellow teeth. ‘Oh yes, Father, and in thanksgiving.’

‘For his life?’

‘No, that the old bugger’s dead!’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Keep your pennies, Pernell. I’ll say a Mass tomorrow morning. Don’t you worry.’

They turned off the alleyway into St Erconwald’s church. Athelstan unlocked the door and, with Cranston beside him greedily licking his fingers, walked down the nave and through the rood screen to find Ashby curled up fast asleep on the altar steps.

‘On your feet, lad!’ Cranston growled, kicking the young man’s muddy boots.

Ashby woke with a start, his eyes full of panic.

‘Have they gone?’

‘Yes, they’ve left.’ Athelstan sat down beside him. ‘Don’t worry about that. But they will be back. They might not invade the church but they will certainly keep a watch. So, if I were you, my lad, I’d stay where you are, at least for the time being.’

‘What will happen now?’ Ashby asked anxiously.

Cranston took a swig from his wineskin, then thrust it at Ashby. ‘Well, you can stay here for forty days. Once that’s up you either surrender to the sheriff’s officers or, dressed in the clothes you’re wearing now, walk the king’s highway to the nearest port, carrying a cross before you. If you drop the cross, or leave the highway, Marston and his men can kill you as a wolfshead.’ Cranston took the wineskin back. ‘Marston and his gang will probably follow you all the way. Unless they have powerful friends, very few sanctuary men reach port.’