By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 11

Athelstan slept late next morning. He woke at dawn, aching from head to toe, though his arm felt better. The mist still boiled outside. He couldn’t even glimpse the church from his upper chamber window.

‘God forgive me!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘But I feel terrible!’ He went downstairs, built up the fire, drank a little wine and returned to bed. This time he slept for hours and was only awakened by Watkin pounding on the door an hour before noon. Athelstan, pulling his thin blanket around him, hurried down. He unlocked the door and smiled at the look of astonishment on the dung-collector’s face.

‘Father, you have been asleep?’

Athelstan took him into the kitchen. Behind Watkin other parishioners were gathering on the church steps. Even Marston was there, looking apprehensively towards the priest’s house. Athelstan slumped down at the table.

‘Father, what’s wrong? You are always up. Shaved, bathed, Mass said, church clean?’ Watkin hid his love for this gentle priest behind his usual bluster.

Athelstan smiled thinly. ‘Watkin, I was on the river last night with Sir John.’

‘You were there, Father?’

‘I was, God help me, on the Holy Trinity when the French attacked.’

Watkin strode to the door and threw it open.

‘Father’s a hero!’ he bellowed at the other parishioners. ‘He and Fat Arse, I mean, he and Sir John Cranston, fought the bloody French on the river last night!’

Athelstan hid his face in his hands.

‘Our priest’s a real hero!’ Watkin brayed. ‘So, it’s true what Moleskin told us. Crim, go down to the river and give Moleskin my apologies for calling him a lying fart!’

‘Father needs me here,’ Crim complained.

‘Piss off, you cheeky little sprog!’ Watkin slammed the door behind the boy and waddled towards Athelstan. ‘Father, you look pale and shaken.’

‘Actually, Watkin, I feel much better. By the way, I was not a hero, just a very frightened priest.’

‘Modest as always, modest as always!’ Watkin patronisingly tapped Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘Well get Huddle to do a painting and put it up in the church, depicting Brother Athelstan’s role in the great sea battle. All of Southwark will know about it.’ He breathed noisily through hairy nostrils. ‘They are hunting Frenchmen along the mud flats. The gallows are full and they’re putting pirates’ heads on London Bridge!’

Athelstan crossed his arms over his stomach. ‘God have mercy on them!’ he whispered.

The door opened. Athelstan’s parishioners thronged in, necks craning for a glimpse of their hero priest.

‘Go away! Go away!’ Watkin grandly ordered.

‘Brother Athelstan needs comfort and solace. I, as leader of your parish council, will give you the news later.’ He slammed the door. ‘Piss off!’ he roared as the door opened again.

Benedicta stepped into the room. Watkin fell back, his hands dangling at his sides, his head hanging – like a naughty boy.

‘Mistress Benedicta!’ He shuffled his great, muddy boots. ‘I didn’t mean you.’

The widow smiled, glanced at Athelstan’s pale and unshaven face then took a key off the hook near the door.

‘Watkin, open the church and continue your work, getting the stage ready for the play. Tell them Brother Athelstan will be across soon. Go on!’

The dung-collector slipped by her. Once he was outside, he grandly announced that he was in charge of the church, that he would keep Father Athelstan’s secrets and that they were to do what he told them. Pike the ditcher immediately objected. Athelstan smiled as the usual row broke out, their voices fading in the distance. Benedicta came and crouched before him.

‘You don’t look so bad for a hero,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not a hero, Benedicta. I was frightened. All I did was slip on the deck. A Frenchman was going to kill me but then he smiled and turned away.’ Athelstan stared at the dying flames of the fire. ‘I hope he got away. I hope he returns to his loved ones. I shall remember him at Mass.’

‘And Sir John?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘That man is a mountain of legends. He belches like a pig and drinks as if no tomorrow but he’s got the heart of a lion.’

Athelstan quickly described Cranston’s exploits to Benedicta.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Benedicta said when he had finished. ‘Sir John will be full of himself.’

‘He deserves to be,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And remind me to remind him, Benedicta, that Moleskin must be rewarded. If it hadn’t been for him the French would have taken us unawares.’

‘What will you do now, Father?’

‘I am going to go upstairs. I am going to wash, shave, change and then say Mass. Oh, by the way, where’s Bonaventure?’

‘He’s with Ashby,’ Benedicta replied. ‘Lady Aveline has brought her swain all the comforts of life, including a pitcher of cold milk. Bonaventure can’t believe his luck.’

‘Cranston’s right,’ Athelstan muttered, ‘that cat’s a bloody little mercenary!’ He stared into Benedicta’s face. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said. ‘People will talk.’

‘About you?’ Benedicta smiled.

‘I couldn’t give a damn!’ Athelstan replied. ‘It’s you I’m thinking about.’

Benedicta laughed, turned and went to crouch by the fire. She sprinkled some kindling, put a fresh log on and grinned over her shoulder at him.

‘They can say what they like, but they’ll believe nothing ill about you, Father. As Pike the ditcher so aptly put it, you could put Brother Athelstan in a room full of whores and he wouldn’t know what to do!’

Athelstan blushed and went upstairs. Benedicta, still laughing to herself, went into the buttery to prepare some breakfast.

An hour later Athelstan, shaved and much more refreshed, went into the church, where he celebrated Mass. His parishioners, drawn in by the rumours of their priest’s heroic exploits, thronged into the sanctuary. Athelstan, however, had vowed to say nothing. He was about to raise his hand to dismiss them when he glimpsed the hurt on Watkin’s face. He lowered his hand and smiled.

‘I am sorry I overslept,’ he said. ‘I was at the battle on the river last night. I wasn’t a hero, though.’

‘Nonsense!’ Tab the tinker shouted.

‘But Sir John was,’ Athelstan continued.

‘Good old Fat Arse!’ someone shouted.

‘Well done, Horsecruncher!’ Crim piped up.

Athelstan glowered at them.

‘You are in God’s house. Sir John is a very brave man and so is Moleskin. He may well get a letter from the mayor, not to mention a suitable reward.’

Athelstan glanced over to where Ashby sat on the ledge of the sanctuary. The young man was shaved and wearing clean robes and he was surrounded by bolsters and blankets. Athelstan glimpsed a book, a bowl of fruit and a large jug which Bonaventure, crouching in the corner, watched attentively. Aveline was also there, kneeling piously, her hands in her lap, head down.

‘I also thank you,’ Athelstan continued, trying to keep the humour out of his voice, ‘for looking after Brother Ashby, whose troubles may soon disappear. Now’ – he peered through the rood screen, towards the makeshift stage and raised his hand – ‘Mass is over, we have got work to do.’

The friar went into the sacristy and took off his vestments. He helped Crim and Ashby clear the candlesticks and cloths from the altar, hung a new sanctuary lamp above the tabernacle and went to join Ashby and Aveline. As usual, they sat in the corner of the sanctuary whispering together. Athelstan pulled across the stool Crim used when serving Mass.

‘Lady Aveline,’ Athelstan began, ‘I have some very sad news about your stepfather.’

The friar then tersely described the conclusions he had drawn about Sir Henry Ospring’s nefarious activities. Ashby gasped. Aveline’s face went paler than usual, tears brimming in her eyes.

‘What you are saying, Brother,’ she whispered once Athelstan had finished, ‘is that my stepfather was a traitor and a murderer.’

‘The words are yours, my lady, but, God forgive me, the truth is as I have described it.’

‘Will the crown seize his estates?’ Ashby spoke up.

‘I doubt it,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Sir Henry died before any allegations could be made and he is not here to defend himself against them.’ He shrugged. ‘The crown will undoubtedly, through the exchequer, demand the return of its silver.’ Athelstan smiled thinly as he remembered the hard scrutineers, Peter and Paul. ‘I strongly recommend, Lady Aveline, that either you or your stepfather’s executors double the amount and dismiss it as a gift.’ Athelstan stared at the young man. ‘You, however, were his squire. Questions may well be asked of you.’

‘I will go on oath,’ Ashby said, ‘and I have witnesses, that I was not involved in Sir Henry’s business affairs.’ He pulled a face. ‘Certainly not those involving the men who visited him at the dead of night.’ He chewed his Lip and grinned. ‘I doubt if Marston could claim the same.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘Nevertheless, as Sir John keeps saying, every cloud has a silver lining. God forgive me, Lady Aveline, but I don’t think anyone, and certainly not the king, will weep for your stepfather. Consequently, Sir John and I believe a pardon will be freely issued to both of you for the death of Sir Henry.’ He stilled their excited clamour with an upraised hand. ‘Nevertheless, Master Ashby, you are still a felon and a wanted man.’ Athelstan picked a piece of candle grease from the back of his hand. ‘But, don’t worry,’ he murmured. ‘Before the day is much older I shall give Marston something to think about.’

‘Is there anything more we can do?’ Ashby asked.

‘Did you know Bracklebury?’

Ashby shook his head. ‘A dark, violent man, Father. A good knife man. He was like his captain, he feared neither God nor man. Why do you ask?’

‘We have established,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that Roffel took the silver and hid it on board the God’s Bright Light. To cut a long story short, Bracklebury may have dismissed the crew, keeping two back so he could search the ship.’ Athelstan paused, choosing to ignore the unanswered questions that still nagged at his brain. ‘God knows what happened then. Perhaps Bracklebury killed the two members of the watch and escaped ashore. The only problem is that the God’s Bright Light kept passing signals and no one saw any boat leave the ship.’

‘Bracklebury could have jumped overboard,’ Lady Aveline suggested, ‘and swum to the quayside.’

‘No, no, that’s impossible,’ Ashby replied.

Athelstan stared at him. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Father, can you swim?’

Athelstan recalled golden days from his boyhood, he and his brother Francis leaping into a river, naked as the day they were born.

‘Well, Father, can you?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied, a little embarrassed. ‘Like a fish. My parents owned a farm where a river ran through some pasture land. Why?’

‘You see, Father, men like Bracklebury probably grew up in the slums of London or Bristol. Many people think every sailor can swim, but that’s not true. They board ship as boys. If they survive through to manhood, they fear the sea, Father, much more than we do. They have seen its power.’ Ashby shrugged. ‘To put it bluntly, Bracklebury, like many of his kind, couldn’t swim.’

‘How do you know that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that a guess or a fact?’

‘Oh, it’s a fact, Father. Bracklebury told me himself. I suspect the same applies to Cabe, Coffrey and even poor old Roffel himself. You ask most sailors, if they have to abandon ship they always take something to cling on to.’

Athelstan stared down the nave where his parishioners, busy as bees, thronged around the makeshift stage.

‘God help us!’ he whispered. ‘So, how the hell did bloody Bracklebury, to quote the famous Cranston, leave that bloody ship?’

‘Suppose he had an accomplice?’ Ashby said. ‘Someone who brought a small boat alongside?’

‘Without anyone seeing it?’ Athelstan asked.

‘What if it came from the Southwark side?’

Athelstan nodded and got to his feet. ‘Aye, and what if pigs fly? Would you trust Cabe?’

‘About as far as I can spit. Of the same ilk as Bracklebury! The two were as thick as thieves and the same goes for the other officers. They were hard men, Father. They all have murky pasts which they prefer kept hidden.’

Athelstan thanked him, told them both to be careful and walked into the nave of the church. He stood for a while admiring the cart now being transformed into a stage. Posts had been set up around it and fixed to them was the great piece of canvas that would serve as backdrop and wings. It was sagging woefully. Huddle was putting the finishing touches to his painting of the yawning mouth of Hell, blissfully ignoring the comments and advice from the rest of the parish council. Athelstan smiled and slipped by. He was half-way across to Philomel’s stable when he guiltily remembered that he had left the old warhorse at the Holy Lamb of God.

‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ he comforted himself. The landlord, he knew, was a warm-hearted man and, as long as Philomel was warm and dry and had plenty of food within inches of his greying muzzle, he wouldn’t care where he was.

Athelstan went back to the house, which Benedicta and Cecily the courtesan had cleaned and swept. He took some bread and cheese from the buttery and sat at his table, moodily reflecting on the battle of the night before.

‘What,’ he asked the fire, ‘did Crawley mean by his remark "everything was so tidy"?’

The friar shook his head and popped another piece of cheese into his mouth. What had Bracklebury done to the other two crew members? How did he get off the ship? And, if he had the silver, why did he murder Bernicia? He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Bladdersniff the ward bailiff swaggered in, his fleshy face quivering with self-importance.

‘I bring a message, Father, from Sir John Cranston. One of the Guildhall servants brought it to me.’ The bailiff pursed prim lips. ‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, is desirous of meeting you at the Holy Lamb of God.’ Bladdersniff coughed. ‘He also mentioned something about a doctor’s house.’

Athelstan groaned. Bladdersniff looked at him suspiciously.

‘What does that mean, Father?’

‘Nothing, Master Bladdersniff,’ Athelstan replied. He waited until the bailiff had left. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered to himself, ‘except another night away from my parish!’

The friar sighed, went upstairs, took off his sandals, put on woollen hose under his gown and pulled on an old, battered pair of boots. He then banked up the fire, fastened the windows, collected his cloak and staff and walked down to the area in front of the church. Crim and others were playing with counters on the porch steps.

‘Crim! Come here!’

The young boy scuttled down, yelling at his friends that it was his turn next.

‘Crim, tell Benedicta I may not be back this evening.’

‘Is it the French pirates again, Father?’

‘No, it isn’t. However, tell your father to lock the church, though he is to let Lady Aveline in.’

‘They are in love, aren’t they, Father? I saw them kissing! That’s a sin in church isn’t it, Father?’

Athelstan smiled at the thin, dirty face. ‘No, it is not,’ he said solemnly. ‘But it is a sin, Crim, to spy in church.’

‘I wasn’t spying, Father. I was just hiding from my sister behind a pillar.’

Athelstan tousled the boy’s head and put a farthing in his hand. ‘Buy some marchpane from Merrylegs’ shop. Give some to your sister and your friends – even though,’ Athelstan added darkly, ‘they are moving your counters!’

Crim turned around and ran back screaming.

‘Don’t forget to give your father my message, Crim!’ Athelstan called out after him.

He walked out into the alleyway. Marston and two of his bully-boys were sitting just inside the doorway of the Piebald tavern. Marston saw him, hawked and spat. Athelstan, swinging his great staff, a gift from Cranston, walked across and confronted him.

‘You’d best leave, Marston,’ he said.

‘I can stand where I bloody well like, Father!’ He smirked. This isn’t your church.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I am just concerned for your welfare.’

‘Why?’ Marston asked, the grin fading from his face.

‘Well,’ Athelstan whispered, grasping his staff and leaning forward, ‘we know now that Sir Henry Ospring was not what he claimed to be. Some people allege he was a thief. Others that he was a traitor. Gossips even whisper that there were others involved in his crimes and that these should hang.’

Marston’s face paled.

‘What are you saying, Father?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Just gossip. Perhaps it’s best if you went back to Kent, claimed what was yours and put as much distance between yourself and the eagle eye of Sir John Cranston as possible.’

Athelstan walked on. Half-way down the alleyway he stopped at Basil the blacksmith’s. Basil, together with his swarthy elder son, was working in a great open shed at the side of his cottage. A pug-nosed apprentice, his face covered in smuts, blew with the bellows, making the forge fire flare with life. Basil was hammering away, his huge body hidden behind a bull’s-hide apron, his hairy legs sheathed in leather against the sparks of the fire. He turned and saw Athelstan.

‘Good morrow, Father. What can I do for you?’

‘We need you at the church, Basil,’ Athelstan replied, ‘to fix some iron clasps to hold up the canvas around the stage for our mystery play.’

Basil wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. ‘I told that big-headed bastard Watkin that poles as long as that needed iron clasps!’ He pointed at Athelstan with his hammer. ‘What you did on the river, Father, was heroic, so I’ll do it free. I’ll put iron clasps on your poles.’ He lowered his voice as Athelstan turned away. ‘I’ll even hammer one into that daft bugger Watkin’s head!’

Athelstan, grinning, walked on. The grey day was beginning to die, but the shabby stalls and makeshift markets were still doing a brisk trade and the alehouses were full of roisterers celebrating the river victory of the previous evening. Slipping quietly by, Athelstan made his way towards London Bridge, where at the gatehouse he was brutally reminded of the battle. Some of the French pirates had been decapitated and their heads impaled on poles that were being erected on the gatehouse. Robert Burdon, the diminutive gatekeeper, was dancing around supervising this grisly event. ‘Put that one there!’ he bawled at one of his assistants. ‘No, you idiot, turn it round so he’s looking at our ships!’ He glimpsed Athelstan. ‘Busy day! Busy day, Father! They say a hundred Frenchmen died. A hundred, Father, but how many heads do I have? No more than a baker’s dozen. Terrible, isn’t it? Bloody city officials! Heads should be where heads should be! A warning to the rest!’

Athelstan closed his eyes, sketched a blessing in the air and hurried on. He reached the other side, now relieved to be away from Southwark, and pushed his way through the throng. When he reached the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside he found the tavern crowded. Cranston, resplendent in his best jacket of mulberry, white cambric shirt and multi-coloured hose, was sitting at his favourite table. He was holding court, giving a graphic description of the river battle.

‘And you fought Eustace the Monk?’ Leif the beggar, acting as Cranston’s straight man, called out.

‘Oh yes – a giant of a man,’ Cranston replied, ‘six foot six inches tall, eyes like burning coals and a face as dark as Satan! We met sword against sword.’

‘Then what?’ Leif asked breathlessly.

‘The tide of battle swept us apart.’ Cranston, on his fourth cup of claret and keeping a wary eye on the door lest Lady Maude should appear, saw Athelstan standing on a stool at the back of the crowd. ‘And, credit where credit is due,’ he boomed. ‘My secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, a man of prodigious valour!’

All heads turned. Athelstan went puce-red.

‘Down he went,’ Cranston continued, ‘fighting like a fury. A Frenchman runs up and lifts his sword-’

‘Then what?’ Leif asked again.

‘The man staggers back unable to give the death blow.’

‘A miracle!’ Leif exclaimed.

‘Aye.’ Sir John’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘God’s angel came down and caught his arm just like he caught David’s when he was about to kill that bastard Judas Iscariot!’

Athelstan bit his lip to hide his laughter; Cranston, as usual, was mixing up his biblical texts.

‘A toast!’ Leif shouted. ‘Surely, Sir John, a toast to Brother Athelstan?’

Cranston readily agreed and offered a coin. The beggar grabbed it and thrust it into the tapster’s hand.

‘You heard my lord coroner. We celebrate his victory.’

Cranston, catching Athelstan’s warning look, now clapped his hands.

‘But enough for today. Enough is enough! Go on, have your drink. Leave me alone!’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘City business, city business awaits!’

The crowd reluctantly dispersed and Athelstan slid into the seat beside Sir John.

‘A great victory, Sir John.’

Cranston looked at him slyly. ‘Aye, Brother. Only five galleys reached the open sea. We gave Eustace Monk a smack across his arse he won’t forget in a hurry!’

‘But now we have to capture a felon,’ Athelstan reminded him.

‘Aye,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Our glorious physician Theobald has left and the news is bruited abroad.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You think the felon will strike tonight, Brother?’

Athelstan nodded. ‘I do, Sir John. It’s been some time since the last murderous crime and the city is fairly distracted by the fight on the river. How is Crawley?’

‘Drinking himself stupid at St Bartholomew’s.’

‘And the Lady Maude and the two poppets?’

‘Proud as peacocks! Proud as peacocks!’ Cranston dug his face into the cup of brimming claret. ‘Strange,’ he muttered, smacking his lips.

‘What is, Sir John?’

‘Well, our under-sheriff’s reported, as we expected, that no boats were hired to go to the God’s Bright Light but that mad bugger the Fisher of Men sent me a message.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To see me, but he’ll have to wait.’

Athelstan thanked the tapster who placed a tankard of ale in front of him.

‘Sir John, are you sure no other boat approached the God’s Bright Light the night Bracklebury disappeared?’

Cranston nodded. ‘First, before you ask, Brother, I have already arranged for the city to reward Moleskin. But, to answer your real question, no boat went there.’

‘So, how did Bracklebury leave?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Don’t forget he was laden down with the silver.’

‘He probably swam.’

‘He couldn’t. Ashby told me that.’

Cranston’s face became serious. ‘Tasty tits!’ he muttered, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What I have done is issue a proclamation throughout the city that Bracklebury is to be taken, if possible, alive.’

They sat for a while discussing plans and possibilities as the day began to die. Cranston demanded and got a pie and a dish of vegetables which he shared with Athelstan.

After that they left, crossing a dark, cold, empty Cheapside and walking through a maze of streets to Theobald de Troyes’ house. A steward let them in, his face full of surprise.

‘Sir John, Master Theobald has gone!’

‘I know,’ Cranston replied. ‘And, while the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh?’

The steward looked puzzled.

‘Where is everyone?’ Cranston continued.

The steward pointed down the passageway to the kitchen. ‘We are having our evening meal.’

Cranston’s podgy nose twitched at the savoury smells.

‘What is it, man?’

‘Capon, Sir John, marinated in a white wine infused with herbs.’

‘I’ll have two plates of that,’ Cranston said immediately. ‘With a couple of loaves. Bring them to the garret. Now, no one here is to leave this house, you included! And no one is to come upstairs until I say. Be a good fellow and piss off and do what I have told you!’

The steward scurried away. Athelstan and Cranston made their way through the opulently furnished house to the bleak garret at the top. The steward, now in total awe of Sir John, came up with the food. Cranston ordered him to bring candles and the thickest woollen blankets he could find. The steward obeyed. Cranston and Athelstan settled down.

At first the coroner insisted on recounting every blow of the river battle, with anecdotal references to his days of glory when he served with Prince Edward against Philip of France. At last, his belly full of capon and after generous swigs from his wineskin, Cranston began to doze. For a while Athelstan just sat in the darkness, remembering his own days in France and his brother Francis who had died there. He shook his head to clear it of the still-painful memories and thought instead about his parish. He prayed that Basil the blacksmith and Watkin the dung-collector would not come to blows. His eyes grew heavy and he, too, slept for a while. Then he found himself being vigorously shaken awake by Cranston, his fat face pushed close to his, a finger to his lips. Athelstan felt cold and cramped, his arm a little sore. He strained his ears. He heard occasional sounds from the house below, then the cry of the watch.

‘Twelve o’clock midnight! Cold and hard, but all’s well!’

‘That will be Trumpington!’ Cranston whispered.

Athelstan was on the point of dozing off again when he heard a movement, a mere slither on the tiles above. Cranston gripped his arm and hissed, ‘Blow out the candles! Don’t move!’

Athelstan stared up through the rafters at the tiles. Was it only a cat? he wondered. Then his stomach lurched as one of the tiles was removed. Another was prised loose, then another, so within minutes a square was opened, revealing the starlit sky. Athelstan saw the evening star and idly wondered why it was there before a dark shape leaned down and a bag was lowered. Cranston heard a clink, a rope slithered through the gap and a dark shape flitted down as quietly as any hunting cat. Cranston waited. The man crouched in the garret, his boots covered in soft woollen rags. He was moving towards the door when Cranston sprang with an agility which took even Athelstan by surprise.

The man crashed to the floor under the full weight of Cranston’s massive body, the wind knocked out of him.

‘I arrest you!’ Cranston roared, leaning over the man and grasping him by the neck. ‘I, Jack Cranston, coroner, have got you!’

The man tried to wriggle free, but Cranston ripped his hood off and grabbed him by the hair.

‘You are trapped, my little beauty!’ he boomed. He banged the man’s head on the floorboards. ‘That’s for me!’ He banged it again. That’s for Brother Athelstan!’ And again. ‘And that’s for that poor maid you killed, you heartless bastard!’

Cranston then dragged the man to his feet. He deftly plucked the dagger from the robber’s sheath, pushed him through the garret door and dragged him down the stairs into the passage on the floor below. Athelstan lit a candle and followed. He held the flame up against the felon’s bruised, dazed face.

‘I’ve never seen him before.’

‘No, you won’t have done,’ Cranston said. ‘But you are right, Brother. I bet this bastard’s a tiler!’

The sounds of doors opening and shouts below showed that the rest of the household had been roused. Cranston went to the top of the stairs and bellowed for silence.

‘Shut up!’ he roared, clutching the footpad in one hand. He shook the man as a cat would a rat. ‘We’ve still got business haven’t we?’

The man could only groan in reply. Cranston marched down the stairs, dragging his prisoner with him. Athelstan followed behind, pleading with Sir John to be careful.

‘I’ll be bloody careful!’ the coroner roared.

The servants had gathered, their faces pallid in the candlelight. Cranston shook the man again, put a finger to his lips for silence and waited by the front door. He must have waited five minutes before Athelstan heard the crunch of a boot and the voice of beadle Trumpington.

‘Well past midnight. Cold and hard, but all’s well!’

Cranston flung open the door, dragging the felon with him.

‘Oh no, it’s not, my lad! The time is bloody ripe to say just how unwell things really are!’