By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 12

Sir John Cranston stretched his long, stockinged feet in front of the roaring fire. He beamed at his lady, the adoring Maude, who sat beside him, hands in her lap, her girlish face wreathed in a beatific smile, her corn-coloured hair tied in braids. She had been summoned from her bed by her husband’s triumphant, return home. Cranston sipped from his favourite wine goblet and stretched his great legs until the muscles cracked. He wagged a finger at the astonished under-sheriff, Shawditch, who had also been summoned. Athelstan could only stare into the fire and quietly pray that he wouldn’t laugh.

‘You see,’ Cranston explained for the third time, ‘my secretarius and I had the same line of thought.’ He pointed a finger at Shawditch. ‘Always remember, Shawditch, Cranston’s famous axiom "if a problem exists then a solution to it must also exist".’ Cranston winked at Lady Maude. ‘And we knew the problem. A merchant’s house – empty except for the servants, who live on the ground floor – is entered without any visible sign of force and looted. The housebreaker disappears.’ Cranston drummed his fingers on his fat knee. ‘Now that problem would tax any law officer. However, when Athelstan and I visited the last house, where the poor girl was killed, we noticed that the straw beneath the garret’s roof was rather damp. Well’ – Cranston leaned over and squeezed Athelstan’s hand – ‘in the normal course of events, the average law officer would have thought, "Ah, I know how the felon got in – through the tiles. He removed some, climbed down, robbed the house, went out through the roof and replaced the tiles behind him. Easy enough for a professional tiler." The trouble with that theory, though, is that another tiler could easily detect what had been done.’ He glared at Shawditch. ‘Is that clear?’

The man nodded vigorously.

‘So we asked Trumpington if a tiler had been summoned, and when he said yes we accepted his story.’ Cranston leaned over for Lady Maude to fill his goblet. ‘And if the beadle had had the roof examined by a tiler, who had found no signs of disturbance, then this could not be how the thief entered the house. But’ – he waved an airy hand – ‘this is where our logic comes in. Brother Athelstan and I considered the following possibility: what if Trumpington, the beadle, was involved in the housebreaking and the tiler used to check the roofs was also involved?’ Cranston slurped from the goblet. ‘A subtle little piece of trickery that might have deceived us had we not noticed those damp rushes.’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Isn’t that right, Brother?’

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘your logic is impeccable. Trumpington and the tiler were working hand in glove. The beadle would find out which houses were empty and how they were organised. Then, while he was patrolling the streets, bawling out all was well, his accomplice was busy robbing the house.

‘Have they confessed?’ Shawditch asked.

‘Oh yes, and some of the plunder has been found in their houses,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are now in Newgate awaiting trial. For the murder of that girl, both will hang.’

He got to his feet and warmed his great backside before the fire. ‘Master Shawditch,’ he said magnanimously, ‘you may have credit for the arrest.’

‘Sir John, I thank you.’

‘Nonsense!’ Cranston replied. ‘Now be off with you. Make sure that all the stolen property is returned to its owners.’

Once the under-sheriff had left, Cranston was about to continue with his tales of triumph, even threatening to go back to his great victory on the river. But Athelstan yawned and stretched.

‘Sir John, I thank you for your hospitality, but the hour is late and tomorrow we have other business.’

‘I know, I know,’ Cranston replied testily. ‘That bloody Fisher of Men is still sending messages to me. He probably wants to be paid for the corpses he’s plucked out of the river.’

Lady Maude got to her feet and pointed to a corner of the parlour.

‘Brother Athelstan, I have made up a comfortable bed for you.’

Athelstan thanked her, rose and stretched.

‘Now, come on, Sir John.’ Lady Maude seized her husband by the elbow. ‘Come. The poppets will be up early and you know they always cry for Daddy.’

Sir John, mollified, headed towards the door and the stairs to the bedchamber. He turned and waggled a finger at Athelstan.

‘You sleep well, Brother, and don’t worry about Gog and Magog. They are both locked in the kitchen. They won’t get out and eat you!’

Athelstan breathed a sigh of relief- Cranston’s new acquisitions, two great Irish wolfhounds, were harmless enough but so boisterous in their greetings they could knock the wind from the unwary visitor.

Sir John and his wife left. Athelstan snuffed out the candles and knelt by his bed to say his prayers, but his mind kept going back to Crawley lying on the deck and to the words he had uttered just before he swooned.

The door opened behind him.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’ Athelstan replied without turning.

‘You know I am a terrible teller of tales?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘You are a great man, Sir John.’

‘No, Brother, it is you who deserve the credit. On behalf of that little murdered girl, I thank you. You saw old Jack do justice.’

The door closed. Athelstan finished his prayers, crossed himself and climbed into bed. He had intended to lie awake and think, but his head had hardly touched the bolster before he was fast asleep.

His awakening the next morning, however, was far from peaceful. He woke to find one of the great wolfhounds lying on top of him. The poppets, who viewed Athelstan as a favourite uncle, were staggering about with pieces of bread smeared with honey. They were screaming with laughter as they tried to force the bread between his lips. Athelstan climbed sleepily from the bed in a whirl of hurling limbs, soft little bodies and pieces of honey-coated bread. The other wolfhound, Magog, also appeared and made his contribution to the growing clamour. If Athelstan didn’t want the bread and honey, the dogs certainly did. They began to butt the baby boys in their fat little stomachs.

Lady Maude arrived and her few quiet words had their desired effect. The wolfhounds disappeared beneath the table. The two poppets would have joined them, but their mother grabbed them both and dragged them off for their morning wash. Boscombe, Cranston’s small, fat steward, a model of courtly courtesy, appeared with soap, towel and razor.

Athelstan washed and shaved before the fire then joined Sir John, dressed now in more sober attire, to breakfast in the kitchen. Leif the beggar also arrived. Athelstan was always astonished at the skinny beggar’s appetite – it was as if he was constantly on the verge of death through starvation. Leif had brought a companion, Picknose – so named because of a disgusting personal habit. The two were listening in rapt admiration as Sir John, using knives and pieces of bread, described Eustace the Monk’s attack along the Thames. Athelstan ignored them all, ate a hasty breakfast and went outside. The morning, despite the clear skies, was bitterly cold. Athelstan crossed to St Mary Le Bow, where the friendly priest allowed him to celebrate Mass in a chantry chapel.

Cranston was waiting when Athelstan left the church. He handed the friar his cloak and staff.

‘I have just visited that old nag of yours,’ he said.

‘Philomel is not an old nag, Sir John. He’s a bit like yourself, a stout warhorse who may have seen better days.’

Cranston roared with laughter as they made their way down Bread Street across Old Fish Street and Trinity towards the quayside. The city was beginning to stir, carts crashed along, pulled by great dray horses with hogged manes, the steam from their sweaty flanks raising clouds in the cold morning air. Pedlars pushed their barrows; sleepy-eyed apprentices, not alert enough for mischief, laid out stalls and extinguished the lamps hanging outside their masters’ houses. Night pots were being emptied from upper windows and a burly-faced trader, covered in someone’s night soil, was fairly dancing with rage. The dung-carts were out scraping the muck from the sewers and picking up the detritus from the previous day, which included dead cats and a dog, its back broken by a cartwheel. A group of Benedictine monks escorted a coffin down towards one of the churches. A chanteur entertained the early morning crowds with a story of being spirited away to a fabulous fairy city under a mountain outside Dublin. Some drunken roisterers, halters around their necks, their hose pulled down about their ankles, were being led up to the Tun to spend the morning in disgrace in the huge cage there. At the entrance to Vintry two poles stuck in the ground bore the heads of executed French pirates, their features unrecognisable under the muck and refuse that had been thrown at them.

Cranston and Athelstan reached the quayside, which was thronged with merchant ships; the sky was almost blacked out by a forest of masts, spars and cranes. They passed the Aleppo, the George, the Christopher and the Black Cock, their holds open to receive bundles of English wool, iron, salt, meat and cloths from Midland towns. Athelstan looked between the ships and glimpsed the war cogs riding at anchor. Cranston led him down to the alehouse where they had last met the Fisher of Men. He quietly asked the tapster to fetch the fellow, ordered two blackjacks of ale, sat in the same corner of the tavern as before and waited. The Fisher of Men soon appeared. His narrow, skeletal face glowed with pleasure at the profits he had harvested by plundering the dead and taking corpses from the river. His gargoyles thronged in the doorway waiting. The Fisher of Men refused Cranston’s offer of refreshment but clapped his hands and gave Cranston and Athelstan a mocking bow.

‘My Lord, your Holiness! At last you grace us with your presence!’

‘Bugger off!’ Cranston snapped. ‘You are wasting time!’

‘Would I waste the time of the mighty Cranston? No, come with me, my lord coroner, I’ll show you a great mystery.’

Cranston shrugged. He and Athelstan followed the sinister figure and his motley gang out into the alleyway and through a maze of urine-smelling runnels until they stopped before a large, shabby warehouse.

‘Oh Lord!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Mermaid’s paps! He is going to show us his wares!’

The Fisher of Men produced a key, unlocked the door and led them into the darkness. Athelstan immediately gagged at the fishy, stale-water smell mingled with the sickly-sweet stench of corruption. The gargoyles thronged around him. ‘Lights!’ the Fisher of Men shouted. ‘Let there be light, for the darkness cannot comprehend the light.’

Athelstan put his hand out to steady himself and felt something cold, wet and spongy beneath him. He peered down and bit back his cry as he saw it was the grey, puffed face of a corpse. He rubbed his hand on his robe and waited as torches and candles were lit.

‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother, look around you!’

The warehouse was built like a great barn. Everywhere, in makeshift boxes which the Fisher of Men must have filched from different places, were the corpses of those hauled from the Thames – forty or fifty at least. Athelstan glimpsed a thin-faced young woman, an archer with a bloody wound in his chest, an old woman who lay on a sopping yellow rag, even a small lapdog that must have fallen from someone’s arms.

‘Come this way! Come this way!’

The Fisher of Men led them to the far end of the barn, where an arrow box was propped against the wall. There was a man’s body in it. Athelstan, thinking he was going to be sick, looked away. Cranston, though, studied the corpse carefully. It was that of a tall, well-built man with black hair and thin features; the eyeless face bore the marks of fish bites and the flesh was puffy and white like old wool after it has been dipped in dirty water. The man’s boots were gone – they, along with other possessions, were the perquisites of the Fisher of Men. The thin linen shirt was open and Cranston saw a purple-red bruise on the chest and marks on the neck. The Fisher of Men fairly danced beside the body.

‘See, see, see who it is!’

‘I see a corpse,’ Cranston replied drily. ‘Probably a sailor’s.’

‘Correct! Correct! But which sailor?’

Cranston glowered at the man. ‘One of those killed in the battle?’

‘Oh no! Oh no! This is Bracklebury!’

Athelstan opened his eyes in amazement. Cranston peered closer.

‘It fits your description, my lord coroner, though there was nothing on him to identify him by.’

Cranston swore under his breath. ‘By a fairy’s futtock, so it is! Black-haired, a scar under his left eye, past his thirtieth summer, but-’

‘He’s been in the water for at least, oh, five or six days,’ the Fisher of Men said.

Athelstan shook his head. ‘But Bracklebury was alive two days ago! He murdered Bernicia!’

The gargoyles standing behind them tittered with laughter.

‘Impossible!’ the Fisher of Men shouted, stretching out his hand towards Cranston. ‘How can a man be drowned and be walking about murdering people?’

Athelstan forgot his disdain and walked closer. ‘Is there any wound?’ he asked.

‘None,’ the Fisher of Men replied. ‘Not a scratch. Only these.’ He pointed to the purple bruise on the man’s chest and the slight lacerations on either side of the throat. ‘Something was tied around his neck.’

Cranston stepped back, shaking his head.

‘It can’t be,’ he muttered. ‘Bracklebury’s alive.’

‘I claim my reward,’ the Fisher of Men said.

‘Sir John, let’s get out of here,’ Athelstan murmured.

They walked back to the alleyway, the Fisher of Men and the gargoyles clustered around them.

‘Look!’ Cranston bellowed, ‘I need proof.’ He stamped his feet and stared around. ‘I need proof! Proof that this is Bracklebury.’ He pointed a finger at the Fisher of Men. ‘You’ve got spies all over the city. Bring these people to meet me at the alehouse. He rapped out a list of people he wished to see – the ship’s officers as well as Emma Roffel. ‘I want them at the tavern within the hour. I don’t give a rat’s arse what they are doing!’

The Fisher of Men seemed delighted by the prospect of wielding so much power. It was not often that he was able to order about the ordinary inhabitants of the city in which he lurked. He and the gargoyles swept down the alleyway, Cranston still roaring at them that they were to bring everyone to the tavern. He took Athelstan back there. Cranston slumped on to a stool. He pushed his great back into the corner of the wall and roared for refreshment until all the slatterns in the place were hopping like fleas on a frisky dog.

‘It can’t be Bracklebury,’ he breathed. ‘Yet it must be Bracklebury.’

Athelstan thanked the landlord and pushed the platter of food he had brought and a goblet of claret towards Cranston.

‘If the corpse isn’t Bracklebury’s,’ he said, ‘then he is still our principal suspect. But if it is, then, to quote a famous coroner I know, Hell’s teeth!’

‘Or mermaid’s tits!’ Cranston smiled.

‘Aye and those too, Sir John.’ Athelstan sipped from his tankard of ale. ‘If it is Bracklebury, then who is the murderer of Bernicia? And, more importantly, who killed Bracklebury? Why and how?’

Cranston rubbed his face. ‘You know, I have this awful nightmare, Brother, that we have been concentrating on Bracklebury and forgetting the other two sailors. We don’t even know their names. What if they are the villains of the piece?’

Athelstan’s mind teemed with the possibilities.

‘The war cogs will sail soon,’ Cranston said. ‘The officers on board the God’s Bright Light will go with them. Everything will remain a mystery.’

‘Do you have the silver, Sir John?’

Athelstan whirled around and Cranston looked up at the two scrutineers who had come to stand silently beside them, the false smiles on their plump faces belied by the hardness of their eyes.

‘The exchequer wants its silver back,’ Peter said.

‘And soon!’ the other added.

Uninvited, they pulled stools over but shook their heads when Cranston offered them refreshment.

‘No, Sir John, we have not come for meat and drink. We are here for the king’s silver. Any progress?’

Cranston described what they had discovered on board the God’s Bright Light.

‘So you found the hiding place but not the money,’ Paul summed up.

Cranston nodded.

‘We have the tally men out,’ Peter said. ‘You see, the silver was freshly minted.’ He smiled sourly. ‘When you buy spies and traitors, they always bite the silver first.’

‘But how could it have been freshly minted?’ Cranston asked. ‘Sir Henry sent it to the exchequer!’

The silver bullion he sent was melted down and coins struck from it at the royal mint in the Tower.’

‘And you have searched for these coins?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, we have.’

‘And you’ve found no trace?’

‘I didn’t say that. A goldsmith just off Candlewick Street was visited by one of our tally men. Some of the coins are already in circulation.’

‘How much was your spy carrying when Roffel attacked the ship?’

‘A hundred groats,’ Peter replied.

‘A hundred groats in freshly minted coins on the open market!’ Cranston exclaimed.

Athelstan held up his hand. ‘And, of course, you have questioned this goldsmith?’

‘Oh, of course! We even threatened him with a short sojourn in the Tower’s deepest dungeon.’

‘And what did he tell you?’

‘Very little. But he described a man – a strong, well-built sailor dressed in a battered leather jacket, hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. Or so he thinks.’

‘And his features?’

‘He had his cowl and hood pulled full across his face. The goldsmith did not think it was suspicious. The man claimed the silver was payment for booty handed over to the crown. Of course, any further questions were silenced by the goldsmith’s greed.’

‘And how much was exchanged?’

Ten groats. What concerns us is that it’s easy to chase money in London but what happens if this fellow goes to Norwich, Lincoln, Ipswich or Gloucester?’

Cranston put his finger to his lips as the officers of the God’s Bright Light, led by Cabe, entered the tavern. Most of them looked tired and rather angry at being dragged away for yet another interrogation. One of the scrutineers looked over his shoulder; he tapped his companion on the arm and they both got to their feet.

‘We’ll be back, Sir John.’ They pulled up their hoods and slipped soundlessly out of the alehouse. Cabe, Coffrey, Minter and Peverill now stood over Cranston, thumbs pushed into broad, leather belts, their salt-stained jackets pulled back to display daggers and short swords. Athelstan fleetingly wondered what would happen if all four of these men were taken to that goldsmith? But that would prove little and might only alert suspicions. The goldsmith would be frightened of implicating himself. Moreover, the mysterious sailor who had brought the silver might be an innocent third party only used by the thief and murderer for that particular transaction. Athelstan blinked as Cabe leaned over and whispered to Cranston. The coroner just glared back.

‘I appreciate you coming,’ Sir John declared falsely. ‘My excuse for asking you is that I thought you might want to meet an old friend.’

‘What the bloody hell do you mean?’ Peverill asked.

Cabe stepped back. ‘You are not saying Roffel’s climbed out of his grave?’ Cranston shook his head, grinned and sipped from his wine cup.

‘No, but Bracklebury might have.’

‘Bracklebury!’ Coffrey exclaimed. ‘Have you caught him?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cabe snarled. ‘What is this, Sir John? To be summoned by some benighted sloven from our duties on the quayside.’

Cranston gazed beyond him at the door where Emma Roffel now stood with the ubiquitous Tabitha in tow. Behind her was the thin-faced, red-haired Fisher of Men.

Emma swept grandly towards the coroner.

‘You’d best not be wasting my time, Sir John!’ She flicked a look of contempt at her dead husband’s officers. ‘What is it now?’

‘You’ll see! You’ll see!’ the Fisher of Men called from the door. ‘A mummer’s play is about to begin. The cast is waiting.’

‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. Cranston realised that the ship’s officers and Emma Roffel were in danger of walking off in protest, so he lumbered to his feet.

‘This is no petty matter,’ he said. ‘All of you had best follow me.’

They followed the Fisher of Men, surrounded by his gargoyles, back to the warehouse. He opened the door and ushered them in. While others lit candles and torches, he led them past the grisly, decaying corpses laid out on the floor or on the makeshift tables.

Athelstan watched the others. Emma Roffel, pale at the sights she glimpsed, was supporting Tabitha. The maid clutched her mistress’s arm, her eyes half-closed, her face turned inwards so she did not have to look at the pale faces and open, staring eyes. Even the sailors, used to battle and sudden death, lost their arrogance. Coffrey became distinctly nervous and, on one occasion, turned away to gag at the offensive stench. At last they reached the arrow chest. The Fisher of Men held up a torch, giving the corpse’s face an eerie light of its own.

‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Minter the ship’s surgeon crouched down.

Coffrey turned away. Peverill gazed in astonishment. Cabe, who seemingly couldn’t believe his eyes, walked closer and stared at the dead man’s face.

‘Is it Bracklebury?’ Sir John asked.

‘God rest him!’ Minter whispered. ‘Of course it is!’

‘Do you all recognise him?’

‘We do!’ they chorused.

‘Mistress Roffel, is this the man who brought your husband’s corpse back to your house?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is.’

Then I pronounce and declare,’ said Cranston formally, ‘that this is the corpse of Bracklebury, first mate of the God’s Bright Light, murdered by person or persons unknown. May God bring them swiftly to judgement!’ Cranston pointed at the Fisher of Men. ‘You may apply for the reward.’ He turned to the ship’s surgeon. ‘Can you tell us how this man died?’

Minter, overcoming his distaste, pulled the water-sodden corpse from its box and laid it on the ground.

‘Do you need me any more, Sir John?’ Emma Roffel asked.

‘No, no, of course not. I thank you for coming.’

Minter was now stripping the corpse and examining it carefully, turning it over as if it was some dead fish on the quayside.

‘Well?’ Cranston snapped.

‘No signs of any blow to the head or stab wound. No marks of violence, except these-’ He turned the grisly corpse over and indicated the lacerations on each side of the neck and the large purple welt on the chest.

Emma Roffel, turning to leave and still holding the tearful Tabitha, slipped on the wet floor. Athelstan caught her by the hand.

‘Steady!’ he whispered.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘If you could help me, Brother.’

Athelstan helped both women out into the cold, fresh air. Emma Roffel pushed Tabitha away.

‘Come on, woman!’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, it is not you laid out like a fish in a box!’

Tabitha moaned and drew closer to her mistress. Emma looked at Athelstan.

‘When will this business end?’ she asked. ‘Can’t you see, Brother, that those pirates in there are no better than my husband? They know the truth!’ And, spinning on her heel, she led the sobbing Tabitha away.

Athelstan went back to where Cranston and the others were still staring down at Bracklebury’s corpse.

‘Why?’ the coroner asked suddenly.

‘Why what, Sir John?’

‘Well, Bracklebury had apparently been in the water for some time. But no one knows why or what caused these bruises on his chest and neck. Yet what really puzzles me is why his corpse appears now?’

Cranston looked at Cabe, who was leaning against a wooden pillar. Still shocked, the second mate was staring down at his dead comrade.

‘Master Cabe, who were the other two sailors? What were their names?’

Cabe didn’t answer.

‘Master Cabe, the names of the other two sailors?’

‘Eh?’ The second mate rubbed the side of his face.

‘Clement and Alain. They were London men, or I think they were.’

Athelstan was staring at the Fisher of Men, who caught his glance. ‘What is it, Brother?’

‘Can you explain why Bracklebury’s corpse should suddenly appear?’

‘No, Father, I can’t.’

Athelstan recalled the battle on the river. Images flitted through his mind – the catapults being loaded with stones, the galleys crashing against the cog to set it rocking on the swift flow of the Thames. The friar smiled down at the corpse. ‘Of course!’ he whispered and tapped his foot in excitement.

‘Sir John!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘I think we should return to God’s Bright Light. Our good friend here, the Fisher of Men, might be able to help us.’

‘How?’ the strange creature asked.

‘Do you have a swimmer?’ Athelstan continued, indicating that Cranston should keep quiet. ‘Someone who is not freighted of the currents of the Thames?’

The Fisher of Men grinned mirthlessly, put a finger to his lips and gave a long whistle.

‘Icthus!’

One of the hooded gargoyles detached himself from the rest and ran forward.

‘This is Icthus,’ said the Fisher of Men. ‘We call him that because it is the Greek word for fish. Where they can go, he can follow, can’t you, Icthus?’

Icthus drew back his hood. Athelstan gazed at him in a mixture of shock, revulsion and compassion. Either he had been born disfigured or he was the victim of some terrible disease. He was very thin. Although only a boy, he was completely bald. But what caught everyone’s horrified attention was his face. It was the face of a fish – with scaly skin, a small, flat nose, a cod-like mouth and eyes so far apart they seemed to be on either side of his head.

‘This is Icthus,’ the Fisher of Men repeated. ‘And his fee is one silver piece.’

Athelstan forced himself to look at the boy.

‘Will you swim for us?’ he asked.

The cod mouth opened. Icthus had no teeth or tongue, only dark red gums. The only sound he could make was a guttural choking noise. But he nodded vigorously in answer to Athelstan’s question.

‘Good,’ Athelstan said. ‘Now let’s return to that God-forsaken ship.’ He grinned at Cranston. ‘And no questions, please.’