By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 6

Athelstan knocked on the door of Cranston’s house. He was immediately greeted by a raucous noise – the poppets screaming and Cranston’s two great wolfhounds, Grog and Magog, barking furiously. The door opened and Cranston’s petite, pretty wife Maude came out, patches of flour on her cheeks and the sleeves of her dress. In each arm she held her beloved poppets Francis and Stephen, their little heads now covered in downy hair, their round, fat faces red and cheery. Behind her Boscombe the steward prevented the two great dogs from lunging at Athelstan and licking him to death.

‘Brother Athelstan,’ Lady Maude exclaimed, her face smiling in pleasure.

The two poppets strained towards him, clapping their fat hands and gurgling with glee.

‘Come in, Brother.’ Lady Maude stepped back.

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Sir John’s not at home?’

‘He could be in the Holy Lamb of God,’ Lady Maude replied sharply.

‘Dadda.’ One of the poppets strained forward, a fat, dirty finger pointing at Athelstan. ‘Dadda.’

Athelstan seized the finger and squeezed it gently. The beaming baby burped.

‘Just like his father!’ Lady Maude declared.

‘Dadda.’

Athelstan grasped the chubby little finger and stroked the other baby’s head. ‘Bless you both, bless you all.’ He grinned. ‘But I’m not your Dadda.’

‘Dadda,’ the baby repeated.

Athelstan, a little embarrassed, pointed at Lady Maude. ‘And who’s that?’

The baby stared at his mother and then back at Athelstan.

‘Not Dadda.’

Athelstan laughed. He said he would search out Sir John and, leaving the confusion of Cranston’s household behind him, pushed his way through the throng. He stabled Philomel in the Holy Lamb of God’s stables and entered the taproom. Lady Maude was right. Cranston was sitting in his favourite chair, a tankard of ale in front of him, and staring mournfully into the garden.

‘Good morrow, Sir John.’

The coroner, full of self-pity, looked at his secretarius, who slipped on to the bench opposite him.

‘You are in poor spirits, Sir John?’

‘Bloody murder!’

‘You mean the business at Queen’s hithe?’

‘No, there have been burglaries in the streets around Cheapside. Always the same pattern. A deserted house is robbed but the felon leaves no sign of any forced entry or exit. Last night there was another one, in Catte Street. I have just been down to the Guildhall. A group of angry aldermen gave me and under-sheriff Shawditch the rough edge of their tongues!’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Anyway, what do you want, Brother?’

‘Emma Roffel came to see me. She was shocked about what had happened to the corpse of her husband and by the rumours that he had been murdered. She’s at the funeral now.’

‘We’ll deal with my troubles first,’ Cranston muttered.

He grabbed his cloak and trudged out of the tavern across Cheapside, so sullen, he ignored the usual banter and good-natured abuse hurled at him.

‘Sir John, is this so serious?’ Athelstan asked, hurrying beside him.

‘Never forget, Brother. The city council pays my salary. I am friendly to all of them but ally to none. Sometimes I think they’d like to remove me.’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan protested.

‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ the coroner said dolefully. ‘And how’s your bloody parish?’

‘My bloody parish is fine, preparing for the play.’ Athelstan seized Cranston’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, pause a minute.’

Under his thick beaver hat, the coroner’s fat, usually cheery face now looked so mournful that Athelstan had to bite his lip to hide his smile.

‘Sir John, will you be in our play?’

He caught the flicker of amusement in the coroner’s eyes.

‘As what?’

‘Satan.’

Cranston stared at him, threw his head back and roared with laughter. He clapped the friar so vigorously on the shoulder that Athelstan winced.

‘Of course I bloody will! I’ll even buy my own costume. Now come on!’

He led Athelstan up a lane and stopped before the main door of a grand four-storeyed house.

‘Who lives here?’ Athelstan asked.

‘A big fat merchant,’ Sir John replied. ‘He made a fortune in the wine trade and is now absent from the city visiting friends and relations.’

Cranston hammered on the door. A pale-faced servant opened it. Sir John roared who he was and marched straight in. Shawditch was already in the large, white-washed kitchen questioning the servants, who sat, anxious-faced, around the great fleshing table. Cranston introduced Athelstan, who shook the under-sheriff’s hand.

‘Well, what happened?’ the coroner snapped.

‘The same as ever, Sir John, with one difference. Last night some footpad entered the house. God knows how – the doors were barred and the windows shuttered. He stole precious objects from the upper floors. Unfortunately a linen-maid, Katherine Abchurch, had fallen asleep in one of the chambers. She woke after dark, opened the door and surprised the intruder, who promptly stabbed her to death.’

‘And then?’

‘Disappeared leaving no trace of how he left or how he entered.’

Cranston nodded towards the servants. ‘And you have questioned all of these?’

They can all account for their movements. In fact, the steward here noticed Katherine was missing and went looking for her.’

Athelstan beckoned the under-sheriff closer. ‘Is there anyone here who had anything to do with the previous burglaries?’ he asked.

Shawditch shook his head. ‘No one.’

‘And you are sure that all the entrances and exits were sealed?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘Ah well, let’s see for ourselves,’ Cranston said. ‘Come on, Shawditch.’

The under-sheriff led them along a corridor and up a broad staircase where the oak gleamed like burnished gold. The walls were panelled and the plaster above them painted a soft pink. Heraldic shields hung there and, on one wall, the head of a ferocious-looking boar had been mounted on a wooden plaque. On the second floor just outside a chamber, Katherine Abchurch lay where she had fallen, a woollen blanket tossed over her. Athelstan looked around the corridor. He saw chamber doors, the staircase at the far end and a table with dusty rings on it.

‘Something was stolen from here?’

‘Yes,’ Shawditch replied, then jumped at a loud knocking on the door downstairs.

‘That will be beadle Trumpington,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell him to wait below.’

He hurried down the stairs. Cranston and Athelstan pulled back the blanket and stared at Katherine’s mortal remains.

‘God save us!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘She’s only a child.’

He saw the bloody puncture marks on the girl’s dress and his heart lurched with compassion at the terror still frozen on her face. ‘God rest her!’ he said softly. ‘And God punish the wicked bastard who did it!’

He replaced the blanket tenderly, covering the girl’s face. ‘My mind’s a jumble of problems but I will do all I can to bring this assassin to justice!’

Shawditch rejoined them.

‘Let’s inspect the house,’ Athelstan urged. ‘Every floor, every room.’

‘I have asked for all the chambers to be opened,’ Shawditch said.

‘Then let’s begin.’

There was a look of cold determination on Athelstan’s usually gentle face as he moved from room to room. It reminded Cranston of a good hunting dog he had owned as a boy. Athelstan’s irritation at not being able to find any clue, however, grew as they reached the top floor.

‘Nothing,’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Nothing at all.’

They went into the garret, which was dark and chilling – only the beams and the tiles above separated them from the cold. Athelstan kicked among the rushes on the floor.

‘No window. No opening.’ He crouched down and felt the rushes. They were cold and damp to his touch. He walked into the corner of the room and felt the rushes there. He came back shaking his head. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

They returned to the kitchen, where Trumpington the beadle was holding court before the great roaring fire.

‘Sir John, Master Shawditch, have you found anything?’ The beadle’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Athelstan. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Brother Athelstan, my secretarius,’ Cranston replied.

Athelstan stared at the beadle. ‘It’s a mystery,’ he said absent-mindedly. ‘But you, good sir, could do me a favour.’

‘Anything you ask, Father.’

‘But, first, one question.’

‘Of course.’

‘You patrol the streets. You noticed nothing wrong?’

‘Father, if I had I’d have reported it.’

Athelstan smiled.

‘And the favour, Father?’

‘I want you to get a tiler, a good man.’

‘I’ve done that already,’ Trumpington said.

‘To check this house?’

‘No, but he checked all the others and found nothing amiss.’

‘Well, ask him to check again. See if any tiles have been removed. If he finds any aperture we have missed, report your findings to the coroner.’

‘Is that what you want, Sir John?’ Trumpington asked pointedly, throwing a look of disdain at the friar.

Sir John caught the tinge of contempt. ‘Yes it is. And do it quickly!’

They made their farewells and left the house.

‘Well, Brother, did you find anything?’ Cranston asked. Athelstan saw the expectation in his and Shawditch’s faces.

‘Nothing, Sir John.’

Cranston cursed.

There is one thing, though,’ Athelstan said. ‘Master Shawditch, a small favour?’

The under-sheriff looked at Cranston, who shrugged.

‘It’s nothing to do with this business,’ Athelstan went on, ‘but could you ask the boatmen along the Thames if they took anyone out to the ship God’s Bright Light two nights ago?’

‘I’ll do what I can, Father,’ Shawditch replied and hurried off.

‘What’s that all about?’ Cranston grumbled.

‘Well, let me tell you.’

Athelstan pulled Cranston into a small alehouse. Sir John needed no second invitation to refreshment – he immediately began shouting for a cup of claret and a piece of freshly roasted capon. Athelstan sipped at his ale as he watched the food restore Sir John’s good humour.

‘First,’ Athelstan whispered, leaning across the table, ‘Aveline Ospring murdered her father. She told me under the seal of confession but has asked for our help.’

Cranston stared, his mouth wide open, as Athelstan described what he had learnt earlier in the day. The coroner threw the capon leg down.

‘She’ll hang,’ Sir John muttered. ‘Either she’ll hang or he’ll hang or they’ll both hang. She can’t prove what she said. What else, Brother?’

‘Somebody boarded that ship,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and somehow killed those three men. But how and why I don’t know. However, you heard what Crawley said? No one from the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, saw or heard anything amiss and that includes Bernicia’s shouting.’ Athelstan angrily shook his head. ‘Someone is lying, Sir John, and we must discover who. How do we know every sailor left the ship? There could have been someone hiding on board.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Cranston said sarcastically. ‘And he killed those three sailors with no fuss or trace, continued passing the signals and then disappeared into thin air, just like the felon robbing the merchants’ houses?’

Athelstan smiled. ‘No one disappears into thin air, Sir John, and that goes for the house we have just visited. I have a suspicion. No, no.’ He held a finger up as expectation flared in Sir John’s eyes. ‘Not now. Let’s deal with Roffel’s widow. But, before that, do you know a tavern called the Crossed Keys near Queen’s hithe?’

‘Yes, the landlord’s a relative of Admiral Crawley. An old seafarer. Why, what’s the matter, Brother?’

Athelstan leaned his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. ‘Roffel used to buy usquebaugh, a Scottish drink, there. He kept it in a flask that he always carried with him. By the way, Sir John, have you noticed how Crawley’s name keeps recurring? He disliked Roffel. We have only his word that no one approached the God’s Bright Light. He must have heard Bracklebury shouting to Bernicia. And now his cousin owns a tavern where Roffel bought the usquebaugh that, I suspect, contained the arsenic that killed him.’

Cranston drained his cup and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Let’s visit the tavern.’ He tapped the side of his fleshy nose. Then we’ll go to see someone else – a man who knows about what happens along the river because he earns his living from it.’

Cranston left some coins on the table and they strode out of the alehouse. It was beginning to rain. The streets were empty so they kept to the shadow of the houses to avoid the filthy puddles as well as to shelter from the rain.

‘We should have brought the horses,’ Athelstan grumbled.

‘Shut up and say your prayers!’ Cranston quipped back.

They found the Crossed Keys tavern nestling behind the warehouses. It was a sailors’ haunt, filled with a babble of voices. Customers from every nationality thronged the taproom: Portuguese clad in gaudy clothes, their faces bearded and swarthy, silver earrings dangling from their ear lobes; Gascons, proud and argumentative; and Hanseatics, solemn-faced, sweating under their fur caps and cloaks. A salty, fishy odour mingled with strange cooking smells. Cranston licked his lips as a servitor pushed by him with a bowl of diced steak under a thick onion sauce. Athelstan wisely moved the coroner on through the noisy throng towards the landlord, squat and round as a barrel, who stood in front of a great fishing net pinned to the wall. The fellow kept surveying the taproom, shouting out orders to his sweat-soaked servitors. Athelstan could see he had spent his life at sea from his rolling gait and eyes creased after years of straining against the sun and biting wind. A merry-looking man, with his rubicund cheeks and balding head, he was mouthing a string of colourful oaths which made even Cranston smile.

‘You are the owner?’ Cranston asked, coming up in front of him.

‘No, I am a peeping mermaid!’ the fellow replied out of the corner of his mouth as he turned to shout orders into the kitchen.

‘Jack Cranston’s the name and this is my secretarius, Brother Athelstan.’

The coroner extended a podgy hand. The landlord grasped it and smiled.

‘I have heard of you. I am Richard Crawley, one-time ship’s master, now lord of all I survey. I know why you are here or can I guess? Roffel’s death. God damn him!’

‘You didn’t like him?’

‘Like my cousin, Sir Jacob, I hated Roffel’s guts. He was a bad bastard and I hope he gets what he richly deserves, rotting in hell-’ He broke off suddenly and shouted at a scullion. ‘By a mermaid’s paps! Hold that platter straight! You’re listing like a scuppered ship!’

‘Why did you hate him?’

‘Why not? The same reason as Sir Jacob. I had a half-brother,’ the landlord continued, lowering his voice, ‘a good sailor, plying the cloth trade between the Cinque Ports and Dordrecht. His ship went down with all hands. Roffel was cruising in the vicinity at the time. He blamed the French. I blamed him.’

‘But you did business with him?’

‘Of course I bloody well did – and charged him highly for it. A Scotsman, he liked his drink, usquebaugh. I bought it in cask from Leith in Scotland and sold it at treble the price to that evil bastard. He always filled his flask before he left for any voyage. Roffel knew, to the last drop, how much he had left.’

‘Do you have any of it now?’

‘Yes,’ Richard replied, ‘and I’ll finish it myself one day and toast his black soul with every drop.’

‘May we see it?’ Athelstan asked.

The landlord shrugged and, going back into the scullery, returned with a cask about a foot wide and a foot across with a small tap in the bottom. He took a battered pewter cup from the shelf, ran a few drops into it and handed it to Cranston.

‘Taste that!’

Sir John did, drinking it down in one gulp while the landlord grinned evilly.

‘Shitting ships!’ Cranston exclaimed. His face turned puce and he coughed. ‘Satan’s balls! What in hell is that?’

‘Usquebaugh, Sir John. Do you like it?’

Sir John smacked his lips. ‘Hot,’ he said. ‘Strong at first, but it certainly warms the belly. How many barrels do you have of this?’

‘Just the one cask.’

‘And before he sailed on his last voyage Roffel filled his flask from it himself?’

‘Oh, of course, he did. And then he drank some, a small cup.’

Athelstan, who was half-watching a Portuguese sailor feed his pet monkey, which was climbing all over his shoulders, looked at the landlord in surprise.

‘He drank some here?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The landlord turned and glared towards the clamour from the kitchen. ‘Sir John, if you have no more questions, I have a trade to follow.’

Cranston muttered his thanks and they left the tavern. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. The coroner gripped Athelstan’s shoulder.

‘It can’t have been the usquebaugh can it, Brother? Or the flask?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, not if Roffel drank some here and suffered no ill effects.’ He shook his head as he and the coroner trudged up the rain-soaked street.

‘Aren’t we going in the wrong direction, Sir John? Shouldn’t we be going to Roffel’s house?’

‘Ah, no, there’s someone else.’ Cranston stopped and took a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘As I said, Brother, someone who knows and watches what goes on along the river.’

At the corner of the alleyway the coroner suddenly stopped and turned quickly. The two figures at the other end of the alleyway didn’t bother to hide. Athelstan followed the coroner’s gaze.

‘Who are they, Sir John?’ He strained his eyes. Dressed in brown robes, the figures looked like Benedictine monks. ‘Are they following us?’

‘They have been with us most of the time,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s leave them for a while.’

They walked on, across Thames Street, down towards Vintry, then turned right past the warehouses and along Queen’s hithe towards Dowgate. A thick, cloying mist boiled over the river, hiding the ships that rode at anchor there.

‘Where are we going?’ Athelstan demanded.

‘Patience, my dear friar. Patience!’

They walked along the quayside. Cranston peered into the dark corners then suddenly stopped.

‘Come out!’

A ragged, hooded figure shuffled forward. As the man came closer, Athelstan saw the rags swathed across his face and around his hands and tried to hide his revulsion. The man moved in an ungainly shuffle and, as he did so, he rang a small bell.

‘Unclean!’ the ghastly figure croaked. ‘Unclean!’

‘Oh, bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘I doubt if I’ll catch leprosy!’

The man stopped a few paces from them. To Athelstan he seemed like some apparition from hell, with the rags covering his face and hands, the dark cowl pulled well forward. Now and again tendrils of mist would drift between them.

‘These are the gargoyles,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Cripples, beggars and lepers. They work for the Fisher of Men. They take corpses from the Thames, murder victims, suicides, those who have suffered accidents as well as drunks. If the man’s alive, they earn tuppence, for murder victims three pence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’

‘You wish to meet the Fisher of Men?’ the leper croaked.

‘That’s right, my jolly lad!’ Cranston called back. And, taking a penny from his pocket, he flicked it at the man who, despite his disability, neatly caught it in one hand.

‘Tell the Fisher of Men old Jack Cranston wants a word.’ He pointed down the alleyway. ‘I’ll meet him in the alehouse there.’

‘And what business shall I say?’

‘The God’s Bright Light. He’ll know,’ Cranston added to Athelstan. ‘Nothing happens along the riverside without the knowledge of the Fisher of Men.’

The leper disappeared. Cranston led Athelstan down the alleyway into a small, smelly alehouse with only one window high in the wall. It was dark and dank, lit by smoky tallow candles and smelly oil lamps, but the ale was rich and frothy, the blackjacks clean and the tables and stools neatly wiped.

‘You have met the Fisher of Men?’ Cranston asked.

‘Yes, you introduced us some months ago,’ Athelstan replied.

Cranston stuck his nose into his tankard but his eyes never left the doorway.

‘Here he comes.’

The doorway became black with huddled figures, cowled and hooded like the one they had met on the quayside. The tapster nervously waved them back but they crouched at the threshold, staring into the tavern like a huddle of ghosts peering into the land of the living. Their leader, the Fisher of Men, came from amongst them, walked soundlessly towards the coroner and Athelstan and, without invitation, sat down on the stool between them. He pulled back his hood revealing a face as sombre as any death mask – alabaster white, thick-lipped and snub-nosed, with black button eyes. Red, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. He pointed a lanky finger at Cranston.

‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’ The finger moved. ‘And you are Athelstan, his secretarius or clerk, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. Sir John, Lady Maude went shopping today. Brother Athelstan, your sanctuary man is safe. He is helping your parishioners prepare the stage for their mystery play.’

Athelstan smiled at the Fisher of Men’s implicit boast at how much he knew.

‘But we are not here to exchange gossip,’ the Fisher of Men continued. Again the finger pointed. ‘Three days ago the ship so inappropriately called God’s Bright Light dropped anchor opposite Queen’s hithe. The captain’s corpse was taken ashore. His soul has gone to God’s judgement . . .’ The voice trailed away.

‘And what else do you know?’ Cranston asked.

The man spread his hands and indicated with a nod of his head the group in the doorway.

‘Sir John, of your mercy I have my brethren to feed.’

Cranston pushed a silver coin across the table. The Fisher of Men plucked it up.

‘You do me great honour, Sir John. The ship was berthed and that night the crew and their doxies went ashore. I know because I had one of them. Fresh and clean she was. Black curly hair, merry eyes, active and vigorous as a puppy in my bed.’

Athelstan fought to control his face at the image of this strange figure making love to a young whore.

‘Very good,’ Sir John interrupted hastily. ‘And?’

‘Three men were left on board, one in the bows, one at the stern, the mate in the middle. Or rather, he kept to the cabin.’

‘And?’ Cranston insisted.

‘Oh, a whore, a male whore’ – the Fisher of Men grimaced – ‘came down about midnight to the quayside. However, she, or he, depending on your viewpoint, was driven off by a stream of curses from the ship.’ The Fisher of Men played with his lank hair. ‘The sailor on board sounded drunk, but the signals and passwords continued to be perfect!’

‘And nothing happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh yes, about two hours after midnight a small craft approached the ship.’

‘From the river bank?’

‘Oh no, from the admiral’s cog, the Holy Trinity. Two men were in it.’

‘And then what?’

‘The small boat was there for just over an hour, but then it returned.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, the password and the signals still continued.’

‘Did anything else happen?’ Cranston asked.

‘A sailor returned just before dawn and the confusion began.’

‘But the watch?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘What happened to the watch?’

The Fisher of Men licked his lips, reminding Athelstan of a frog which could see something savoury. ‘If the river has them,’ the fellow replied, ‘It will caress and kiss them and put them ashore.’ His face became solemn. ‘I and my brethren have already looked, but we have found nothing. We did not see them go in. Perhaps we shall not see them come out.’

‘But if you find them you will tell us?’

The man looked down at the silver coin in his hand. Cranston pushed another piece towards him. The Fisher of Men picked it up, got to his feet and gave them a solemn bow.

‘You are my friends,’ he declared. ‘And the Fisher of Men never forgets. In the name of my brethren, I thank you.’

He slipped out of the alehouse and the gargoyles, chattering and clattering, followed him down the alleyway.

‘Let’s see Crawley.’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Our dear admiral has been lying through his teeth and I think we should know the reason why. But first, Mistress Roffel. Come on, Brother, sharpen your wits and open your ears. Let’s see what our good widow has to say for herself.’

They left the quayside. The clouds were beginning to break up as the daylight died. The streets were busy with apprentices and traders packing away the stalls. The huge dung-carts were out, trying to clear the swollen sewers. Athelstan saw one of the dung-collectors cheerfully pick up the bloated corpse of a cat and throw it with a thud into the cart. Beggars whined for alms. Mangy dogs strutted, stiff-legged, tails up, fighting and snarling over the piles of refuse. At the corner of an alleyway, Cranston stopped and peered over his shoulder.

‘Our friends are still with us.’

Athelstan turned quickly and glimpsed the two monk-like figures a good thirty paces behind him.

‘Do you recognise them, Sir John?’

‘They are not monks,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are clerks, royal officials from either the chancery or the exchequer. If they are from the latter then God help us!’

Athelstan caught Cranston’s arm. ‘Why, Sir John?’

‘The exchequer,’ Cranston replied, ‘has a group of very secret, sharp-witted officials called scrutineers. They deal with many matters – debts owing to the crown, royal prerogatives, but they also handle foreign matters, particularly the financing of spies and clandestine missions abroad.’

‘Shouldn’t we confront them?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir John smiled bleakly. ‘If we walk back, they’ll retreat. They’ll choose the moment and the place to approach us.’

Athelstan stared up as they approached a large town house, his attention caught by the tilers working there. He stopped and stared.

‘Come on, Athelstan!’ Cranston shouted.

Athelstan watched the men working, smiled and hurried on. Sir John paid a link boy a penny to lead them to Mistress Roffel’s house, a narrow, three-storeyed building pushed between a haberdashery shop and an ironmonger’s. The windows were all shuttered up, the wooden slats covered with black drapes as a sign of mourning. Athelstan lifted the iron knocker, crafted in the shape of a ship’s anchor, and brought it heavily down.