By Murder's bright light

CHAPTER 8

As Athelstan arrived at St Erconwald’s, others involved in the mystery surrounding the God’s Bright Light began to act. The man sitting in a corner of a tavern at Queen’s hithe stared out through the open window, watching the mist thickening over the river. He tried to curb the murderous fury seething hotly through his veins, pounding the blood in his head and heart. He touched the dagger in his belt.

‘So far,’ he muttered. ‘So bloody far and yet so near!’

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and leaned back. He remembered Roffel walking the deck, the wind billowing the great sail, the ship cutting the waves like a knife through cream, bearing down on that fishing smack. Its crew never stood a chance! Roffel himself led the boarding party, closing his ears to the screams for mercy, particularly those from the English. And then, later, in the captain’s cabin . . .

The man opened his eyes and leaned forward. Everything was set to go well, and then Roffel had sickened so mysteriously and died. Now all was lost. The man looked down at the piece of parchment that had been slipped into his hand while he had been drinking in Vintry. He read it again.

‘The bloody bitch!’ he swore.

He tossed the parchment into the fire, rose and walked out of the tavern.

In another part of the city Bernicia was getting herself ready for the evening. She sat in front of the polished metal disc that served her as a mirror and smiled at her reflection.

‘He, she,’ Bernicia muttered to herself.

She would drop all pretence, after all her secret was safe with Cranston. Bernicia saw herself as a woman; she thought like one, felt like one. Bernicia looked down at the cheap rings on her fingers. She was glad Roffel was dead! No more hacked limbs, no more bloody tributes, No more cruelty! Bernicia was determined to start life afresh. She finished her toilette, grabbed her fur-lined cape and hood, doused the candles and slipped into the shadowy street, locking the door behind her. She did not have to travel far and soon arrived at a small alehouse on the corner of Pigsnout Alley – a shoddy, dingy drinking-hole where men sat on rickety stools and battered beer barrels served as tables. Bernicia approached the prosperous-looking landlord, dressed in leather jerkin, brown woollen hose and a spotless white apron. She could tell by his face that he recognised her, but the ritual was always the same.

‘Mistress, what will you have?’

‘A cup of wine.’

‘Red or white?’

‘I would like both.’

‘In particular, what?’

Bernicia remembered the password for the week. ‘They say that the juice of Bastogne is fresh.’

The man waved her through the small scullery, across a cobbled courtyard into what looked like an outhouse. It served as a small store for tables and sacks of grain. Sheaves of yellow hay and straw thickly carpeted the floor. The landlord pushed a small handcart aside, cleared the straw with his boot and revealed a trapdoor. He tugged it open – it made hardly any sound. Bernicia smiled as she saw the light flow out, heard the chatter of gentle conversation, the thrumming of a viol and muted laughter. Clawing at her sarcanet skirt she went gingerly down the steps. The chamber beneath was vast, a great underground storeroom, its walls and pillars scrubbed clean and painted white. Sconces had been placed neatly around the room to provide light as well as some heat. Standing in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, Bernicia looked with kohl-darkened eyes at the scene. She recognised some of the customers; they were creatures like herself, living a secret life amongst those – clerks, merchants, even the occasional nobleman – whose lusts they served. Each table, with its two chairs, was carefully positioned to afford the greatest intimacy and privacy, the customers could enjoy themselves, yet carefully watch who left and entered, whether by the steps or through the secret passageways at the far end of the room. The air was sweet; the candles and braziers were scented and their fragrance mingled with the cloying perfumes with which some of the customers washed their bodies. Nevertheless, Bernicia could sense the undercurrent of excitement, even danger. Everyone was watchful, on guard against a traitor, an informant. If the officers of the crown raided such a place, the offenders would either be sent to the scaffold or, worse, to the stake at Smithfield.

A pageboy, dressed in very tight hose and an open-necked linen shirt, tiptoed up, hips swaying.

‘A table, mistress?’

Bernicia smiled and kissed the boy on both cheeks.

‘Of course.’

The pageboy minced away, leading Bernicia to a table wedged between two pillars. He placed a small, hooded candle there and, at Bernicia’s request, brought a jug of chilled white wine and two cups.

‘Captain Roffel will not be coming?’ the pageboy asked.

‘I doubt it,’ Bernicia sneered. ‘Not unless he can climb out of his coffin.’

The boy made a girlish moue with his mouth and walked away. Bernicia poured herself a cup of wine and sat waiting. Perhaps tonight she would be fortunate enough to find a new patron, someone who would appreciate a courtesan’s skills. Bernicia jumped as a cowled and hooded figure appeared beside her.

‘Bernicia, so lovely to see you here.’

The man, not waiting for an invitation, sat down on the chair opposite. Like many other customers he refused to pull his hood back but Bernicia caught the gleam of his eyes in a hard, sunburnt face. She looked at the stranger’s hands, weather-beaten but clean, the nails sharply cut. Bernicia smiled to herself. A sailor, she thought, perhaps a captain like Roffel? Bernicia moved her chair and leaned closer.

‘You wish some wine?’

The stranger put a silver piece down on the table. Bernicia’s eyes widened and she hastened to fill the unexpected guest’s cup.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘We had a common acquaintance,’ the stranger replied.

‘Who?’

‘Captain William Roffel, one-time master of the God’s Bright Light. The bastard now lies mouldering in his grave in the cemetery of St Mary Magdalene. You were his doxy?’

‘I was his friend,’ Bernicia corrected peevishly.

‘Well, I want you to be my friend,’ the man said. ‘Take this silver piece as a surety of my friendship.’

The silver coin disappeared. Bernicia did not object as the stranger’s hand slipped beneath the table and began to fondle her leg.

‘How did you know Captain Roffel?’

Bernicia looked round and saw the pageboy standing there.

‘Go away!’ Bernicia pouted. ‘Go and get some more white wine and a plate of doucettes for my friend.’

Bernicia waited until the pageboy had swaggered out of earshot.

‘Well? Who are you?’

‘I once served with Roffel on the God’s Bright Light.’

Bernicia hid her face behind her fingers and giggled.

‘What’s so amusing?’

‘Are you one of the watch?’

The stranger laughed softly. ‘Perhaps. A man who’s supposed to be dead poses no danger to anyone, particularly if he has a fortune in silver.’

Bernicia licked carmine-painted lips, leaned forward and touched the man gently on the cheek.

‘Did you like Roffel?’ the whore simpered.

‘He was a bastard,’ the stranger replied, ‘who received his just deserts. As I have mine. Did you know any of his crew?’

Bernicia shook her head. ‘Captain Roffel always kept me well away from what he termed his calling. However,’ she added petulantly, ‘some of his men knew of my existence.’ Bernicia snuggled a little closer. ‘I think I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you Bracklebury the first mate?’

The sailor laughed. ‘What does it matter? I think you’ll see more of me, whoever I am!’

‘How much more?’ Bernicia teased.

The pageboy brought a fresh jug of wine and the evening wore on. Eventually Bernicia and her newfound patron left.

‘Come,’ Bernicia whispered as they hurried along the alleyways. ‘Be my guest tonight.’

They reached Bernicia’s house and the young whore led her guest into the solar where Athelstan and Cranston had sat. The fire was built up, candles lit and wine served. The sailor took off his cloak and hood and sat basking in the warmth whilst Bernicia studied him discreetly, noting the good, high-heeled boots, leather jacket and white cambric shirt open at the neck. She touched her own belt where the silver piece was hidden and smiled secretively.

‘How much did Roffel tell you?’ the sailor asked abruptly.

Bernicia just laughed. The man leaned forward, his eyes hard.

‘About his last voyage and the silver?’

Bemicia blinked and looked coyly at the sailor.

‘I don’t betray secrets,’ the whore whispered. ‘Roffel is dead. He and his silver can go to hell. Come on! I will not discuss it. Some more wine?’

Bernicia rose, took the sailor’s wine cup and went across to the small table to fill it. Bernicia was smiling, but turned in alarm at the sound of a footfall. The sailor was striding across the room, his dagger drawn. Bernicia screamed and ran to the door. The sailor caught the whore by the hair – and cursed as the wig came off. Bernicia reached the latch, sobbing and moaning; the whore tried to raise it, but her head was yanked back and the knife gouged her soft throat from ear to ear.

Athelstan, refreshed after a good night’s sleep, had a larger than usual congregation at morning Mass. Ashby, who had been fast asleep on Athelstan’s return the night before, again helped Crim to serve. Shaved and washed, he looked more presentable. He had kept himself busy the previous day, helping the parishioners move the great cart into one of the transepts and, from the sanctuary steps, issuing directions about the erection of the great canvas backdrop.

Athelstan smiled to himself as he pronounced the final words of the Mass, Ite, Missa est – Go, you are dismissed. He bowed, kissed the altar and quickly looked around at the group huddled inside the rood screen. Aveline was there, her face half-hidden behind a veil. She sat on a stool in the corner of the sanctuary, her eyes never leaving her beloved. Watkin the dung-collector crouched, glaring at Pike the ditcher. Athelstan groaned – their animosity had spread to their respective spouses, who also sat glaring narrow-eyed at each other. Huddle the painter leaned back on his heels, dreamily staring up at his ceiling. Mugwort, the demented hunch-backed bell clerk, fidgeted furiously, impatient to run down the nave and ring the bell as a sign Mass was over. Ursula the pig-woman was also there, her great pet sow sprawled out beside her. Athelstan tightened his lips – the animal had snored vigorously during his short sermon. Next to Ursula was Pernell the Fleming; she had tried to dye her hair and now it hung like black and orange flax, looking all the more hideous against the white paint on her face.

Athelstan hid his disappointment. He had been distracted during Mass by the thought that Benedicta might come. He missed the widow with her smooth, olive skin, lovely eyes and jet-black hair. He often told her what he and Cranston were involved in, seeking her advice. Benedicta had a shrewd mind, acerbic wit and a sardonic sense of humour which proved to be an asset in placating the different factions amongst the parish council.

Athelstan sighed and swept into the sacristy. Crim helped him to divest whilst the parishioners sped like arrows across to the great cart and carried on with their usual debate about who should be doing what, when, where and how. Athelstan returned to help Crim clear the altar, of book, bell and cruets, noticing how the Lady Aveline and Master Ashby were deep in conversation. He offered them breakfast but they politely refused, Ashby pointing to the pannier of provisions Lady Aveline had brought with her.

Athelstan saw his parishioners were locked in verbal battle so he slipped out of the church and walked across to check on Philomel. Then he went into the priest’s house.

He stared around in astonishment. The kitchen had been swept, fresh rushes laid and the fire built up. A bowl of steaming oat porridge, a horn spoon beside it, together with a trancher of bread, butter and cheese and a mug of ale, stood on the table. Athelstan heard a sound from the buttery and grinned as Benedicta came out.

‘Lady, I thought you hadn’t returned.’

Athelstan grasped the widow’s warm hands and kissed her gently on the cheek. Benedicta blushed and stepped back, though her eyes danced with merriment.

‘I thought I’d surprise you, Father. Well, do you like it?’ She gestured around the kitchen, her face mock-serious. ‘The fire was ash, the rushes hadn’t been changed, the table hadn’t been washed and I don’t think you have been eating properly.’

‘I’ve been with Jack Cranston,’ Athelstan muttered.

However, before he could describe what had happened, Benedicta gently ushered him across the kitchen, telling him to eat before the sweetened oatmeal lost its warmth. Athelstan did, trying to hide his real pleasure at seeing his friend again. Bonaventure, who had been out hunting and courting the previous evening, slid through the open window to mew plaintively for his pitcher of milk. He lapped this greedily and stretched out before the roaring fire as Benedicta described her visit and journey. She then patiently sat and listened as Athelstan described the mysteries surrounding the God’s Bright Light, the death of William Roffel and the murder of Sir Henry Ospring.

‘A puzzle,’ Benedicta commented. ‘I met the lady Aveline last night. She was with Ashby. I also told that paid thug, Marston, to leave the church. Aveline’s no murderer,’ she continued, ‘but how can you prove that the slaying of her stepfather was in self-defence? As for the other business – as Sir John would say, "hell’s teeth, plot and counter-plot".’ She leaned her arms on the table. ‘But there’s worse to come,’ she added darkly.

Athelstan put his spoon down and looked at her.

‘What?

Benedicta hid her smile. ‘You know the row between Watkin and Pike the ditcher?’

Athelstan nodded wearily.

‘Well, Watkin’s spouse is now saying that the wife of God the Father is also superior to the wife of God the Holy Ghost.’

Athelstan hid his face in his hands.

‘Never,’ he swore, ‘never again will I allow a mystery play in this parish!’ He looked up at a knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ he called.

Aveline entered and smiled shyly at Benedicta. Athelstan got to his feet.

‘My lady, what is it?’

‘Father, last night I went through Sir Henry’s papers and-’

Athelstan ushered her to a seat.

‘-I found this.’

She handed across a piece of parchment, greasy and thumb-marked. Athelstan smoothed it out on the table top. There were marks on it – two lines running parallel with crosses around them. Athelstan stared at it.

‘My lady, what’s so special about this?’

‘I don’t know, Father. In itself it might mean little, but I found it concealed in my stepfather’s strong box. The coffer had a false bottom. When I lifted that up, I found the drawing there.’

Athelstan stared at the parchment.

‘Why,’ he asked, ‘should Sir Henry hide such an apparently innocuous scrap unless it was really something very precious or dangerous?’ He drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘I have seen this before,’ he said. ‘At the back of Captain Roffel’s book of hours. The same drawings, the same cross marks.’

‘May I have a look?’ Benedicta asked.

Athelstan passed his parchment to her. Benedicta stared at it for a long time, then she looked up and smiled at Aveline.

‘My husband, God rest him, was a sea captain. Athelstan, have you considered that these lines are from a map? This top one is the coast of France or, more precisely, a stretch of coast going down from Calais – she pointed to one of the crosses – to the port of Dieppe. This bottom Line is the coast of England. The crosses between the fines could be ships.’

Athelstan curbed his excitement. ‘For the first time,’ he whispered, ‘this is beginning to make sense.’ He stared at Aveline. ‘My lady, your stepfather was a landowner and a merchant. And what else?’

Aveline pulled a face. ‘He was a commissioner of array, responsible for raising troops in the shire should the French invade.’

‘What else did he do?’

‘He loaned money to the exchequer.’

‘Oh, come on, Aveline, what else?’

The young woman licked her lips nervously. ‘At night visitors called at our manor house. Men, cowled and hooded, who came and went silently as shadows. I think they were spies. Sometimes my stepfather used to help them cross to France, not through Calais but different ports, those held by the French.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘My stepfather always met them at night. Sometimes I would come downstairs and go by his chamber. The men would be seated there. Always with their backs to the doors. Letters would be exchanged. Sometimes I heard the chink of coins.’ She shook her head. ‘I know so little. My stepfather always kept such business to himself. He had powerful friends at court and they returned his work with favours.’

Athelstan sat with his head in his hands staring into the fire.

‘Was Ashby ever there?’

‘Never.’

‘But who would know all this besides your stepfather?’

Aveline smiled. ‘Marston might. Sometimes he took these people down to the coast.’

‘May I keep this map?’ Athelstan asked.

Aveline nodded and opened her mouth to speak.

The friar held a hand up. ‘Before you say anything, Lady Aveline, I have not forgotten you or Master Ashby.’

Aveline smiled, got to her feet and left.

Athelstan continued to gaze into the fire.

‘What do you think, Brother?’ Benedicta asked.

‘My view is that Sir Henry Ospring was a very powerful nobleman with far too many fingers in far too many pies. Now we know that Roffel stopped and sank a fishing smack sailing between Dieppe and Calais. We also know that young Ashby gave Roffel a sealed package. Now, I suspect, that package contained a copy of this map as well as instructions about where and when to intercept the fishing smack. However, in the natural order of things there’s nothing wrong with that. Ospring could have heard some gossip about precious cargo.’ He tapped the crudely drawn map. ‘Nevertheless, in this case the vessel was carrying important despatches as well as English spies.’ Athelstan got to his feet and went to warm his fingers at the fire. ‘My first urge is to challenge Marston, to discover if he knows anything but that may alarm people. Benedicta.’ He looked over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Will you do me a favour?’

‘Whatever you ask, Father.’

‘Forget the disputes between Pike and Watkin. I want you to take a short message and place it in the iron-bound coffer before the statue of Our Lady and Child in St Paul’s cathedral.’ His smile widened at the look of puzzlement on Benedicta’s face.

‘Just a simple message. Write "Saints Peter and Paul, intercede for us". Sign it, "Brother Athelstan". Don’t worry,’ he added drily, ‘the blessed apostles won’t intervene but two gentlemen from the exchequer will be very pleased to renew their acquaintance with me.’

He went across and took his cloak from a peg on the wall.

‘But now I must see to some building work.’

Leaving a bemused Benedicta, Athelstan went round the house to saddle the protesting Philomel. A few minutes later he was making his way through Southwark’s narrow alleyways. He glimpsed Marston and the other bully-boys standing at the door of a tavern, their vantage point from which to see who entered and left the church. Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction and smiled to himself. If his suspicions proved correct, he’d give Marston something to worry about apart from poor Ashby.

The day was cold but bright; a heavy hoar frost had frozen the puddles and ruts. Philomel, whom Athelstan considered to be the most cunning horse on earth, deftly made his way around these and past the stalls and booths. At last Athelstan reached a place where builders were erecting a three-storey house, commissioned by some merchant who wished to be free of the tolls, levies and taxes imposed on houses across the river. Athelstan watched swearing and cursing men, their breath heavy on the frosty morning air, carry bricks up makeshift ladders. Carpenters sawed wood and apprentices jumped around like monkeys. Athelstan loved to watch the builders at work and, when they shouted out greetings, he waved his hand in acknowledgement. He paid particular attention to the tiler busy on the roof, admiring his skill and confidence. Then, turning his horse, he made his way back in the direction of London Bridge. As he passed his church, Crim the altar boy came flying out.

‘Father! Father!’

Athelstan reined Philomel in. Anxious lest Marston and his thugs might have attempted some mischief, he looked towards the church, but all seemed quiet.

‘Crim, what is it?’

‘Father,’ the boy stuttered. ‘It’s Lord Horsecruncher!’

‘You mean Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’

‘Aye, Father, old fat arse!’

‘Crim!’

‘Sorry, Father, but he sent a messenger across. You know, Father, the one with a tight bum who walks like a duck, his face pulled down as if he had smelt something rotten.’

‘And what did this messenger say?’ asked Athelstan patiently.

‘Well, Sir John wishes to see you urgently in Cheapside. The lady Benedicta has left already,’ Crim continued breathlessly. ‘She said she would call in and tell Sir John you are already on your way.’

Athelstan tossed the lad a coin and continued his journey. For the first time in weeks he made Philomel trot and scarcely bothered to acknowledge the greetings and salutations shouted out to him. Clattering on to the bridge, he looked neither to left nor right as he wondered why Sir John so impatiently demanded his presence. As a courtesy, he called at the coroner’s house in Cheapside, but a tight-lipped Lady Maude told him that ‘the bird has already flown’.

‘Gone to his chamber in the Guildhall, or so he says,’ she announced darkly. ‘And you know where that is, Father?’

Athelstan tactfully smiled back. Once the door was closed, he led a snorting, snickering Philomel, still protesting at his recent rough usage, across the busy marketplace. He gave the reins to an ostler and went in to the Holy Lamb of God’s taproom. Sir John was already sitting there, two great empty wine cups before him as well as a few crumbs of a meat pie.

‘Good morrow, Sir John.’

Cranston burped gently.

‘In fine fettle as usual, I see,’ Athelstan continued, joining him.

There’s been another bloody murder,’ Cranston announced. ‘Do you remember Bernicia, Roffel’s little tart? Well, he or she is dead! Throat slashed from ear to ear and the house ransacked.’ Cranston slapped the table top with his hand. ‘God knows whether to call him him or her. Anyway, Bernicia’s dead.’

‘Bernicia lived in the shadows,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I couldn’t give a toss where the creature lived,’ Cranston snapped. ‘God rest the poor bastard! But, listen to this, Brother.’ He eased his bulk on the chair. ‘There’s not many places in London where people like Bernicia can go! Four or five drinking-holes in all and all within walking distance of each other.’ Cranston stopped and paused to roar for another drink. ‘Usually, I leave such places alone. I have a pity for the poor people who use them. However, this morning I went as soon as I had seen Bernicia’s corpse. After the expected protests, the silver-tongued landlord produced a pageboy who swore to a number of facts. First, Bernicia had been there the previous evening. Secondly, the whore had met and left with someone.’

‘And?’ Athelstan asked.

‘According to the boy, this stranger might have been Bracklebury. Anyway, he was a sailor who knew Roffel and the ship God’s Bright Light.’

Athelstan leaned back and whistled through his teeth.

‘Strange,’ he whispered. ‘Mistaken logic, Sir John. I always considered all the watch were either dead or had fled.’

‘If it was someone from the watch,’ Cranston continued, ‘we have to draw another picture – and one so simple it’s a wonder we never thought of it before. The first mate killed his two companions and then jumped ship. Why, or with what, we don’t know.’

‘I think we do,’ Athelstan replied.

He produced the crudely drawn map that Aveline had given him that morning and tersely told Cranston of his own conclusions.

Cranston sipped from the cup the landlord had placed before him. ‘So Ospring gave instructions to Roffel to stop and sink that fishing smack. But why? Are you saying that Ospring and Roffel were traitors?’

‘It all depends,’ Athelstan answered, ‘on what the ship carried. To find that out I have sent Benedicta with a petition to St Paul’s. Only our friends the scrutineers can tell us that.’

There are others we need to question,’ Cranston added. That’s why I have invited everyone involved in this business – Sir Jacob Crawley, the other officers, not to mention Mistress Roffel – to meet us in the Guildhall just after midday. I also told the ship’s clerk, Coffrey, to bring the log book.’ Cranston smacked his lips and stretched. ‘So, Father, we have some time to waste. What more can we do?’

Athelstan gazed despairingly at the empty wine cups.

‘There is one further thing, Sir John, the footpad who is house-breaking. I think we can set a trap.’

Cranston slammed his wine cup down.

‘No, don’t ask me how!’ Athelstan smiled. ‘I know you, Sir John – you have a generous heart but a wagging tongue. What I want is for one of your powerful merchant friends to go on a journey for two or three days, to take his family with him and to make sure it’s publicly announced.’

Cranston stared up at the rafters. ‘There’s no one,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, my dear physician Theobald de Troyes. He could go to some property he owns in Suffolk. Perhaps I can persuade him?’

‘Do so now,’ Athelstan urged, hoping to put as much distance as possible between Cranston and a cup of wine. ‘But tell him not to leave for two or three days.’

‘And if he doesn’t agree?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Then we’ll have to find someone else.’

Mumbling and protesting, Cranston lumbered out of the tavern. Athelstan sighed, sat back, closed his eyes and wondered if Benedicta had delivered the message.

‘Father, do you wish something to eat or drink?’

Athelstan sat forward and stared into the anxious face of the landlord’s wife.

‘No, thank you.’ He smiled. ‘I think Sir John has done gallantly for both of us.’

The friar felt self-conscious sitting there by himself so he walked back into Cheapside and into the church of St Mary Le Bow. For a while he knelt before the altar and said a few prayers, then he admired the beautiful stained-glass window in the nave. Athelstan could never stop admiring the brilliant colours and skills of the artist. Portraying the risen, glorified Christ, harrowing hell and freeing souls who had waited for his coming, he had expertly caught the rapture on the faces of the saints and the anger on the black-visaged demons, who stood glaring from behind their wall of fire. Cranston had promised that, as soon as the good weather allowed, he would purchase a similar window for St Erconwald’s.

The church bell began to toll on the hour so Athelstan walked slowly back to the tavern. He had hoped to find Sir John. Instead, the two scrutineers sat smiling in unison, almost as if they had been sitting there since the previous evening.

‘We received your request, Brother Athelstan.’

‘I wish all my prayers were answered so swiftly,’ the friar replied.

‘And where is that excellent coroner?’

‘Involved in other business.’

‘And what, my dear priest, do you have to tell us?’

Athelstan again repeated the conclusions he had drawn after his conversation with Lady Aveline and showed both scrutineers the crudely drawn map. The smiles on their faces faded.

‘Very clever,’ Peter, the taller one, replied. ‘Very clever indeed. So, Brother, you think that Sir Henry told Roffel about the ship and our pirate captain sank it?’

‘In a word, yes. What puzzled Sir John and me is why?’

‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ the scrutineer replied. ‘Sir Henry may not have been a traitor, but he was certainly a thief and a murderer. You see, Brother, we thought the ship had been sunk because of our agents and the despatches they carried. Now, I confess, it was sunk because of the belt of silver one of our agents wore.’ The scrutineer waved Athelstan closer. ‘Let me explain. You know the treasury is empty. We therefore take loans at a high rate of interest from men like Sir Henry. We thought he could be trusted. He often landed agents in France. A week before Roffel sailed, we sent one of our agents, a young clerk, to Sir Henry, who provided him with warrants and papers and also gave him a large leather belt with a veritable fortune stitched in the secret pockets within it. Our agent and a companion were to go to Calais and then, on an appointed day, sail from there to Dieppe. That bastard Ospring-’ The scrutineer paused to draw in his breath. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I am losing my temper.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the other one replied.

‘No, no, I shouldn’t, but it’s apparent that Sir Henry Ospring lent the treasury that silver and saw to the despatch of the agent. He then informed his piratical friend Roffel when the man would sail from our garrison in Calais to Dieppe.’

‘Clever, subtle trickery,’ Paul the scrutineer interrupted. ‘Sir Henry lends his money at a high interest. The treasury is forced to repay it whilst Sir Henry steals back the original amount.’

‘Roffel and Ospring deserved to die,’ his companion declared. ‘Thieves, murderers, Ospring particularly. He met our young agent and, even as he gave him the silver, was planning his death. Believe me, friar, whoever killed Sir Henry Ospring deserves a pardon.’ He caught the smile on Athelstan’s face. ‘Does that amuse you, Brother?’

‘No, sir, it does not. But many a true word is spoken in jest. Sir John and I may return to you on that matter.’

‘What is important,’ Peter remarked, ‘is to discover if Roffel had any accomplices and to get that silver back.’

The two scrutineers got to their feet.

‘We entrust everything to your capable hands, Brother Athelstan,’ the taller one announced. ‘When the game is over and the full truth is known, come back to us.’