By Murder's Bright Light (18 page)

The woman gazed disdainfully around at her late husband’s shipmates. ‘Brother Athelstan, I cannot help you. These matters are beyond my ken. My husband was secretive, if not sinister, in his dealings. For all I know he might well have wealth hidden all over the city.’

‘Tell me.’ Cranston leaned forward. ‘Bracklebury brought your husband’s corpse and his possessions to the house. Is that correct?’

She nodded.

‘Did Bracklebury say anything to you?’

‘No, he was rather silent, secretive and treated me with little respect. If Tabitha hadn’t intervened, he would have left both my husband’s corpse and his bag of possessions out in the street.’ She lowered her head. ‘Indeed, I saw him spit in the direction of the body.’ She glowered at Cranston. ‘Perhaps it was Bracklebury who broke into St Mary Magdalene church?’

Cranston leaned back in his chair. ‘Muddy waters,’ he murmured. ‘And the more we stir, the more dirt rises to the surface.’ He wagged a finger. ‘But let me assure you of this. Bracklebury is hiding in the city. Somehow he believes he has been cheated.’ He let his words hang like a noose in the air. ‘I think,’ he added softly, ‘that Bracklebury may well kill again. Mistress Roffel, gentlemen, we are finished with you. Sir Jacob, Brother Athelstan and I will be your guests tonight.’

The coroner took another ostentatious swig from his wineskin to show his disdain for the seamen, all of whom he believed to be liars. He put the stopper back, not even bothering to look at Crawley, and never stirred until the door closed behind his reluctant guests.

‘Well, what do you think, Brother?’

‘A muddle of lies.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘We should accept Sir Jacob Crawley’s invitation. Oh, Sir John, you’ve seen to the other business?’

‘Yes.’ Cranston tapped his belly. Tomorrow Theobald de Troyes is taking a short journey into the country. He will leave his mansion in the care of his steward, servants and maids.’

‘Good!’ Athelstan bit his lip in annoyance. These lies and mysteries are beginning to vex me, Sir John. I suggest we go down to the harbour now. That misnamed ship the
God’s Bright Light
holds the key to this mystery.’

‘What do you suggest, Brother? That we go aboard and search Roffel’s cabin?’

‘Aye, and, if necessary, take it to pieces!’

‘You mean the silver?’

‘Yes, Sir John, I mean the silver.’

‘But we know,’ Cranston objected, ‘that the cabin wasn’t disturbed on the morning Bracklebury and the other two sailors were found to be missing.’

‘No, Sir John, we were
told
that. Now we must act on the principle that everything we have been told is possibly a lie.’

They left the Guildhall. The skies had clouded over and a cold drizzle was beginning to fall. They walked down Bread Street, keeping a wary eye out for the water dripping from broken guttering as well as for patches of slippery mud underfoot. It was an uncomfortable journey across Trinity, through Vintry and along to the quayside. Surprisingly, they found the place a hive of activity. Boats, full of archers and men-at-arms, were going backwards and forwards to the ships anchored in mid-stream. From the
Holy Trinity,
Crawley’s flagship, a trumpet could be heard. Cranston seized a captain of archers who stood yelling at his men as they clambered, hooded and cowled, down to the waiting barges.

‘What’s the matter, man? Why all the excitement?’

The officer turned. Athelstan glimpsed cropped hair, grey eyes and a hard-bitten, rain-soaked face. The man looked Cranston up and down.

‘What business is it of yours, sir?’

‘I am Jack Cranston, coroner of the city!’

The man forced a respectful smile. ‘Then, Sir John, you will soon hear the news. French galleys have appeared in the mouth of the Thames. They have already taken one ship and burnt a village on Thanet.’

Cranston whistled through his teeth and stared out at the fighting cogs. Despite the rain, he could see that all the ships were preparing their armaments.

‘Are the French a serious danger?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston did not reply. He stared out across the river. He remembered the low-slung, wolf-like enemy galleys. They could sneak into a small harbour or up a river – manned by the best French sailors and carrying mercenaries, they had brought terrible damage to the coastal towns of Rye and Winchelsea. Their crews had plundered and burned, and killed every inhabitant they could lay their hands on.

‘How many galleys?’ Cranston asked the captain.

‘God knows, Sir John. Well over a dozen, under the command of Eustace the Monk.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. ‘Oh Lord, Sir John,’ he whispered, ‘as if we didn’t have enough trouble!’

Cranston nodded. Eustace the Monk, a French pirate captain, had been a Benedictine until he had fled his monastery and gone to sea. He had proved to be the great scourge of English shipping. Legend had it that English free companies in France had burnt his parents’ farmhouse, killing all of Eustace’s family. Now Eustace was sworn to wreak vengeance against the ‘tail-wearing Goddamns’. Excommunicated by the Church, publicly condemned as a pirate, Eustace was secretly encouraged and supported by the French crown.

Athelstan peered through the drizzle. Although the ships were arming, there seemed little sign of them getting ready for sea.

‘What will happen, Sir John?’

‘Well—’ Cranston paused to thank the captain of archers and walked to the quayside steps, watching another barge pull in. ‘Our good admiral has two choices. He can sail down-river and fight, but he will be at a disadvantage – he won’t be able to manoeuvre and the galleys may well slip by, land their soldiers along the East Watergate, or even here, wreak terrible damage and then escape.’

‘Couldn’t the Thames be blocked?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston grinned and shook his head. ‘The danger is that our dear Eustace may wreak his damage and still fight his way past the blockade.’

‘And what’s the admiral’s second choice?’

‘To turn his ships into fighting castles and wait to see what happens. Crawley’s a sensible commander, I think that’s what he’ll do. Then if Eustace penetrates further up the Thames he’ll find our flotilla ready to receive him.’

Cranston took Athelstan by the arm and they went down the slippery steps to the water, shouldering their way past the archers.

‘But we can’t wait, Brother! The
God’s Bright Light
must be searched and I am not going to stand on idle ceremony.’

He almost tumbled into a waiting barge, manned by four oarsmen who teased Sir John about his weight. The coroner returned their good-natured abuse and ordered them to take him and Athelstan across to the
God’s Bright Light,
telling the archers ‘to piss off and wait for the next bloody barge!’

The barge pulled away, the oarsmen impervious to the driving rain; they fairly skimmed across the black, choppy waters of the Thames, swinging round with a bump against the side
of God’s Bright Light.
Athelstan climbed the rope ladder first, trying to shut his ears against Cranston’s roars of encouragement. He made his way slowly up until a pair of strong arms helped him over the side. Athelstan leaned against the rail, gasping his thanks to a sailor who grinned from ear to ear. Cranston landed beside him, as heavy as a great beer barrel, muttering curses and damning every sailor under the sun. Athelstan stared about. The ship had been cleaned and cleared since their last visit and was now thronged with sailors and archers scurrying about under the commands of their officers. Hooded braziers had been lit and two small catapults rigged on deck. A youngish, sandy-haired man came out of the cabin in the stern castle and walked towards them. He was dressed casually, in black hose pushed into sea boots and a bottle-green cloak covering a leather jacket. He challenged Sir John.

‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Sir John Cranston, city coroner, and Brother Athelstan. And who, sir, are you?’

‘David Southchurch, recently appointed captain of the
God’s Bright Light.
’ The young man stroked his moustache and beard. ‘Sir John, I am a busy man. You have heard the news?’

‘Aye, Master Southchurch, and you must have heard mine.’

The captain shrugged. ‘Sir John, I wish to be helpful, but that is not my business. Roffel has gone, as have his first mate and two other sailors.’

‘All we want’ – Athelstan spoke quietly, feeling slightly sick as the deck heaved under him – ‘Is permission to search Roffel’s, or rather your, cabin, Master Southchurch. It is important that we do that before the ship sails again.’

The young captain smiled. ‘Of course,’ he agreed immediately. ‘You will find the cabin still empty – my belongings are not even aboard yet. Sir John, Brother Athelstan, be my guests.’ He waved his hand and ushered them into the cabin, closing the door behind them.

The small chamber was swept and clean. Athelstan gazed despairingly about. Above them, they could hear the patter of feet and spate of officers’ orders as the ship prepared itself for battle. Now and again the cabin lurched slightly as the choppy Thames caught and rocked the cog as it strained on its anchor. Athelstan slumped down on the small cot bed, clutching his stomach. Cranston grinned at him, took a generous swig from his wineskin, burped and sat down beside him.

‘Not much one can hide in here,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Brother, use your sea legs!’

Athelstan sighed, got up and moved around the cabin.

‘If I were captain,’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘and I wanted to hide something bulky like a belt, what would I do?’

He looked around the small cabin, realising how insubstantial it was. There was nothing beneath the deck planking but the cavern of the hold – this wasn’t a house, where secret tunnels could be dug. Nor were there thick walls within which cupboards might be concealed behind the wainscoting. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sir John, we have wasted a journey. Bonaventure could not even hide a mouse in here. The cot’s nothing, the table and stools are so simple. There is no real wall, ceiling or floor.’

A loud snore answered him. He turned around, almost tripping as the ship lurched again.

‘Oh, sweet Lord, no!’ he moaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, not now!’

But Cranston lay fiat on the cot, legs and arms spread out, head back, mouth open, snoring like one of his own poppets.

Athelstan sat on a stool and gazed around the cabin. He became used to the motion of the ship and found his eyes growing heavy. He just wished to get away from all this. He should go back to St Erconwald’s and to his parishioners – to Watkin’s petty ambitions, Pike’s bold-faced teasing, Pernell the Fleming’s desperate attempts to dye her hair and the sardonic amusement, as well as something else, he’d glimpsed in Benedicta’s lovely eyes. He wondered how Ashby was faring with Aveline. He felt more comfortable about her now – by the time Cranston finished this business, Sir Henry Ospring would not be held in high regard by the king. He began to think about the mystery play and to work out where the congregation would sit . . .

His eyes closed and he began to doze. He started awake as someone on the deck above him dropped something with a crash. The cabin was growing dark. He wondered whether Sir John had a flint so that he could light the lantern that hung from one of the thick wooden posts that supported the deck above. He got up and opened the front of the lantern then stared at the thick, bronze or copper hook from which it hung. The hook was carried on a plate which in turn was screwed to the post. Athelstan felt a flicker of excitement. Why such a heavy hook to carry a lantern which felt much lighter than those that good citizens hung outside their doors at night? The plate was at least nine inches across. Athelstan took the lantern down and tugged at the hook. Nothing happened. He tried twisting the hook clockwise, but it held fast. Then he tried to turn it in the opposite direction and this time he felt it give and the base plate move a little. He turned the hook further, as though unscrewing it, and the plate began to loosen and eventually come free, revealing a recess in the post behind it. Athelstan pushed his hand inside. His fingers touched soft shavings of wood, then a cold, hard object. He got two fingers around it and pulled it out. A silver coin rolled in the palm of his hand.

He heard a boat pull alongside and hastily replaced the hook in the post and went across to rouse Cranston.

‘Sir John!’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, wake up, Sir John!’

The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips.

‘A cup of claret,’ he breathed. ‘A beef and onion pie and I’ll see the poppets immediately.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘We are on board ship!’

Cranston rubbed his face and struggled to his feet.

‘What the bloody hell?’ His voice trailed off as Athelstan held the silver piece in front of his eyes.

‘You ferret of a friar! You little ferret of a friar!’ Cranston chortled and, grabbing Athelstan by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks.

Athelstan, not knowing whether to rub his shoulders where they ached or wipe his face, pointed to the lantern. Cranston lumbered across, his face still heavy with sleep.

‘In there? That’s a daft place!’

‘No, Sir John, behind the hook plate is a small recess. Whatever Roffel took from that fishing boat he hid there, but now it’s gone.’

‘So!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It all fits together.’

Athelstan hid the silver coin at the rap on the door. Southchurch entered.

‘I told Sir Jacob you were here,’ he said, ‘and he sent a messenger. Despite the present alarums, he still wishes you to be his guests aboard the
Holy Trinity.
’

Cranston looked down at himself. ‘I would like to change but’ – he grinned – ‘I suppose I’m handsome whatever I wear.’ He ran a finger along the stubble on Athelstan’s chin. ‘Which is more than I can say for you, my little friar. Come on, I’m starved and Crawley can be a good host.’

As a thick mist blanketed the river, the frenetic activity of the afternoon began to die. News of the French galleys had reached the city and church bells were already ringing the alarm. Many taverns were closed. Even the whores moved east of Southwark Bridge, confident that if any galleys penetrated the Thames this would prove a natural barrier to the invaders. A group of traders went down to Westminster to protest to the king’s council about this further sign of a fall in English fortunes. The more selfish began to hide belongings and place precious objects in strongboxes. Darkness fell; the quaysides were deserted except for the Fisher of Men and his gargoyles, who began to peer out of the shadowy alleyways and filthy runnels which ran down to the Thames. The Fisher of Men’s strange eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit. If there was a battle on the river, corpses could be plucked from the water, purses cut and fees demanded from the city authorities. He and his group of cowled figures crept by the Steelyard towards Queen’s hithe. They stood on the quayside staring out at the ships. The Fisher of Men turned.