By Murder's Bright Light (24 page)

‘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.’

The
God’s Bright Light
was preparing for sea when Cranston and Athelstan and their two strange companions went aboard. The friar was jovially welcomed by the young captain, who listened carefully, studying the Fisher of Men and Icthus. Then he nodded.

‘Whatever you want, Brother, but the Thames is a broad river.’

Athelstan stared around. All signs of the night battle had disappeared. Thankfully, even the French corpses had been removed. He walked over to the ship’s side and stared out towards Queen’s hithe, trying to imagine that dark night and the lamps winking back and forth. Who, he wondered, had been that watcher on the shore? Who had killed Bracklebury? Athelstan stood back. Someone with sharp eyesight could see him from the shore. But, on the night Bracklebury had disappeared a heavy sea mist had been boiling along the river. Athelstan beckoned Cranston over and, watched by a curious ship’s crew, the Fisher of Men led Icthus across by his skinny arm. Athelstan went and pointed over the starboard side, near the stern.

‘Dive there!’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, Brother!’ the captain breathed. ‘Are you sure? Any corpse would be swept away by the currents.’

Even Cranston looked doubtful.

‘Will you do it, Icthus?’ Athelstan asked gently. He stroked the youngster’s cheek. ‘You needn’t if you don’t want to, but you might help us discover the truth.’

The boy’s strange mouth opened in a grin. He stepped out of his gown, leaving it crumpled on the deck and stood with his thin body clad only in a pair of woollen breech clouts. Ignoring the laughter of the sailors at his thin body, he climbed on to a bulwark, bared his gums at Athelstan in a brief smile and slipped into the river. A few bubbles appeared on the surface and then he was gone. Athelstan stared into the dark water, waiting for the boy to reappear, but time passed and his stomach churned with fear. He looked across at the Fisher of Men.

‘Will he be safe?’

‘Safe as he would be here,’ the Fisher of Men replied caustically, glaring at the sniggering sailors behind him.

Cranston took out his wineskin. He offered it to the captain who shook his head so the coroner took a generous swig, belched and lumbered to the ship’s side.

‘Come on!’ he roared down at the water. ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’

The water rippled and, as if in answer to Cranston’s shout, Icthus appeared. He spluttered, smiled strangely, closed his mouth, breathed through his nose, then disappeared again. He reappeared a bit quicker this time, clapping his hands as he trod water and gestured with his hands in a stabbing motion, holding one finger up.

‘He wants a dagger!’ the Fisher of Men cried. ‘Sir John!’

Cranston took out his long stabbing dagger and tossed it to Icthus, who caught it expertly before disappearing again. This time he re-emerged with a grisly burden in his arms.

‘May God be blessed!’ Cranston breathed. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it!’

Ropes and nets were lowered and sailors ran forward to help. They grasped the body Icthus brought to the surface and pulled both the swimmer and the water-logged corpse on board.

‘It’s Alain!’ Peverill declared, pushing his way through. ‘Hell’s teeth! What’s that?’

Icthus had put his robe on and now crouched by the corpse, in his hand a rope with a metal ball attached. He made signs to indicate that it had been tied around the corpse’s neck. Athelstan stared at the corpse’s thin face, which had turned a pale green and bore the same purple marks as Bracklebury’s. The corpse was sodden with water, disfiguring both features and body. Athelstan noted the purple welts on either side of the neck and the bruise where the ball had hit against the dead man’s chest.