By Murder's Bright Light (25 page)

‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked, swaying rather dangerously on his feet.

Athelstan took the heavy, metal ball, noting how the rope was laced through a small loop on top.

‘Captain, the ship’s armament includes these?’

The seaman nodded and pointed further down the deck where crates of similar iron–balls were stacked.

‘We place them in the catapults,’ he explained.

‘Sometimes the rope is hardened with pitch and set alight so the ball not only causes damage but spreads fire.’

The captain stared down in disgust at the corpse. He noticed one of the eyes had been eaten through and walked away.

Minter, the ship’s surgeon, now crouched by the corpse and began to examine it carefully.

‘Whoever killed Bracklebury and Alain,’ Athelstan explained, ‘rendered them unconscious and placed those metal balls around their necks so they would sink to the bottom.’

‘As far as I can see, apart from the lacerations on the neck and the blow to the chest, there is no other wound,’ Minter reported.

Cranston snapped his fingers, inviting the Fisher of Men and his strange companion to join them. He placed a silver coin in Icthus’s hand.

‘Was there any other corpse down there?’

Icthus shook his head.

‘Are you sure?’ Cranston persisted.

Icthus nodded.

Cranston shuffled his feet in anger and stared up at the darkening sky.

‘Hell’s teeth, Brother, what are we to do?’

The friar, too, stared at the sky; his mind was a jumble of different ideas, sensations and impressions. He wanted to go back to St Erconwald’s, sit before his fire and impose order on this chaos.

‘Brother?’ Cranston asked suspiciously. ‘Are you all right?’

Athelstan smiled and turned to the captain. ‘Tell me, sir, do the stars move in the heavens?’

Southchurch shrugged. ‘Most people say they do, Father.’

‘And you?’

‘I once served in the Middle Sea. I met an Egyptian sea captain who claimed the stars didn’t move but the earth was a sphere spinning in the heavens.’

Athelstan stared up at the dark clouds. He’d heard such theories before.

‘Athelstan!’ Cranston snapped.

The friar winked at Sir John. He stared across at the officers, watching Cabe carefully. The man still seemed deeply shocked by what he had seen that afternoon.

‘We’ve found Bracklebury,’ Athelstan said, ‘and we’ve found Alain, but where’s poor Clement’s corpse?’

Athelstan dug into his own purse and gave coins to Icthus and the Fisher of Men. He thanked the captain and grasped Cranston by the elbow.

‘Come on, Sir John, enough is enough. God knows I have had my fill of human wickedness.’

A bumboat took them ashore. They walked quietly – back through the warren of streets to the Holy Lamb of God, where Athelstan could collect his horse.

Cranston grew increasingly infuriated at the friar’s prolonged silence. Athelstan even refused refreshment, muttering he must get back to St Erconwald’s.

‘Brother!’ Cranston roared in exasperation as Athelstan made ready to leave. ‘What are you thinking about?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘I don’t even know myself, Sir John.’

‘Should I issue a description of Clement?’ Cranston asked. The coroner hawked and spat. ‘At this rate I’m going to make a bloody fool of myself. Every time I look for someone he turns out to be drowned!’ He glanced at his companion. ‘You still haven’t told me how Bracklebury and Alain were killed!’

Athelstan stood in the stable yard waiting for Philomel to be saddled. ‘Bracklebury, Alain and Clement were all drugged.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how or by whom, but when I examined Bracklebury’s corpse I surmised someone had tied a weight around his neck and tossed him overboard. A vigorous man, Bracklebury must have been unconscious not to resist. However, there’s no bruise to his head or wound in his body, hence my conclusion that he had been drugged.’ Athelstan paused to greet Philomel. ‘The same fate befell Alain and Clement. They were probably all thrown overboard from the deck near the stern castle; this, and the heavy river mist, would give the assassin every protection.’

‘So, how did Bracklebury’s corpse surface?’ Cranston asked.

Athelstan smiled. ‘For that we must thank Eustace the Monk.’ He grasped the fat coroner’s arm. ‘Just think, Sir John, the dipping oars of the galleys, their crashing into our ships, the corpses tumbling into the river making the water eddy and swirl.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘The assassin must have worked quickly. Perhaps the rope around Bracklebury’s neck wasn’t so secure and worked loose, aided, perhaps, by the battle. The weight slips away, the corpse surfaces.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘And the deep gave up its dead. The discovery of Alain’s corpse simply proves my-’ He smiled. ‘Our theory.’ He patted Cranston’s shoulder. ‘So, forget about Clement, only God knows where his poor corpse is.’

‘And the murderer?’ Cranston snapped.

Athelstan seized Philomel’s reins, mounted and stared down at Cranston.

‘Sir John, go home, kiss the Lady Maude, play with the poppets. Rest and think.’ He urged Philomel forward, leaving an even more infuriated Cranston glaring speechlessly behind him.

Athelstan found St Erconwald’s quiet. Marston had long disappeared and so had the parishioners who had been working on the stage. Huddle’s painting of the backcloth was at last near completion and for a while the friar stood gazing in silent admiration at the great mouth of Hell, from which sprang black demons with the red faces of monkeys. Behind the canvas he found the metal pans and wooden tubs that Crim and the other boys would use to create sounds. He picked up the silver trumpet that would be blown before God spoke. He put it to his lips and blew a short blast then blushed with embarrassment as Ashby suddenly appeared from behind the rood screen.

‘Father, what’s the matter?’

‘Nicholas, I had forgotten you were still here. Are you well?’

‘Yes, Aveline has just left. She says Marston has fled.’

‘And do you need anything?’ Athelstan asked, hoping the young man would not draw him into conversation.

‘No, Father.’ Ashby leaned against the rood screen.

‘I have never rested, eaten or drunk so well in my life.’

He pointed to the stage and the canvas backcloth. ‘It will be a grand play, Father.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘It will be, Nicholas, if my parishioners don’t kill each other first!’

Ashby laughed. ‘Benedicta shooed them all out when Watkin the dung-collector started a row. He claimed that God the Father should sit higher than God the Holy Ghost. You can guess at Pike’s reaction to that.’

Athelstan nodded. ‘And Bonaventure?’

‘Oh, he’s in the sanctuary.’

‘Of course he is,’ Athelstan said to himself. ‘The little mercenary!’

He bade farewell to Ashby and walked out of the church and across to the stable, where Philomel was chomping away at a small truss of hay hung over the door of the stable. Athelstan put his battered saddle away, replenished the old horse’s water and walked back to his house. Benedicta had built the fire up and had left a pie on the small plinth in the inglenook.

‘I am going to reward myself,’ Athelstan muttered.

He went into the buttery and took out a small jug of wine Cranston had given him at Easter. ‘The best of Bordeaux,’ Cranston had described it. Athelstan now unsealed the stopper, poured himself a generous cup and sipped it. He then washed his hands and face in a bowl of rose water, took his horn spoon and sat down to enjoy Benedicta’s pie.

‘Thank God for food!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘And thank God I don’t have to cook it!’

Athelstan finished eating, cleaned his mouth and fingers and went upstairs. He slept for an hour on his small cot bed. He woke refreshed, went downstairs and cleared the table except for the wine cup. After this, he took out a large piece of parchment and began to write down everything he knew about the strange events on board the
God’s Bright Light
. He scribbled down everything – every thought, every impression. Now and again he had to break off because of minor interruptions. Mugwort the bell clerk claimed that the bell rope was getting frayed and needed to be replaced. Ranulf the rat-catcher wanted Athelstan to say another Mass for his newly formed Guild of Rat Hunters. Crim wanted assurances that he would beat the drum during the play. Pernell the Fleming wanted to know if eating meat on a Friday was a serious sin.

Athelstan went across to the church to ensure all was well with Ashby and, finding it was, locked the church for the night. He went back to his writing. The din from the alleyways and streets around faded until the loudest sound was the hooting of the owls hunting above the long grass in the cemetery. Athelstan carried on. He kept writing and, using pieces of wood, even created tiny models of the war cogs moored off Queen’s hithe. Only when he was satisfied that he had recorded all the information available to him did he attempt to draw conclusions. His vexation grew – time and again he tried to create a case, but it always fell apart like some syllogism which cannot survive the probe of logic. He took a fresh piece of parchment and wrote carefully at the top, ‘
Si autem
?, What if?’ He then began to list his doubts and, when he had finished, rubbed his hands together. He looked at these, fingers splayed.

‘You are soft, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘Soft hands.’

He went back to his writing. A thought occurred to him.

‘What if there are two murderers? What if there are three? Or is there just one? A master of this dance?’

Once again he began to write, taking one central fact as if it were a divinely revealed truth and building his case around it. At last, long after midnight, he finished and threw the quill down.

‘What if?’ he muttered. ‘What if? But how do I prove it?’

Athelstan put his head on his arms and, before he knew it, drifted into one of his nightmares. He was on a boat being rowed by a masked oarsman along a fogbound Thames. The mist cleared and he saw, in the prow of the boat, a hooded, cowled figure. Athelstan knew this must be the murderer. The boat bumped. Athelstan shook himself awake and realised he had knocked the cup off the table. He yawned, stretched, got to his feet and, leaving the manuscripts where they were, damped down the fire and slowly climbed the stairs to his bed.

The next morning he slept later than he intended, being roused by Crim pounding on the door below.

‘Come on, Father!’ the lad shouted. ‘It’s time for Mass!’

Athelstan decided to hurry down immediately rather than wash and change first. He followed Crim out of the house and through the swirling mist to the church door. A few of his parishioners were already waiting.

‘You are late, Father!’ Tiptoe the tapster accused.

‘And I can’t ring the bell!’ Mugwort declared mournfully.

‘I was tired,’ Athelstan answered impatiently. ‘But, come!’

He opened the church door, letting Ashby slip out to relieve himself. Ursula the pig-woman stood guard to make sure that Marston or one of his thugs didn’t reappear. Athelstan quickly donned his vestments, trying to ignore Bonaventure, who kept rubbing up against his leg.

‘Go away, cat!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘You are a mercenary and a traitor.’

The cat’s rubbing became even more vigorous so Crim had to put him outside. Athelstan lit the candles, celebrated Mass and, when he had finished, still distracted by the conclusions he had drawn earlier that morning, gave Crim a penny and a message for Cranston. Then he hurried back to his house, washed and shaved. He hastily ate some bread and cheese, told Mugwort he was in charge of the church until Benedicta or Watkin appeared, saddled Philomel and rode down to London Bridge.

Athelstan found his journey slow. Philomel was sluggish and London Bridge was thronged with barrows, carts and pack-horses as people fought to get across before the markets opened. Athelstan stopped off at the church of St Thomas Becket half-way across. He said a prayer and lit a candle before the statue of the Virgin to ask for her guidance and wisdom in establishing the truth. Once in the city, Athelstan had to face more delays. In Bridge Street a house had caught fire and, further along, a group of Abraham men performed one of their crazed dances to the amusement of some of the onlookers and the exasperation of others. By the time he reached Cheapside, Athelstan was saddle-sore and bitterly cursing a journey that had taken over an hour. He found Cranston ensconced in the Holy Lamb of God. The coroner was sitting at his favourite table, watching the innkeeper and his wife and their army of scullions building fires and starting the ovens. Because the hour was early, the fat coroner was for once content just to sit back and enjoy the savoury smells beginning to come from the kitchen.

He grinned at Athelstan. ‘Monk, you look angry.’

‘Sir John, I’m a friar and I’m fretful.’ Athelstan gingerly sat down and peered into Cranston’s tankard.

‘It’s watered ale!’ Cranston said. ‘But I have ordered a minced-beef pie with onions, leeks and a dash of garlic and rosemary.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Just think of it, Brother, rich, savoury meat simmering under a thick, golden crust. By the way, I have sent for him.’ Cranston cocked open one eye and peered across at the hour candle on its iron spigot near the door. ‘So you had best tell me what you plan.’

Athelstan did, haltingly at first, but becoming more articulate as his confidence in his conclusions grew. At first Cranston roared with laughter.

‘Bollocks and tits!’ he scoffed.

‘And the same to you, my son!’ Athelstan replied.

Sir John calmed down. Once again Athelstan described his conclusions, hammering home his every point with both reason and evidence and Cranston’s merriment began to fade. Athelstan paused as the landlord’s wife, who always cosseted the coroner, brought a blackjack of ale and served a steaming pie on a large trancher. The sight of the pie made Athelstan hungry, so she cut a piece off for him. They both ate and drank in silence. Once Cranston was finished, Athelstan outlined his strategies. The coroner asked a spate of questions. Athelstan answered and Sir John finally nodded.

‘I accept what you say, Brother! Perhaps just in time, here he comes!’