By Murder's Bright Light (28 page)

‘No, Father Prior, it’s God’s work.’

‘But God’s vineyard is a wide one. Would you like to return here? You could lecture in logic, philosophy and astronomy. I know your skills would be appreciated, even in the halls of Oxford.’

Athelstan gazed in astonishment. ‘You want me to leave St Erconwald’s, Father Prior?’

The old man had smiled. ‘It’s not what I want, Athelstan,’ he replied quietly. ‘Like me, you have taken a vow of obedience to the Order, nevertheless, it’s what you want. Now think on that.’

Athelstan had and, as he fought his way across the thronged bridge, he sensed the temptation in the prior’s words. No more grubbiness, no more violent deaths. He remembered Emma Roffel, her face a white mask of fury above the stabbing knife. He paused for a while, stopping in the church of St Thomas Becket which jutted out over the bridge. He crouched just within the entrance and gazed unblinkingly at the red sanctuary light. He thought of all the violence – the murdered merchant Springall, Sir Ralph Whitton killed in the Tower, other murders in Southwark and at Blackfriars. Athelstan chewed his lip and rested his face against the cold wall. Yet there were also rewards. Pardons had been issued to Ashby and Aveline. The two love-birds had ridden off into the sunset, shouting that Athelstan would have to visit them as soon as possible. The scrutineers were delighted to get back the silver that had been found in the cellar of Roffel’s house and Sir Jacob Crawley’s name had been cleared. Moleskin the waterman was now a local hero and, of course, there was always old Jack Cranston. Athelstan crossed himself. He rose, genuflected towards the tabernacle and went back on to the bridge. Darkness was beginning to fall as he made his way through the alleys back to St Erconwald’s. He felt hungry so he stopped at Merrylegs’s bakery to buy a meat pie, his first meal of the day. A beggar on the corner of Catgut Alley, however, looked so plaintive that Athelstan groaned and handed it over to him.

Athelstan had expected to find the church deserted and was rather surprised to see an excited group of parishioners standing on the steps thronging around Watkin and Pike. The portly dung-collector had his back to the door as if guarding it.

‘What’s the matter?’ Athelstan asked.

Watkin looked worried as he put his finger to his lips.

‘Father, do you have a crucifix or holy water?’

‘Yes, of course I do. Why?’

‘Well, there’s a demon in the church!’

‘A what? Watkin, have you been drinking?’

‘Father, there’s a demon! Crim saw it. Standing in the entrance to the rood screen!’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid!’ Athelstan said. ‘Watkin, stand out of the way!’

‘I don’t think you should go in, Father!’

‘Don’t be stupid! Out of my way!’

Athelstan pushed by and entered the darkened nave. No lights or candles burnt and, peering through the dusk, he could make out the outlines of the stage, the entrance to the rood screen and the red tabernacle light winking in the sanctuary. Athelstan carefully walked down the church, surprised to feel the fear starting in his belly.

‘Who’s there?’ he called.

No answer.

In the name of God!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘Who is there?’ He heard a sound and his anxiety deepened. A tall, dark figure appeared in the entrance to the rood screen, dressed in black from head to toe. He looked like some huge goat with demon features, huge sweeping horns, made all the more ghastly by the thick, fat tallow candle he carried.

‘Go and hang thyself, priest!’

Athelstan relaxed and closed his eyes.

‘Sir John, for the love of God! You’ve got half of my parish terrified!’

Behind the mask Sir John’s laugh boomed louder than ever. The coroner swaggered down the church, every inch the terrible demon.

‘Do you like my costume, Brother? I thought I’d give you a surprise. You should have seen old Watkin move!’ Cranston’s voice boomed like a bell. ‘I never knew the tub of lard could skip so quickly!’

Take it off, Sir John.’

The coroner struggled and lifted the mask. His great, red face was bathed in sweat and wreathed in a wicked smile.

‘The Drapers’ Guild lent me it,’ he declared, holding the mask up appreciatively. ‘What do you think, Father?’

‘Even the Lord Satan himself would be envious, Sir John.’

‘Good, I thought you would say that.’

Cranston went and sat at the foot of one of the pillars. He put the candle down beside him and beckoned Athelstan to join him.

‘Come on, priest. I am not only here for pleasure; there has been another murder.’

Athelstan sat beside him and stared at the flickering candle flame. He felt a tingle of excitement in his stomach and knew the prior was wrong; he would never exchange this for some dry, dusty schoolroom.

‘There’s been a murder,’ Cranston went on, ‘in an alley just off Walbrook. At the Golden Magpie – a fine tavern with a boisterous landlord. To cut a long story short, earlier today mine host was found in a cellar with his brains dashed out, yet the door to the cellar was locked and no one saw anyone go in or leave.’

‘And you have begun questioning already, Sir John?’

‘Yes, I have. Now, tell me, Brother, how can anyone get into a cellar, dash a man’s brains out, yet the door be locked from the inside? There’s no sign of forced entry. No one saw anyone go anywhere near that door.’

Athelstan scratched his chin. ‘But that’s impossible, Sir John.’

The coroner began to shake with laughter. ‘Of course, it is. I made it up.’

Athelstan nudged him vigorously in the side. The coroner threw his head back and roared with laughter.

‘No, no, Brother, we have had murders enough. The only business that concerns me is that Alice Frogmore has brought a fresh bill of trespass against Thomas the Toad. Have I ever told you about Thomas the Toad?’

Athelstan sighed and got to his feet. ‘No, Sir John, you have not. But I have a dreadful feeling you are going to!’

‘That’s right, monk, we are off to see that one-armed pirate in the Piebald tavern. We are going to have a jug of claret, a dish of fried onions, two of his beef pies, some fresh manchet bread then we’ll come back here and rehearse this bloody play once and for all! And, if there’s any more trouble between God the Father and God the Holy Ghost, I’ll knock their heads together!’ Cranston lumbered to his feet and picked up the demon mask. ‘Do you think it suits me, Brother?’

‘Yes, but don’t show the poppets or they’ll scream.’

‘Oh, I have. They thought it was funny, but the dogs flew under the table. I gave a hell of a fright to that idle bugger, Leif.’ Cranston put the mask on. ‘Come on, let’s frighten old Watkin!’ He swaggered towards the church door.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan called. ‘Perhaps it’s best if you didn’t!’

‘What do you mean, monk?’

‘I am a friar, Sir John, and poor old Watkin has been frightened enough.’

‘Ah, I suppose you are right.’ Cranston’s voice sounded muffled behind the mask. He tugged at the horns but the mask was stuck.

‘Oh, bloody hell!’ Cranston groaned. ‘Brother, the sodding thing won’t come off!’

Athelstan now tugged at the mask but it wouldn’t move. Shaking with laughter, he stepped back.

‘What are you bloody well laughing at?’

‘Sir John, you had best kneel down.’

Cranston obeyed but, pull as he might, all Athelstan got was a stream of filthy curses from Cranston, who claimed his ears were being torn off.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ Athelstan concluded. ‘We’ll have to stop off at Basil the blacksmith’s and see what he can do!’

So the friar gently took Sir John’s hand and led him out of the church. Even as his parishioners scattered, Athelstan knew he was entering the legends of Southwark as the friar who captured a demon and took it to a blacksmith to send it back to hell.

1. THE NIGHTINGALE GALLERY

2. THE HOUSE OF THE RED SLAYER

3. MURDER MOST HOLY

4. THE ANGER OF GOD

5. BY MURDER'S BRIGHT LIGHT

6. THE HOUSE OF CROWS

7. THE ASSASSIN'S RIDDLE

8. THE DEVIL'S DOMAIN

9. THE FIELD OF BLOOD

10. THE HOUSE OF SHADOWS

11. BLOODSTONE

12. THE STRAW MEN

13. CANDLE FLAME

14. BOOK OF FLAMES