By Murder's Bright Light (22 page)

‘I wasn’t spying, Father. I was just hiding from my sister behind a pillar.’

Athelstan tousled the boy’s head and put a farthing in his hand. ‘Buy some marchpane from Merrylegs’ shop. Give some to your sister and your friends – even though,’ Athelstan added darkly, ‘they are moving your counters!’

Crim turned around and ran back screaming.

‘Don’t forget to give your father my message, Crim!’ Athelstan called out after him.

He walked out into the alleyway. Marston and two of his bully-boys were sitting just inside the doorway of the Piebald tavern. Marston saw him, hawked and spat. Athelstan, swinging his great staff, a gift from Cranston, walked across and confronted him.

‘You’d best leave, Marston,’ he said.

‘I can stand where I bloody well like, Father!’ He smirked. This isn’t your church.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I am just concerned for your welfare.’

‘Why?’ Marston asked, the grin fading from his face.

‘Well,’ Athelstan whispered, grasping his staff and leaning forward, ‘we know now that Sir Henry Ospring was not what he claimed to be. Some people allege he was a thief. Others that he was a traitor. Gossips even whisper that there were others involved in his crimes and that these should hang.’

Marston’s face paled.

‘What are you saying, Father?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Just gossip. Perhaps it’s best if you went back to Kent, claimed what was yours and put as much distance between yourself and the eagle eye of Sir John Cranston as possible.’

Athelstan walked on. Half-way down the alleyway he stopped at Basil the blacksmith’s. Basil, together with his swarthy elder son, was working in a great open shed at the side of his cottage. A pug-nosed apprentice, his face covered in smuts, blew with the bellows, making the forge fire flare with life. Basil was hammering away, his huge body hidden behind a bull’s-hide apron, his hairy legs sheathed in leather against the sparks of the fire. He turned and saw Athelstan.

‘Good morrow, Father. What can I do for you?’

‘We need you at the church, Basil,’ Athelstan replied, ‘to fix some iron clasps to hold up the canvas around the stage for our mystery play.’

Basil wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. ‘I told that big-headed bastard Watkin that poles as long as that needed iron clasps!’ He pointed at Athelstan with his hammer. ‘What you did on the river, Father, was heroic, so I’ll do it free. I’ll put iron clasps on your poles.’ He lowered his voice as Athelstan turned away. ‘I’ll even hammer one into that daft bugger Watkin’s head!’

Athelstan, grinning, walked on. The grey day was beginning to die, but the shabby stalls and makeshift markets were still doing a brisk trade and the alehouses were full of roisterers celebrating the river victory of the previous evening. Slipping quietly by, Athelstan made his way towards London Bridge, where at the gatehouse he was brutally reminded of the battle. Some of the French pirates had been decapitated and their heads impaled on poles that were being erected on the gatehouse. Robert Burdon, the diminutive gatekeeper, was dancing around supervising this grisly event. ‘Put that one there!’ he bawled at one of his assistants. ‘No, you idiot, turn it round so he’s looking at our ships!’ He glimpsed Athelstan. ‘Busy day! Busy day, Father! They say a hundred Frenchmen died. A hundred, Father, but how many heads do I have? No more than a baker’s dozen. Terrible, isn’t it? Bloody city officials! Heads should be where heads should be! A warning to the rest!’

Athelstan closed his eyes, sketched a blessing in the air and hurried on. He reached the other side, now relieved to be away from Southwark, and pushed his way through the throng. When he reached the Holy Lamb of God in Cheapside he found the tavern crowded. Cranston, resplendent in his best jacket of mulberry, white cambric shirt and multi-coloured hose, was sitting at his favourite table. He was holding court, giving a graphic description of the river battle.

‘And you fought Eustace the Monk?’ Leif the beggar, acting as Cranston’s straight man, called out.

‘Oh yes – a giant of a man,’ Cranston replied, ‘six foot six inches tall, eyes like burning coals and a face as dark as Satan! We met sword against sword.’

‘Then what?’ Leif asked breathlessly.

‘The tide of battle swept us apart.’ Cranston, on his fourth cup of claret and keeping a wary eye on the door lest Lady Maude should appear, saw Athelstan standing on a stool at the back of the crowd. ‘And, credit where credit is due,’ he boomed. ‘My secretarius and clerk, Brother Athelstan, a man of prodigious valour!’

All heads turned. Athelstan went puce-red.

‘Down he went,’ Cranston continued, ‘fighting like a fury. A Frenchman runs up and lifts his sword—’

‘Then what?’ Leif asked again.

‘The man staggers back unable to give the death blow.’

‘A miracle!’ Leif exclaimed.

‘Aye.’ Sir John’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘God’s angel came down and caught his arm just like he caught David’s when he was about to kill that bastard Judas Iscariot!’

Athelstan bit his lip to hide his laughter; Cranston, as usual, was mixing up his biblical texts.

‘A toast!’ Leif shouted. ‘Surely, Sir John, a toast to Brother Athelstan?’

Cranston readily agreed and offered a coin. The beggar grabbed it and thrust it into the tapster’s hand.

‘You heard my lord coroner. We celebrate his victory.’

Cranston, catching Athelstan’s warning look, now clapped his hands.

‘But enough for today. Enough is enough! Go on, have your drink. Leave me alone!’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘City business, city business awaits!’

The crowd reluctantly dispersed and Athelstan slid into the seat beside Sir John.

‘A great victory, Sir John.’

Cranston looked at him slyly. ‘Aye, Brother. Only five galleys reached the open sea. We gave Eustace Monk a smack across his arse he won’t forget in a hurry!’

‘But now we have to capture a felon,’ Athelstan reminded him.

‘Aye,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Our glorious physician Theobald has left and the news is bruited abroad.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You think the felon will strike tonight, Brother?’

Athelstan nodded. ‘I do, Sir John. It’s been some time since the last murderous crime and the city is fairly distracted by the fight on the river. How is Crawley?’

‘Drinking himself stupid at St Bartholomew’s.’

‘And the Lady Maude and the two poppets?’

‘Proud as peacocks! Proud as peacocks!’ Cranston dug his face into the cup of brimming claret. ‘Strange,’ he muttered, smacking his lips.

‘What is, Sir John?’

‘Well, our under-sheriff’s reported, as we expected, that no boats were hired to go to the
God’s Bright Light
but that mad bugger the Fisher of Men sent me a message.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To see me, but he’ll have to wait.’

Athelstan thanked the tapster who placed a tankard of ale in front of him.

‘Sir John, are you sure no other boat approached the
God’s Bright Light
the night Bracklebury disappeared?’

Cranston nodded. ‘First, before you ask, Brother, I have already arranged for the city to reward Moleskin. But, to answer your real question, no boat went there.’

‘So, how did Bracklebury leave?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Don’t forget he was laden down with the silver.’

‘He probably swam.’

‘He couldn’t. Ashby told me that.’

Cranston’s face became serious. ‘Tasty tits!’ he muttered, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What I have done is issue a proclamation throughout the city that Bracklebury is to be taken, if possible, alive.’

They sat for a while discussing plans and possibilities as the day began to die. Cranston demanded and got a pie and a dish of vegetables which he shared with Athelstan.

After that they left, crossing a dark, cold, empty Cheapside and walking through a maze of streets to Theobald de Troyes’ house. A steward let them in, his face full of surprise.

‘Sir John, Master Theobald has gone!’

‘I know,’ Cranston replied. ‘And, while the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh?’

The steward looked puzzled.

‘Where is everyone?’ Cranston continued.

The steward pointed down the passageway to the kitchen. ‘We are having our evening meal.’

Cranston’s podgy nose twitched at the savoury smells.

‘What is it, man?’

‘Capon, Sir John, marinated in a white wine infused with herbs.’

‘I’ll have two plates of that,’ Cranston said immediately. ‘With a couple of loaves. Bring them to the garret. Now, no one here is to leave this house, you included! And no one is to come upstairs until I say. Be a good fellow and piss off and do what I have told you!’

The steward scurried away. Athelstan and Cranston made their way through the opulently furnished house to the bleak garret at the top. The steward, now in total awe of Sir John, came up with the food. Cranston ordered him to bring candles and the thickest woollen blankets he could find. The steward obeyed. Cranston and Athelstan settled down.

At first the coroner insisted on recounting every blow of the river battle, with anecdotal references to his days of glory when he served with Prince Edward against Philip of France. At last, his belly full of capon and after generous swigs from his wineskin, Cranston began to doze. For a while Athelstan just sat in the darkness, remembering his own days in France and his brother Francis who had died there. He shook his head to clear it of the still-painful memories and thought instead about his parish. He prayed that Basil the blacksmith and Watkin the dung-collector would not come to blows. His eyes grew heavy and he, too, slept for a while. Then he found himself being vigorously shaken awake by Cranston, his fat face pushed close to his, a finger to his lips. Athelstan felt cold and cramped, his arm a little sore. He strained his ears. He heard occasional sounds from the house below, then the cry of the watch.

‘Twelve o’clock midnight! Cold and hard, but all’s well!’

‘That will be Trumpington!’ Cranston whispered.

Athelstan was on the point of dozing off again when he heard a movement, a mere slither on the tiles above. Cranston gripped his arm and hissed, ‘Blow out the candles! Don’t move!’

Athelstan stared up through the rafters at the tiles. Was it only a cat? he wondered. Then his stomach lurched as one of the tiles was removed. Another was prised loose, then another, so within minutes a square was opened, revealing the starlit sky. Athelstan saw the evening star and idly wondered why it was there before a dark shape leaned down and a bag was lowered. Cranston heard a clink, a rope slithered through the gap and a dark shape flitted down as quietly as any hunting cat. Cranston waited. The man crouched in the garret, his boots covered in soft woollen rags. He was moving towards the door when Cranston sprang with an agility which took even Athelstan by surprise.

The man crashed to the floor under the full weight of Cranston’s massive body, the wind knocked out of him.

‘I arrest you!’ Cranston roared, leaning over the man and grasping him by the neck. ‘I, Jack Cranston, coroner, have got you!’

The man tried to wriggle free, but Cranston ripped his hood off and grabbed him by the hair.

‘You are trapped, my little beauty!’ he boomed. He banged the man’s head on the floorboards. ‘That’s for me!’ He banged it again. That’s for Brother Athelstan!’ And again. ‘And that’s for that poor maid you killed, you heartless bastard!’

Cranston then dragged the man to his feet. He deftly plucked the dagger from the robber’s sheath, pushed him through the garret door and dragged him down the stairs into the passage on the floor below. Athelstan lit a candle and followed. He held the flame up against the felon’s bruised, dazed face.

‘I’ve never seen him before.’

‘No, you won’t have done,’ Cranston said. ‘But you are right, Brother. I bet this bastard’s a tiler!’

The sounds of doors opening and shouts below showed that the rest of the household had been roused. Cranston went to the top of the stairs and bellowed for silence.

‘Shut up!’ he roared, clutching the footpad in one hand. He shook the man as a cat would a rat. ‘We’ve still got business haven’t we?’

The man could only groan in reply. Cranston marched down the stairs, dragging his prisoner with him. Athelstan followed behind, pleading with Sir John to be careful.

‘I’ll be bloody careful!’ the coroner roared.

The servants had gathered, their faces pallid in the candlelight. Cranston shook the man again, put a finger to his lips for silence and waited by the front door. He must have waited five minutes before Athelstan heard the crunch of a boot and the voice of beadle Trumpington.

‘Well past midnight. Cold and hard, but all’s well!’

Cranston flung open the door, dragging the felon with him.

‘Oh no, it’s not, my lad! The time is bloody ripe to say just how unwell things really are!’

Sir John Cranston stretched his long, stockinged feet in front of the roaring fire. He beamed at his lady, the adoring Maude, who sat beside him, hands in her lap, her girlish face wreathed in a beatific smile, her corn-coloured hair tied in braids. She had been summoned from her bed by her husband’s triumphant, return home. Cranston sipped from his favourite wine goblet and stretched his great legs until the muscles cracked. He wagged a finger at the astonished under-sheriff, Shawditch, who had also been summoned. Athelstan could only stare into the fire and quietly pray that he wouldn’t laugh.

‘You see,’ Cranston explained for the third time, ‘my secretarius and I had the same line of thought.’ He pointed a finger at Shawditch. ‘Always remember, Shawditch, Cranston’s famous axiom "if a problem exists then a solution to it must also exist".’ Cranston winked at Lady Maude. ‘And we knew the problem. A merchant’s house – empty except for the servants, who live on the ground floor – is entered without any visible sign of force and looted. The housebreaker disappears.’ Cranston drummed his fingers on his fat knee. ‘Now that problem would tax any law officer. However, when Athelstan and I visited the last house, where the poor girl was killed, we noticed that the straw beneath the garret’s roof was rather damp. Well’ – Cranston leaned over and squeezed Athelstan’s hand – ‘in the normal course of events, the average law officer would have thought, "Ah, I know how the felon got in – through the tiles. He removed some, climbed down, robbed the house, went out through the roof and replaced the tiles behind him. Easy enough for a professional tiler." The trouble with that theory, though, is that another tiler could easily detect what had been done.’ He glared at Shawditch. ‘Is that clear?’