By Murder's Bright Light (27 page)

‘Mistress?’ he asked.

‘Leave his gown, Tabitha, and come and sit next to me!’

The maid scurried across. Athelstan clasped his arms over his stomach and hoped his fear wouldn’t show. Emma leaned across. ‘A cunning, conniving priest, who’s not going to St Bartholomew’s!’ she spat out. ‘Do you know who knocked on the door, Tabitha?’ Her eyes never left Athelstan’s face. ‘Another priest, that stupid, ancient, dribbling Father Stephen from St Mary Magdalene church.’

‘Why should that alarm you, mistress?’ Athelstan asked innocently.

Emma Roffel shuffled in her seat. She, too, smiled, as if enjoying this clash of minds.

‘You know full well, priest, but tell me anyway!’

‘Oh, yes, I will, madam. I’ll tell you a story about a young Scottish girl born in a fishing village near Edinburgh. She married a defrocked priest, but a marriage she thought was made in heaven became a hatred forged in hell. You, Mistress Roffel, hated your husband. It curdled both your souls. Roffel turned to his male whore Bernicia, and you to your love, Tabitha.’ Athelstan looked at Tabitha, who gazed coolly back. ‘You planned to murder your husband,’ he continued, ‘by poisoning his flask of usquebaugh. You thought that, if this was detected, someone on board the
God’s Bright Light
would surely be blamed, for your husband was hated by his crew.’

‘But, Father,’ Emma Roffel purred, ‘William always kept the flask by him. He, not I, took it to be filled at Richard Crawley’s tavern.’ She hugged her arms closer. ‘I am sure that, if you and that fat coroner make enquiries, you will find that my husband drank from the flask and suffered no ill effects. Indeed, as you know, I drank from it. You drank from it, too. There was no poison in it.’

‘Don’t mock me, madam,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘I shall tell you what happened. You took that flask when it was empty and put the arsenic in. Captain William filled it with usquebaugh. It would take more than one swig for the poison on the bottom to mingle and make its presence felt. As you planned, it eventually did, but only when he was at sea. Any apothecary will tell you that white arsenic is not a poison that kills immediately. It takes time to build up in the victim’s body.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘When the flask was brought back here, you washed and scoured it. You then found some usquebaugh and refilled it, placing it back among your husband’s possessions as if it had never been disturbed.’

Emma Roffel just gazed coolly at him.

‘Now, the death of your husband,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was reward enough for you, but when Bracklebury brought his corpse back you noticed something amiss. Perhaps Bracklebury made one last search of the corpse? Or did you study the pages at the back of your husband’s book of hours and realise that "in S.L." stood for "in secreto loco, in a secret place". The last entry was fresh, so you knew that your husband had recently taken some-thing precious and hidden it away.’ Athelstan paused to wet his dry lips. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make Bracklebury talk – his only thought was to find that silver.’

‘And?’ Emma Roffel asked, in mock innocence.

‘You knew, God knows how, about this secret place of your husband’s and so you entered into an unholy alliance with Bracklebury. You would find the silver and share it with him. You’d then act the grieving widow, maintaining your cool mistress-and-servant relations with Tabitha until you could both disappear and go to some other city in England or Scotland under new names.’

‘But I never went aboard the
God’s Bright Light
that night,’ Emma Roffel scoffed. ‘I was in the church of St Mary Magdalene, mourning for my husband.’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You did go aboard that day. You disguised yourself as one of the whores and Bracklebury hid you in the cabin so that you could begin your search – or rather pretend to, because you already knew where the hiding place was. Bracklebury told you about his agreement with Cabe and about the signals that had to be passed between the ships and between himself and Cabe on the quayside.’

‘But how could I do all this,’ Emma insisted, ‘if I was in a church mourning for my husband?’

‘You were not,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Your maid Tabitha was. Father Stephen is old, his eyesight is failing and you, of course, are no church-goer. So you sent Tabitha to the priest’s house pretending to be you. Father Stephen accepted her for what she claimed to be. It was Tabitha who was there that night.’

‘But the funeral?’ Tabitha interrupted. ‘Both Mistress Roffel and I attended the funeral and Father Stephen was there.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you did.’ Athelstan smiled, noting how the maid had lost her cool appearance of severity. ‘Both of you attended, cowled and hooded. But you, Tabitha, maintained the pretence of being Mistress Roffel and she acted the part of your maid. You knew that Father Stephen would soon forget, time would pass. Anyway, you planned to leave the city. And if Father Stephen should visit the house then you could sustain the pretence, even explain away any confusion.’ Athelstan pushed his tankard aside; he had not drunk from it, nor would he. ‘Of course, when Father Stephen came today while I was here you realised that it was no coincidence. Father Stephen was given clear sight of whoever answered that door.’

‘Do continue,’ Emma Roffel whispered. She sat back in the chair, tense, her chin thrust forward aggressively. ‘Oh, yes, on board the
God’s Bright Light
?’

Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts but kept his eyes carefully on Emma Roffel’s hands hidden up the sleeve of her gown.

‘On board the
God’s Bright Light
,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you remained hidden from the other two members of the watch as well as from Sir Jacob Crawley when he visited the ship. Nevertheless, the admiral was uneasy. After he left, you carried out your plan and murdered Bracklebury and his companions.’

‘Me, a frail woman?’

‘Who mentioned anything about frailty?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You may not be young but you are vigorous, strong, a fisherman’s daughter. Anyway, it’s not difficult to deal with the bodies of drugged men. Only Bracklebury had access to the cabin where you were hidden. You would declare little success in your search but hold out hope. In fact, you were only waiting to kill Bracklebury and any witnesses and so deepen the mystery further.’ Athelstan paused, hoping that Cranston would soon appear. ‘You laced the cups from which Bracklebury and the other two men were drinking with a powerful sleeping draught. They fell into their drugged sleep, you fastened the weights around their necks and slipped their bodies over the side. I doubt if the poor souls would have regained consciousness.’ Athelstan stared at the lantern over the hearth. ‘Your movements would have been concealed by a heavy sea mist. The same mist, as well as the speaking trumpet, disguised your voice. You had heard Bracklebury say the password and wink the lantern and you kept matters on an even keel. However’ – Athelstan tensed in the chair – ‘that sailor returned, laughing and singing, with his whore. You left at about the same time, a misty, cold dawn when the sailors from the two nearest ships were drowsy and the quayside deserted.’

‘And what did I do?’ Emma cried. ‘Fly!’

‘No, Mistress Roffel, you put the silver belt round your neck, slipped over the ship’s side away from the quayside, and followed the river current downstream, before swimming into shore well away from Queen’s hithe and the watching eyes of the Fisher of Men. You then stripped. Tabitha was nearby with a fresh set of clothing and you returned to your house to continue the role of the withdrawn, grieving widow.’ Athelstan paused, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house. ‘You must have enjoyed yourself, Mistress Roffel, watching everyone run around, allegations being laid, Cabe wondering where Bracklebury was. You are a powerful woman, Mistress Roffel.’

‘Not powerful enough for the swim you have credited me with!’

‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You are a fisherman’s daughter. You could swim before you walked, out at sea helping your father with his nets. I felt your hand as you left the Fisher of Men’s warehouse – it was rough, rather callused. You were born with the sea in your blood. You can probably swim better than any man on board those ships waiting in the Thames.

‘You watched us all run around like mice in a cage. You thought you would muddy the water still further as well as take vengeance on the whore Bernicia. Tabitha wrote that note to Cabe, pretending it came from Bracklebury, pointing the finger at Bernicia. All the time you were preparing to leave. You disguised yourself as a sailor, cowled and hooded, and took some of the silver to a goldsmith. This not only deepened the mystery but provided you and Tabitha with the necessary monies to leave London.’ Athelstan leaned forward accusingly. ‘The only flaw in your plan was that Bracklebury’s corpse was discovered.’

Tabitha clapped her hands mockingly. ‘You are right, mistress. A clever, clever little priest!’

‘How did you know Bracklebury’s sign for the letter to Bernicia?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I suppose you found it among your husband’s documents.’ He looked around the room. ‘So tidy,’ he murmured. That’s what Sir Jacob Crawley said. He meant that the galley was so tidy. All the cups and goblets cleaned! As if a good housewife had been there, as well as an assassin, hiding what she had done!’

‘Clever!’ Emma murmured.

‘Not really,’ Athelstan replied. ‘More a motley collection of scraps – finding Bracklebury’s corpse, feeling your callused hand, the cleaning of the galley cups, your talk about your youth, your husband’s book of hours. And, of course, the sheer weight of logic.’

Emma Roffel smiled into the flames of the fire as Tabitha leaned forward to stroke her gently on the knee.

‘Have you ever been to hell, Father?’ she murmured.

‘Sometimes,’ Athelstan replied quickly without thinking.

Emma Roffel sneered. ‘Funny, I have never seen you there.’ She glared at the friar. ‘I have been there, Father. I gave up everything for Roffel, everything for a defrocked priest who turned out to be rotten to the core. A man who used me like a dog with a bitch. He still wasn’t satisfied but hired a succession of pretty bum boys. A man who caused death in my womb and created a wilderness in my heart. Yes, I killed the bastard! Bracklebury didn’t take long to tell me what had happened, he was furious and eager to find that silver. I played with him as you would a fish. The rest is as you say.’ She pulled her face straight. ‘I went on board with the whores and hid. First in the hold, then in the cabin. I heard the password and saw the signals.’ She grinned. ‘That was easy. I drugged the watch and coated my body with grease – an old fisherman’s trick, it cloaks the body against the cold. I waited till the tide turned then swam, like I’d never done before, for my freedom!’ Her voice rose. ‘Freedom from the world of men! Tabitha was waiting with a cloak and some usquebaugh and I was safe. So very, very easy!’ She glared at Athelstan. ‘Until you came along, you with your dark face and hooded eyes. Our lives are ruined, aren’t they, Tabitha? Ruined by clever, clever priests who are not what they appear to be.’ Emma sucked the air in through her mouth. ‘Clever! Clever!’

She moved, her hand snaking out from the sleeve of her gown and the dagger struck straight for Athelstan but the friar moved quickly. He picked up the tankard and, flinging it at her, dodged sideways even as Tabitha grabbed him by his cloak. He and the maid crashed to the floor, rolling on the rushes as he tried to break free. Athelstan looked up and glimpsed the hem of Emma Roffel’s dress as she moved towards him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ a voice roared.

Tabitha was bodily picked up and flung to one side and the coroner grinned wickedly down at him.

‘Brother, what would your parishioners say?’

Athelstan scrambled to his feet. Emma Roffel was held by a burly bailiff whilst the under-sheriff, Shawditch, was helping Tabitha to her feet.

‘God knows what my parishioners would say,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Sir John, you heard?’

‘I did,’ the coroner replied cheerily, staring at Emma Roffel. ‘I also talked to Father Stephen. He quite categorically states that the person who opened the door to him today was not the person by Roffel’s body that night in St Mary Magdalene church. Take them away!’ he ordered Shawditch. ‘Then come back and search this house from garret to cellar!’

‘What are we to look for, Sir John?’

‘White arsenic,’ Athelstan replied, ‘any powder you find hidden away and more silver, Master Shawditch, than you have ever seen in your life!’

The under-sheriff made to lead the two women away.

‘Sir John!’ Emma Roffel struggled and broke free from Shawditch’s grip. ‘On my oath, Tabitha Velour was not a party to the deaths!’

Sir John walked across to her. ‘In which case,’ he told her, ‘she may go free. But you, Mistress Roffel, deserve to die.’ He laughed sourly. ‘Not for Bracklebury, but for two sailors – good, hard-working men and loyal subjects of the king. Those poor bastards paid with their lives because of your greed and murderous malice!’

He walked back to Athelstan.

‘Shawditch!’ he called over his shoulder, ‘take both of them to the Fleet!’

Cranston waited until the door closed behind them. The house fell silent and the coroner grinned sheepishly at the friar. ‘You know, Brother, I never thought you were in any danger but then I remembered that her husband was once a priest. I wondered what would happen when another priest confronted her with her crimes.’ He rubbed his thigh. ‘I am getting too old to climb walls. But enough of that! Athelstan, my son, you owe me a drink!’

Three days later Athelstan wearily made his way down the Ropery, turning right at Bridge Street and on to the crowded bridge back to Southwark. He’d spent the afternoon at Blackfriars reporting to the prior what had been happening, both in the parish and in his work with Cranston. The old Dominican had heard him out, whistling softly under his breath at Athelstan’s description of the mystery surrounding the
God’s Bright Light
.

‘You are to be congratulated, Brother Athelstan,’ he concluded. ‘You and Sir John. For no man or woman should be able to slay and hide from the hand of God.’ He beamed across the table and wagged a bony finger at Athelstan. ‘You were always sharp, Brother.’ Then he sat back, fingers to his lips. ‘Are you tired of your work, Brother?’