By Murder's Bright Light (8 page)

‘Well, whether you like it or not, Father, you have had unexpected visitors. See, the mud-marks and scraps of dried leaf?’ He moved the lantern. ‘Look, a faded footprint.’

‘Oh, no,’ Father Stephen moaned. ‘Oh, don’t say they’ve rifled the sanctuary again!’ His face looked ghostly in the lantern light. ‘Or worse,’ he whispered. The lords of the crossroads, the black magicians, are always searching for sacred vessels to use in their blasphemous rituals. Come on! Come on!’

They hurriedly walked up the church, Athelstan’s sandals slapping against the paving stones, and went through the rood screen.

Not as grand as mine, Athelstan thought, but then quietly prayed for forgiveness for such childish thoughts. Father Stephen edged slowly forward, the circle of light from the lantern preceding him.

‘I can see nothing wrong!’ he exclaimed.

Athelstan glimpsed the faint outline of the coffin and the six great purple candles surrounding it. They walked nearer. Athelstan gasped – the coffin still lay on its trestles but the lid was thrown back. The casket was empty, its white linen lining gleaming in the poor light

‘Hell’s tits!’ Cranston breathed.

Father Stephen hurried towards the altar where he scraped a tinder to light candles. Athelstan stared around the sanctuary.

‘Oh, Lord, look at that!’ Cranston muttered.

Athelstan followed his pointing finger. Sitting sprawled in the heavy, ornate sanctuary chair was the corpse of Captain Roffel. His throat had been slashed and someone had daubed in blood on a piece of parchment pinned to his chest the word ASSASSIN.

When Father Stephen saw it, he was so overcome that he sat on the sanctuary steps and sobbed. Cranston and Athelstan took two of the candles from the altar and walked gingerly towards the ghastly corpse, which slouched grotesquely in the high-backed chair. The pennies had been removed from Roffel’s eyes, which were now half-open. The jaw strap had been removed and the wound across the neck was a dull scarlet gash. Cranston looked at the scrap of parchment and realised that the perpetrator of this blasphemy had used his finger to draw the letters. He and Athelstan, seeing how Father Stephen was so overcome, moved the corpse gingerly back into the coffin. Cranston whispered he had seen worse in France when he helped fill the burial pits. Athelstan, however, despite his attendance at many deaths, trembled at how cold the corpse felt, half-expecting it to come back to life. They arranged the corpse as decently as possible in the coffin. Only then did Athelstan study the hard face, high cheek bones, thin, bloodless lips and narrow, skull-like head of Captain William Roffel.

‘Dreadful in life, dreadful in death,’ Athelstan muttered.

He sketched a blessing above the corpse and, without further ado, undid the points on its jerkin. He pushed back the cambric shirt and studied the torso carefully. Someone had punctured the belly so it would not swell but Athelstan also saw tell-tale dull, reddish blotches. The friar smiled in satisfaction and, with a sigh of relief, asked Cranston to help him with the coffin lid.

Cranston pointed to the piece of parchment.

‘Shouldn’t we remove it?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘God forgive me, Sir John, but I see little point. It tells the truth. Captain Roffel was the devil’s own man. His corpse was disturbed and his throat cut as an act of vengeance.’ Athelstan replaced the lid on the coffin. ‘But I tell you this, he was murdered. His belly bears the tell-tale signs of poison.’

They made sure the church was secure and took a still-trembling Father Stephen back to his house. Athelstan poured him a goblet of wine, made sure he was settled and then joined Cranston outside.

‘My bloody wineskin’s empty!’ the coroner snapped. ‘I don’t care what you say, Athelstan, I definitely need refreshment after that.’

The friar linked his arm through the coroner’s and led him back to the now deserted Cheapside, steering him carefully around mounds of refuse, and into the Holy Lamb of God. Two sips of claret and Cranston relaxed, beaming around at the rest of the customers.

Athelstan was more sombre. He gripped the fat coroner’s wrist. ‘We know Roffel was murdered, but by whom or why or how is a mystery. We must also face the possibility that the first mate and his two companions may have suffered a similar fate.’

‘Do you think Ospring’s death is connected with this?’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, no, Ospring’s was a crime of passion. A murder committed without a second’s reflection. There’s a mystery there but the mystery we must resolve, Sir John, is what happened during that voyage – how three able-bodied sailors disappeared from their ship at night even though, according to the admiral himself, signals were being sent from the
God’s Bright Light
until only minutes before that sailor and his girl came back on board.’

‘Well, you’re the student of logic,’ Cranston grumbled. ‘What are the possibilities? We are told no boat was seen going towards the ship.’

‘What about swimmers?’ Athelstan asked.

Cranston shook his head. ‘Imagine, Brother, let us say even a party of six to ten. They reach the ship, clamber on board without the watch noticing, despatch three men without raising any alarm. They leave no mark of violence before disappearing over the side. Yet we have no reason for why they came. No one sees them and the lights and the password are still passed on. I can think of only one possibility – those three sailors jumped ship.’ Cranston blew his cheeks out. ‘But two problems remain. No one saw them leave and the signals still continued; If they had left the ship, they must have done so at almost the same time as that sailor and his whore arrived, yet that would have been noticed.’ Cranston shoved his cup away. ‘I am tired, Brother.’

‘Do you think we should go home?’

‘No.’ Cranston gathered up his cloak. ‘We should make one more visit. Roffel’s little whore or mistress. Perhaps she can cast some light on the gathering gloom.’

As Athelstan and Cranston refreshed themselves in the Holy Lamb of God, a man, garbed in black from head to toe, strode quietly along a passage in a house that stood on the corner of Lawrence Lane and Catte Street. He moved softly, the rags wrapped around the soles of his leather boots deadening any footfall. He gripped his leather sack and gazed intently through the eye-holes of his mask at the precious candlesticks he could glimpse on a table at the end of the passage, their silver filigree glinting through the darkness.

The thief smiled with pleasure. As usual, everything had been cunningly planned. The old fool Cranston would never discover how he was able to enter and leave these deserted mansions without any trace of forced entry. He reached the table, took the candlesticks and placed them carefully in his leather bag. Moving stealthily on, he was passing one of the rooms when its door opened. A young, sleepy-eyed maid came out. She must have sensed something wrong, for she turned and glimpsed the thief in the light of the candle she carried. She dropped the candle and opened her mouth to scream but the man sprang. He clapped his hands over her mouth and drove a thin, stiletto dagger straight into her chest. The girl’s eyes widened with terror and pain. She struggled, but the thief had her pinioned against the wall. He brought the dagger out and stabbed once more. The girl coughed. He could feel her hot blood seeping through the glove on his hand. Then she sank against him and crumpled slowly to the floor.

Sir John and Athelstan tapped on the door of the house in Poultney Lane near the Lion Heart tavern. There was no response so Cranston rapped again. This time he was answered by the sound of running footsteps. A small voice asked, rather prettily, ‘Who is it?’

‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and Brother Athelstan his secretarius!’

Locks turned and bolts were pulled back. A young red-headed woman in a murrey-coloured dress came out to greet them. She held a horn lantern high and thrust her thin, pale face towards them.

‘What do you want? What can I do?’

‘You knew Captain William Roffel?’

The eyes, ringed with black kohl, blinked. Athelstan was fascinated by the brightly painted lips, garish against the pallor of the woman’s skin.

‘Your name is Bernicia?’ he asked. ‘Can we come in?’

The girl nodded and beckoned them forward, down the stone-vaulted passageway into a small, cosy parlour. She made them welcome, pouring two cups of wine whilst Cranston and Athelstan stared around the room. Everything was neat; small tables were polished and draped with linen cloths, the floor was covered with Ottoman rugs, on the hearth the fire tongs gleamed brilliantly in the light of the flames. The air was heavy with a musky perfume which mingled with the scent from the candles and small capped braziers standing in each corner of the room.

‘You live in comfort, Mistress Bernicia?’

The young woman shrugged and smirked. Cranston peered at her closely. Her every movement was elegant. She flounced her hips as she walked in her high-heeled pattens. When she sat, crossing her legs, she pulled her gown further down but not so far as to hide the creamy whiteness of her petticoats and the scarlet and gold of her hose. She leaned forward.

‘So, what can I do for you, sirs?’

Cranston thought how mellow and rich her voice was.

‘You were . . .?’ he began tentatively.

‘I was William Roffel’s paramour.’ Bernicia held up a hand and sniggered softly behind beringed fingers. Her nails were painted a deep purple.

‘Ah, yes!’ Cranston’s unease grew. ‘And he visited you often?’

She spread her hands and looked around the room.

‘Captain Roffel was generous for the favours I gave him.’

‘And did you love him?’ Athelstan asked.

Again the pretty snigger and the quick movement of her hand.

‘Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous! How can you love someone like Captain Roffel? A blackguard born and bred! He was generous and I was available.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You know he was a defrocked priest?’

‘What?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Roffel was once a curate in a parish near Edinburgh. He became involved in some trouble and had to leave his parish rather quickly.’

‘What was this trouble?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And you met him where?’ Cranston asked.

‘In a tavern.’

‘Which one?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I forget.’

‘Did you ever meet his wife?’

‘Oh Lord, that sour bitch. Never!’

‘Did you give Captain Roffel anything before he left on his last voyage?’

‘A nice, big kiss.’

‘And are you suspicious about his death?’

‘Oh, no, the evil bastard always had a weak stomach.’ Bernicia shrugged. ‘Now he’s gone’ – she fluttered her eyelashes – ‘and I’m available again.’

‘Do you know anything about his last voyage?’

‘Nothing. I went on board the ship. They wouldn’t even let me go to his cabin, so I came ashore.’

‘Did Roffel have any enemies?’

Bernicia rocked with laughter. ‘I think the question, Sir John, should be, "Did he have any friends?" He had enemies all along the river Thames. Roffel may have been one of the king’s captains but he was also a pirate.’ Bernicia lowered her voice. ‘You’ve heard the stories, surely? Roffel was not above attacking any ship. Many a sailor’s lonely widow curses him before she falls asleep at night.’

‘Have you visited his coffin in St Mary Magdalene?’ Athelstan asked. He, too, had caught Cranston’s unease and was studying the woman carefully.

‘No, I haven’t and I don’t intend to.’

Perhaps it was the way that she said it, moving her face sideways. Or perhaps, in the light of the fire, Cranston caught a glimpse of hair on her upper lip not quite covered by the white paste she had rubbed there. Suddenly the coroner leaned forward and grabbed her by the knee.

‘Well, aren’t you the pretty one?’ he growled. ‘What’s your real name, Bernicia?’

She tried to struggle free. Sir John’s hand went further up her thigh. He shrugged off Athelstan’s warning glance.

‘I have heard of your type,’ he said. ‘I wonder, if I kept moving my hand up to your privy place what I’d find, eh?’ He placed his other hand gently on her rather flat chest, his fingers gently pressing back the muslin. ‘Bernicia the whore,’ he said softly, ‘you’re no woman. You’re a man!’

Athelstan’s jaw sagged. He gaped at Bernicia and then at Sir John. Bernicia tried to struggle free.

‘The truth,’ Sir John demanded. ‘Otherwise I’ll have the beadles brought in and have you stripped. You can’t hide what God gave you!’ He leaned forward and touched Bernicia’s hair. ‘I know where you met Roffel,’ he continued. ‘In the Mermaid tavern down near St Paul’s Wharf. What’s your real name? Come on, what is it?’

‘My name is Roger-atte-Southgate.’

Athelstan could only keep gaping.

‘I once served as a cabin boy with Roffel. I was, I am a woman in a man’s body.’ Bernicia looked into the fire. ‘I used to envy the whores, the way they moved, the clothes they could wear, the excitement they aroused in the sailors. And then, one night, I discovered there were others like me.’

‘If the sheriffs discover you,’ Cranston warned, ‘they’ll burn you as a sodomite at Smithfield! Isn’t that true, Father?’

Athelstan could only stare. He studied Bernicia more closely and caught the lost, despondent look in her eyes. Athelstan blinked. He still considered her a woman, whatever Sir John or she might say. He felt a wave of compassion. In his days in the novitiate, and in camps in France, he had met men who liked to be used as women, but never had he met one who dressed and acted the part so convincingly.

‘Your secret is safe with us,’ he said gently. ‘Sir John and I are not here to inflict any pain, though you are involved in serious sin.’

‘Am I, Father? Men like Roffel? I have known them as far as my memory stretches. They like to use me as a woman, so why blame me for what others made me? Oh, yes, there were priests too. They liked such strange bed sports.’

Athelstan held his hand up. ‘I am not your judge nor your confessor.’

‘Little point in that,’ Bernicia interrupted. ‘I have no need for either. There’s no God and, if there is, he’s forgotten all about us.’ Bernicia moved on her chair. ‘Roffel used to bring me precious trinkets – fingers with the rings still on them, once an ear with a small gold band in it. He used to sit where you are, Father, and boast about what he had done. How he would cheat his crew, his business partner Ospring and even his dull wife.’