by Paul Doherty
‘Could someone have come aboard by boat?’ Cranston asked. ‘And left again after inflicting some terrible damage?’
‘Impossible,’ Cabe replied. ‘First, the watchers on the other ships would have seen it.’
There was a river mist,’ Cranston pointed out.
‘No.’ Cabe shook his head. ‘Even if you were half-asleep you’d hear the splatter of the oars, the boat bumping alongside. Secondly, any approaching boat would have been hailed. Thirdly, Bracklebury would have fought any boarders. The sound would have carried and the alarm raised. None of this happened. Everything was in order. Even the galley. We haven’t touched it.’
‘There’s one possibility,’ Cranston suggested. ‘Maybe the mate and the two sailors abandoned ship? Swam to the shore and disappeared?’
‘Why should they do that?’ Cabe asked. ‘And if they did, someone on the other ships would surely have seen them.’
Coffrey spoke up. ‘This is the devil’s ship, Sir John. Many of the men think Satan came aboard to claim Roffel’s spirit for his own and took Bracklebury and the others with him!’
Athelstan shivered; even by these cynical, hardened men, Coffrey’s pronouncement was not disputed.
CHAPTER 4
Cranston and Athelstan brought the meeting to an end and the seamen went back to their duties. The admiral took Cranston and Athelstan around the ship, showing them the broad deck, the cavernous, smelly hold partitioned into sections, the primitive living quarters of the crew and archers, the storage space for weapons and the small, fetid galley. Everything was clean and in order, though Athelstan flinched as the occasional dark, furry rat scampered across the deck or scurried along the timbers.
‘Was anything amiss when the ship was inspected?’
Crawley shook his head. ‘Not even in the galley. The cups were cleaned and the fleshing knives back on their hooks.’ Crawley rubbed the side of his face. ‘It was as if a devil had climbed on board and simply swept all three sailors away.’
‘And there’s been no sign of them since?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Crawley took them back on deck and summoned a bumboat. The coroner and Athelstan took their leaves and clambered down, Sir John muttering that he was no wiser than when he arrived.
‘Where to now?’ Athelstan asked, settling himself in the stern next to Cranston.
As they were rowed back across the choppy Thames towards Queen’s hithe the coroner studied the darkening sky.
‘It’s late,’ he murmured, ‘but perhaps we should inspect Captain Roffel’s corpse before the requiem is sung and he is committed to the grave.’
Cranston and Athelstan found the church of St Mary Magdalene on the corner of Milk Street cloaked in darkness. The parish priest, Father Stephen, had been asleep in his chair before a roaring fire in the presbytery. He greeted them owl-eyed, his aged face heavy with sleep, but he greeted them kindly. He held up the lantern and peered at the coroner.
‘God bless my tits!’ he said. ‘It’s Sir John!’
Cranston shoved his face closer. ‘Why, it’s Stephen Grospetch!’
The two men shook each other warmly by the hand.
‘Come in! Come in!’ the priest invited. ‘I have heard of your exploits, Sir John, but you are too busy for old friends.’
Cranston tapped him affectionately on the shoulder and smacked his lips.
‘Yes, Sir John, I have some claret.’ Grospetch pulled two stools before the fire. ‘Sit down! Sit down! Father Athelstan?’
The priest gripped Athelstan’s hand as the coroner finished his introductions.
‘Well, well, well, Cranston and a Dominican. You always told me you didn’t like friars, Sir John.’ Father Stephen winked mischievously at Athelstan.
‘You are a lying mongrel!’ Cranston answered, pretending to be cross. He eased himself on to a stool, spreading his great hands before the flames. Father Stephen bustled about bringing cups of claret. Athelstan thought it was a miracle he didn’t trip, for the room was shrouded in darkness, except for the single candle on its spigot and the light from the roaring fire.
The old priest sat in his chair. He toasted Cranston and Athelstan, slurping merrily from his wine cup.
‘This priest,’ Cranston explained, turning to Athelstan, ‘was chaplain in the retinue of the Prince Edward. He could say the quickest Mass and sometimes had to. The French were bastards’ – the coroner glowered – ‘they never gave us time to finish our prayers.’
For a while Father Stephen and Cranston exchanged pleasantries and news of old comrades. Then the old priest put his cup on the floor and rubbed his hands.
‘Right, Sir John. You are not here to kiss my lovely face. It’s business isn’t it?’
‘Captain William Roffel,’ Cranston replied.
‘Gone to God,’ the priest said. ‘And where to next is up to the good Lord.’
‘Why do you say that, Father?’
‘Well, he was in my parish yet I never saw him or his wife darken my church. She came to see me yesterday. She wanted a Christian burial for her husband and paid a fee for a Mass to be said. Last night, I received the corpse, all encased in its cedar coffin. It now lies before the high altar and will be buried tomorrow.’
‘So you know nothing about the Roffels?’
‘Not a thing. The wife was calm. She claimed other business had kept her from attending our church.’
‘So, she wasn’t the grieving widow?’
‘Now, Sir John, don’t be harsh. She was very agitated.’ The old priest shrugged. ‘But I get many such requests. And you know canon law? Unless a person has been publicly excommunicated, Christian burial must be provided as speedily as possible.’
‘And did she hire mourners? You know, people to keep vigil.’
‘She and her maid attended when the corpse was received into the church. They went away. Mistress Roffel returned just before midnight and I allowed her to stay there until dawn this morning.’
Cranston looked over the old priest’s shoulder and winked at Athelstan. But Father Stephen was quicker than he seemed and caught the glance.
‘Come on, you old rogue, what do you want?’
‘Father, is it possible for us to look at the corpse?’
The priest rubbed his lips. ‘It’s against canon law,’ he replied slowly. ‘Once a corpse has been sheeted and coffined-’
‘God would want it!’ Athelstan broke in quietly. ‘Father Stephen, on my oath as a fellow priest, terrible crimes may have been committed.’
‘You mean Roffel?’
‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied brusquely. ‘He may have been murdered.’
Father Stephen stood and picked up his cloak. He lit a lantern and shoved it into Athelstan’s hand.
‘As soon as I clapped eyes on Cranston,’ he grumbled, ‘I knew it was bloody trouble.’
Returning the banter, Cranston and Athelstan followed the priest out into the cold, wind-swept churchyard. Father Stephen unlocked the church door and they entered. Athelstan later swore that he would never forget the scene awaiting them. The nave of the church was black and cold. The lantern’s flickering light made it all the more eerie as they walked up towards the sanctuary. They all stopped, Cranston cursing, as a loose window shutter banged shut.
‘That shouldn’t happen,’ Father Stephen whispered. He took the lantern from Athelstan, walked past the pillars and into the transept. He stopped and looked up at where the shutters clattered against the stonework.
‘I closed these,’ Father Stephen explained over his shoulder, his words ringing hollow through the church. ‘There’s no glass here, so anyone can get in.’
Athelstan walked over. He took the lantern and held it close to the ground.
‘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 rifle
d 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.’