by Paul Doherty
‘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 Tabitha was nearby with a fresh set of clothing and you returned to your house to continue the role of the withdrawn, grieving widow.’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?’
‘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 knif
e. 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.
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