Read Online By Murder's Bright Light by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page A

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