The firedrake pointed to a barrel with a capped tallow candle on its upturned end. The firedrake struck a tinder, sheltering its flame against the boisterous cold breeze. The wick flared into life. The firedrake hastily withdrew. The tongue of flame danced even though it was protected by the concave-shaped cap. Cranston stamped his feet impatiently; almost in response the candle dissolved in a burst of angry, spitting flames. Small tongues of fire shot up to land, hissing like snakes on the frost-hardened grass. The top of the dry wooden barrel caught light, flames licked down its side already smouldering from the spits of fire. Soon the entire barrel was alight. Athelstan thought the flames would die but then a fresh burst flared up, angry shoots of fire leaping so swift and fierce the entire barrel was soon reduced to blackened wood crumbling away in fiery fragments.
‘You see.’ The firedrake was almost dancing with glee whilst the abbey chandler beamed at the dying fire. The monk abruptly remembered what he was doing and hurriedly pulled a more mournful face. ‘That’s how Brokersby died,’ the firedrake declared.
‘Do explain,’ Cranston insisted.
Athelstan sniffed the grey-black smoke and walked closer to the dying fire. The tang of oil was strong, needle-thin rivulets of smoking blackness scored the frozen grass.
‘Very simple.’ The firedrake breathed in the smoke as if it was the very incense of heaven.
‘Then keep it so,’ Cranston retorted, ‘and brief. I’m freezing.’
‘Come, come,’ the chandler insisted on taking them back to his own work shop, a large chamber which reeked of oil, cordage and wax. He made them sit on stools around a brazier which sparkled just like a ruby. Athelstan, clutching the cup of posset the chandler served, ruefully wondered on the whereabouts of the bloodstone.
‘Very simple.’ The firedrake held up a large tallow candle. He turned this upside down tapping its base. ‘You hollow this out and pour in oil, perhaps add some salt-petre powder, the type used by the King’s newfangled cannons — you’ve seen them at the Tower?’
Cranston grunted.
‘Reseal the candle with a wax plug and you have nothing less than a vase of oil.’
‘If you light the wick,’ Athelstan agreed, ‘the flame burns down, the wax dissolves and the conflagration begins. The lower the oil sits in the hollowed-out candle, the longer it takes.’
‘I’ve seen it done,’ the chandler observed ruefully. ‘Sir John, as coroner, you must have encountered tallow-makers, candle-fashioners who use cheap materials within a shell of wax?’
‘I have,’ Cranston drank from his posset cup, ‘which explains why the guild’s regulations are so stringent against such a practice.’
‘That and more,’ the firedrake explained. ‘This barrel was as dry as tinder. Inside it was a small pouch of oil. The false candle was perilous enough but the oil would make it truly dangerous. You must have seen conflagrations; people forget how fast flames can move. I’ve seen fires in dried forests course swifter than a fleeing deer. Burning oil is even worse.’ He waggled a finger. ‘Very dangerous — it turned our candle into a fountain of spitting flame.’
‘So,’ Athelstan drained his cup, ‘somebody entered Brokersby’s chamber. They placed a wine skin, one full of oil sprinkled with salt-petre, under his bed. The tallow candle was replaced with a false one. Brokersby either lit it or let it burn as he was accustomed to. He retired to bed, his belly full of wine, an opiate, or both. The candle eventually disintegrated in a shower of flame which would swiftly reach the pouch of oil hidden away.’ Athelstan crossed himself. ‘The bed was of dry wood, linen sheets and woollen blankets, ideal fuel. Brokersby may have woken and tried to stagger out of danger but the fire was all around him. The oil-rich flames would have turned him into a living torch. My friends,’ Athelstan rose and bowed, ‘I thank you heartily but your hypothesis leaves one tantalizing question.’ He stared down at them. ‘Why? Why kill any soul but especially why like that, the artifice, the subtle cunning, why?’
Cranston escorted the firedrake, rewarded with good silver, back to the watergate. Athelstan took to wandering the abbey. He felt agitated. The buildings seemed to crowd in around him. The statues and carvings appeared to draw closer, making him more aware of sightless eyes, stone smiles and frozen glances. He became acutely alert to the dappled light, the black alleyways and the yawning mouths of corridors. Bells tolled. Monks slipped here and there on different duties. Athelstan sensed a change: their mood was colder, more distant. Bony white faces peered suspiciously out at him from hoods and cowls. Brothers turned and whispered to each other as he passed. Athelstan entered the church to pray before the lady altar. Afterwards he went and stood before the anker house but the anchorite was either asleep or pretended to be. Athelstan returned to his own chamber and tried to clear the fog of mystery behind the disappearance of the bloodstone and these horrid murders. Were they all connected? Athelstan wondered. Or should he look at Kilverby’s murder as separate from the rest? The Passio Christi did link Kilverby to the Wyvern Company. Another tie was Richer. Athelstan curbed his frustration. Ideally, Cranston should seize the Frenchman and hoist him off to the Tower for closer questioning. Richer however was a cleric, a monk. He would plead benefit of clergy and, within the day, every churchman in London would be stridently protesting.
SEVEN
‘Placitum: a case heard before a court.’
Next morning, after a troubled sleep, Athelstan celebrated a late Mass. As he divested he wondered if he should escape the abbey and return to St Erconwald’s for the day. Outside in the aisle the brothers were preparing their own crib, bringing in lifelike statues and arguing about whether the abbot wanted the Three Kings immediately or should they wait until the Epiphany. Athelstan was about to help when he glimpsed an inscription carved along the rim of the chantry altar. He swiftly translated the Latin. He was about to close his eyes in thankful prayer when he heard his name being called. Prior Alexander, unshaven and red-eyed, his black robe stained and blotched, pushed through the gossiping brothers to inform Athelstan that Cranston required him urgently near the watergate. Athelstan collected his cloak and writing tray and hurried down across Mortival meadow, pleasantly surprised by the change in the weather. The mist had lifted. The clouds were thinning and the weak sunlight gave the meadow a more springlike look. On the quayside Cranston, cloaked, booted and armed, stood with Wenlock and Mahant, similarly attired. The old soldiers looked heavy-eyed as if roused from an ale-sodden sleep. Moored along the quayside was a high-prowed barge with a covered awning in the stern. The prow boasted a snapping pennant of dark blue fringed with gold displaying the insignia of the Fisher of Men, a silver corpse rising from a golden sea. The barge was manned by six oarsmen dressed in black and gold livery — these were the Fisher of Men’s coven, outlaws and outcasts who’d rejected their own names and rejoiced in being called Maggot, Taffyhead, Badger, Brick-face, Gigglebrazen and Hackum. Standing on the barge was Icthus, the Fisher’s principal assistant, dressed in a simple black tunic, a strange creature who took the Greek name for fish, an apt enough title. The young man had no hair even on his brows or eyelids whilst his oval-shaped face and protuberant cod mouth made him look even more like a fish. Icthus raised a hand in greeting as Cranston broke off whispering heatedly with Wenlock and Mahant.
‘Osborne’s been found,’ Cranston declared, ‘or at least his corpse, naked as he was born, throat slit from ear to ear.’ Cranston waved at the waiting barge. ‘The Fisher of Men requires an audience. Wenlock and Mahant are coming with us whether they like it or not.’
They all clambered into the barge. Icthus in a high-pitched voice ordered the oarsmen to push away and soon they were out, the rowers bending and pulling back in unison. The river was thankfully calm though busy with fishing smacks, bum boats and market barges all taking advantage of the break in the weather. Mahant and Wenlock sat fascinated by Icthus and his companions. Cranston tersely explained how the Fisher of Men was a retainer of the mayor and city council. The Fisher’s task was to roam the Thames and drag out the corpses, the victims of suicide, murder, or accident.