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.