‘Where are we going?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Patience, my dear friar. Patience!’
They walked along the quayside. Cranston peered into the dark corners then suddenly stopped.
‘Come out!’
A ragged, hooded figure shuffled forward. As the man came closer, Athelstan saw the rags swathed across his face and around his hands and tried to hide his revulsion. The man moved in an ungainly shuffle and, as he did so, he rang a small bell.
‘Unclean!’ the ghastly figure croaked. ‘Unclean!’
‘Oh, bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘I doubt if I’ll catch leprosy!’
The man stopped a few paces from them. To Athelstan he seemed like some apparition from hell, with the rags covering his face and hands, the dark cowl pulled well forward. Now and again tendrils of mist would drift between them.
‘These are the gargoyles,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Cripples, beggars and lepers. They work for the Fisher of Men. They take corpses from the Thames, murder victims, suicides, those who have suffered accidents as well as drunks. If the man’s alive, they earn tuppence, for murder victims three pence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’
‘You wish to meet the Fisher of Men?’ the leper croaked.
‘That’s right, my jolly lad!’ Cranston called back. And, taking a penny from his pocket, he flicked it at the man who, despite his disability, neatly caught it in one hand.
‘Tell the Fisher of Men old Jack Cranston wants a word.’ He pointed down the alleyway. ‘I’ll meet him in the alehouse there.’
‘And what business shall I say?’
‘The God’s Bright Light. He’ll know,’ Cranston added to Athelstan. ‘Nothing happens along the riverside without the knowledge of the Fisher of Men.’
The leper disappeared. Cranston led Athelstan down the alleyway into a small, smelly alehouse with only one window high in the wall. It was dark and dank, lit by smoky tallow candles and smelly oil lamps, but the ale was rich and frothy, the blackjacks clean and the tables and stools neatly wiped.
‘You have met the Fisher of Men?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, you introduced us some months ago,’ Athelstan replied.
Cranston stuck his nose into his tankard but his eyes never left the doorway.
‘Here he comes.’
The doorway became black with huddled figures, cowled and hooded like the one they had met on the quayside. The tapster nervously waved them back but they crouched at the threshold, staring into the tavern like a huddle of ghosts peering into the land of the living. Their leader, the Fisher of Men, came from amongst them, walked soundlessly towards the coroner and Athelstan and, without invitation, sat down on the stool between them. He pulled back his hood revealing a face as sombre as any death mask – alabaster white, thick-lipped and snub-nosed, with black button eyes. Red, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. He pointed a lanky finger at Cranston.
‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’ The finger moved. ‘And you are Athelstan, his secretarius or clerk, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. Sir John, Lady Maude went shopping today. Brother Athelstan, your sanctuary man is safe. He is helping your parishioners prepare the stage for their mystery play.’
Athelstan smiled at the Fisher of Men’s implicit boast at how much he knew.
‘But we are not here to exchange gossip,’ the Fisher of Men continued. Again the finger pointed. ‘Three days ago the ship so inappropriately called God’s Bright Light dropped anchor opposite Queen’s hithe. The captain’s corpse was taken ashore. His soul has gone to God’s judgement . . .’ The voice trailed away.
‘And what else do you know?’ Cranston asked.
The man spread his hands and indicated with a nod of his head the group in the doorway.
‘Sir John, of your mercy I have my brethren to feed.’
Cranston pushed a silver coin across the table. The Fisher of Men plucked it up.
‘You do me great honour, Sir John. The ship was berthed and that night the crew and their doxies went ashore. I know because I had one of them. Fresh and clean she was. Black curly hair, merry eyes, active and vigorous as a puppy in my bed.’
Athelstan fought to control his face at the image of this strange figure making love to a young whore.
‘Very good,’ Sir John interrupted hastily. ‘And?’
‘Three men were left on board, one in the bows, one at the stern, the mate in the middle. Or rather, he kept to the cabin.’
‘And?’ Cranston insisted.
‘Oh, a whore, a male whore’ – the Fisher of Men grimaced – ‘came down about midnight to the quayside. However, she, or he, depending on your viewpoint, was driven off by a stream of curses from the ship.’ The Fisher of Men played with his lank hair. ‘The sailor on board sounded drunk, but the signals and passwords continued to be perfect!’
‘And nothing happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh yes, about two hours after midnight a small craft approached the ship.’
‘From the river bank?’
‘Oh no, from the admiral’s cog, the Holy Trinity. Two men were in it.’
‘And then what?’
‘The small boat was there for just over an hour, but then it returned.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, the password and the signals still continued.’
‘Did anything else happen?’ Cranston asked.
‘A sailor returned just before dawn and the confusion began.’
‘But the watch?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘What happened to the watch?’
The Fisher of Men licked his lips, reminding Athelstan of a frog which could see something savoury. ‘If the river has them,’ the fellow replied, ‘It will caress and kiss them and put them ashore.’ His face became solemn. ‘I and my brethren have already looked, but we have found nothing. We did not see them go in. Perhaps we shall not see them come out.’
‘But if you find them you will tell us?’
The man looked down at the silver coin in his hand. Cranston pushed another piece towards him. The Fisher of Men picked it up, got to his feet and gave them a solemn bow.
‘You are my friends,’ he declared. ‘And the Fisher of Men never forgets. In the name of my brethren, I thank you.’
He slipped out of the alehouse and the gargoyles, chattering and clattering, followed him down the alleyway.
‘Let’s see Crawley.’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Our dear admiral has been lying through his teeth and I think we should know the reason why. But first, Mistress Roffel. Come on, Brother, sharpen your wits and open your ears. Let’s see what our good widow has to say for herself.’
They left the quayside. The clouds were beginning to break up as the daylight died. The streets were busy with apprentices and traders packing away the stalls. The huge dung-carts were out, trying to clear the swollen sewers. Athelstan saw one of the dung-collectors cheerfully pick up the bloated corpse of a cat and throw it with a thud into the cart. Beggars whined for alms. Mangy dogs strutted, stiff-legged, tails up, fighting and snarling over the piles of refuse. At the corner of an alleyway, Cranston stopped and peered over his shoulder.
‘Our friends are still with us.’
Athelstan turned quickly and glimpsed the two monk-like figures a good thirty paces behind him.
‘Do you recognise them, Sir John?’
‘They are not monks,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are clerks, royal officials from either the chancery or the exchequer. If they are from the latter then God help us!’
Athelstan caught Cranston’s arm. ‘Why, Sir John?’
‘The exchequer,’ Cranston replied, ‘has a group of very secret, sharp-witted officials called scrutineers. They deal with many matters – debts owing to the crown, royal prerogatives, but they also handle foreign matters, particularly the financing of spies and clandestine missions abroad.’
‘Shouldn’t we confront them?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir John smiled bleakly. ‘If we walk back, they’ll retreat. They’ll choose the moment and the place to approach us.’
Athelstan stared up as they approached a large town house, his attention caught by the tilers working there. He stopped and stared.