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 knife. 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.