‘Well, we left the Thames two days before Michaelmas, so it would have been on the 27th September. The weather was good, the winds fair. We took up a position between Dover and Calais and began to attack the occasional merchant ship. The plunder was good and we soon had our hold full of foodstuffs, wine and cloths, not to mention the occasional precious object.’
‘What was Roffel like?’ Athelstan asked.
‘A hard man, Father. A good sailor, but brutal. He always attacked, never allowed an enemy to surrender. Fishing smacks, galleys, wine ships from the Gironde. The pattern was always the same. We would pursue, pull alongside and the archers would loose. After that a boarding party would cross and-’
‘And?’
Ashby looked down at the floor.
‘And?’ Cranston repeated.
Ashby muttered something.
‘Speak up, man!’
‘There were never any prisoners. Corpses would be thrown overboard. Captured vessels of poor quality would be sunk. The others would be towed back to the nearest English port.’
‘Did anything untoward happen? Anything at all?’
‘Yes, on about the 11th October we captured a small fishing smack which had been trying to slip from one French port to another. I think it was heading towards Dieppe, but the wind blew it out to sea. We attacked and the ship was sunk. Nothing untoward except-’ Ashby put the bowl down and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘Captain Roffel seemed pleased, very pleased. You know, like a cat who has stolen the cream. Usually Roffel was a taciturn man, but I saw him walking on the poop and he was clapping his hands. It was the only time I ever heard him sing.’
‘And then what?’
‘A few days later he took to his cabin, complaining of stomach pains. However, the hold was full of booty so we put into Dover. I took Sir Henry’s share and came ashore. After that the God’s Bright Light put back to sea under Hubert Bracklebury, the first mate.’
‘Did Roffel send any letter ashore to Sir Henry?’
‘No, none whatsoever. They were business partners rather than friends. Sir Henry provided the money, Roffel did the pillaging.’ Ashby kicked the bowl with his foot. ‘They were murderers. Ospring was a devil from hell, he squeezed every penny from his tenants. He didn’t give a fig about God or man.’
‘Is that why you killed him?’
‘No,’ Ashby replied. ‘I did not kill him.’
Athelstan got up and looked at Cranston. ‘Sir John, we have learnt enough here.’
Cranston sighed and lumbered to his feet. Athelstan pointed to a large niche in the sanctuary.
‘Rest there,’ he said. ‘You have some ale and a blanket and bolster. When I return I will make you more comfortable.’
‘Father, is there anything I can do?’
Athelstan grinned and pointed to two heavy wrought-iron candlesticks on the altar.
‘Yes, you can clean those and trim the wicks of the candles.’ He looked down at Ashby. ‘You have a dagger?’
Ashby smiled and patted it.
‘Well, I would consider it a great favour if you could also scrape the candle grease from the floor. I will see you on my return.’ He pointed to Bonaventure sleeping at the base of the pillar. ‘And, if you get lonely, talk to the cat. He’s not a great conversationalist but he’s a wonderful listener.’
Athelstan followed Sir John out of the church.
‘Stay there, Sir John.’
Athelstan checked the stable. Old Philomel stood leaning against the stable wall, happily chewing on a bundle of hay. The priest patted him gently on the muzzle. Philomel snickered with pleasure and snatched another mouthful whilst Athelstan hastened to his house. He collected his cloak and the leather bag that contained his writing instruments, then he and Sir John strode down to the quayside. It was now past midday. The skies were overcast but the streets and alleyways were as frenetic as ever. Children ran screaming around the stalls. Beggars whined for alms. Hucksters, their trays slung around their necks, offered ribbons, pins and needles for sale. Athelstan glimpsed Cecily the courtesan standing outside a tavern door.
‘Go to the church, Cecily!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘We have a visitor.’ He tossed a coin, which she deftly caught. ‘Buy him one of Mistress Merrylegs’ pies!’
They passed the stocks, strangely empty. The commissioners of gaol delivery would not meet for another week; when they did, the stocks would be full of a week’s harvest of villains. Bladdersniff the ward bailiff, drunk as a lord, was sitting at the foot of the stocks chatting to Ranulf the rat-catcher, who kept stroking the pet badger that now followed him everywhere. Athelstan had even glimpsed it in church, the creature’s little muzzle peeping out from beneath Ranulf’s tarred, hooded cape. Both men shouted greetings. Athelstan replied, surprised that Sir John was so strangely quiet – usually the coroner commented on everything and everyone as they walked through the streets. Athelstan caught Cranston by the arm.
‘Sir John, what is wrong?’
Cranston took another swig from his wineskin and smacked his lips. He wrinkled his nose at the foul fish smell from the nets laid out to dry on the quayside.
‘I don’t know, Brother. This whole business is rotten. Ospring and Roffel were two murderous bastards and got what they deserved.’ He belched noisily. ‘But the disappearance of the watch from the God’s Bright Light, Roffel’s strange sickness and the unexplained stabbing of Sir Henry – it all adds up to nothing.’
‘Did you notice something strange about Ashby?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston grinned wickedly and touched Athelstan gently on the tip of his nose with his finger. ‘You are a cunning, conniving priest, Athelstan. I have learnt a lot from you. What’s that saying you sometimes quote? "Four things are important: the questions you ask, the answers you receive and . . ."?’
‘" . . . the questions you don’t ask and the answers you don’t receive",’ Athelstan filled in. ‘Never once did Ashby try and explain how Sir Henry died. He protested his innocence but gave us no information whatsoever. All he says is that he came into the room, saw the corpse and had his hand on the dagger when Marston interrupted him.’
‘And what else, my dear monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John, friar. Well, the lady Aveline, in better days at least, must be a lovely, comely woman.’
‘And?’
‘Never once did our young squire ask after her?’
Cranston sniffed. ‘You think there’s something wrong?’
‘Of course there is.’
‘Ashby’s protecting someone?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Aveline?’ Cranston asked.
‘But why should she kill her own father?’ Athelstan sighed. ‘We are going to have to choose our moment and ask that lovely lady a few pertinent questions.’
Cranston gripped Athelstan by the shoulder. ‘The whole business stinks like a manure heap at the height of summer. But, come on, let’s see this bloody ship and the mysteries it holds.’
They went down to the quayside steps. Athelstan glimpsed one of his parishioners, Moleskin, an old, wiry man, forever smiling, who boasted he could pull the fastest skiff on the Thames. He waved Athelstan and Cranston over and led them down the slippery steps. Within minutes, arms straining, muscles cracking, he was pulling them out across the choppy, misty Thames, past Dowgate to where the fighting ships were anchored opposite Queen’s hithe. The river mist was still thick, cloying, shifting ghost-like above the river. Occasionally Moleskin pulled in his oars as other skiffs, barges and bumboats plyed their way down-river. Now and again the mist broke and they glimpsed fat-bottomed Hanseatic merchantmen making their way to the Steelyard. Cranston leaned over and gave Moleskin directions. The man grinned, hawked and spat into the river.
‘You just keep your eyes on the river, Sir John.’
Cranston peered over his shoulder. Suddenly the mist shifted. A big cog loomed above them.
‘To the right! No, I mean to your left!’ Cranston shouted.
The oarsman grinned, and skilfully guided his craft under the stern of the ship, on which Cranston glimpsed the name Holy Trinity. Then they came alongside another ship, its timbers painted black, its mast soaring up into the mist as it gently bobbed on the Thames.