They went back into the church. Bladdersniff, swaying slightly, inspected the skeleton, sniffing and muttering to himself. He then stood straight, tucking his thumbs into his broad belt and announced, ‘It’s dead, and it’s a skeleton!’
Cecily and Benedicta immediately giggled. The bailiff looked suspiciously at Pike who had been standing behind him mimicking his every movement so accurately even Athelstan had to look away. The physician Culpepper was more helpful. He crouched down and examined the skeleton carefully.
‘No marks of any violence,’ he declared. ‘The bones are fine, subtle and fresh.’
‘So it’s been recently buried?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.
‘Ah, no.’ The old physician’s rheumy eyes met Athelstan’s. ‘You know London clay, Father. It can keep a bone nice and fresh, so God knows when this poor thing was buried. But,’ he continued, ‘I tell you this — the skeleton belongs to a young woman.’
‘How do you know?’
‘A mere guess, Father. But from the fineness of the bone, the contour of the ribs, arms and legs, I think I am right.’
Athelstan thanked them both and once again insisted that everyone leave the church, shooing them forward like a farmwife would a group of hens whilst shouting at the workmen to continue. Outside he ordered Watkin to allow no one in. His parishioners then gathered round Bladdersniff and Culpepper, full of eager questions. Benedicta touched Athelstan on the hand.
‘All will be well, Father. I am sure this mystery can be resolved very soon.’
He clasped her warm fingers between his. ‘Thank you, Benedicta. And may you be at peace as well. I will write that letter to Boulogne.’
He went back to his house, barring the door behind him. Bonaventure joined him, jumping through the open window, apparently as proud as a peacock after his successful hunt in the church. For a while Athelstan just sat and thought about what had happened, regretting the way his own peace of mind had been so abruptly disturbed. At last he sighed and got down his ink homs and rolls of parchment. He was finishing the final draft of his letter to the Dominicans outside Boulogne when he heard a gentle rap on the door.
‘Come in!’ he shouted.
Then he remembered he had locked himself in and got up, pulling back the bolts, half-expecting to see Benedicta. He was surprised to find Cranston standing there looking mournfully at him. Athelstan stepped back in astonishment and motioned him in. Cranston walked across the kitchen like a sleepwalker. Something’s wrong, Athelstan thought. The large, fat coroner usually arrived like the north wind, noisy and full of bluster.
‘Sir John, it’s pleasing to see your sweet face.’
‘Sod off!’ Cranston muttered, sliding on to a stool. ‘You got my message from that idle bugger Leif?’
Athelstan sat opposite him. ‘The Lady Maude?’
‘Aye, she’s well.’
‘And the two poppets?’ Athelstan chose the word Cranston often used to describe his twin sons.
‘Lusty and hungry.’ The coroner wiped his sweaty brow and pushed his fat, red face closer to Athelstan’s. The friar flinched at the anger seething in the icy blue depths of his eyes.
‘Sir John, you are out of sorts. A cup of wine?’
‘Bugger that!’ Cranston snapped. ‘What I need is a blackjack of ale. Let’s go to the Piebald!’
Athelstan agreed but groaned to himself.
‘What’s that you’re writing?’ Cranston tapped the letter with a stubby finger.
The friar explained and Cranston smiled slyly at him.
‘So, Benedicta might not be a widow any longer?’
‘Sir John, you do me wrong.’
‘Aye,’ Cranston murmured, pocketing the letter. ‘I’ll get the bloody thing sealed and sent. Then her husband will return, leaving you to moon over someone else.’
Athelstan bit back his hasty reply as Bonaventure jumped up on the window sill. He took one look at the coroner and Athelstan would have sworn that if a cat could smile Bonaventure did then. The old torn leapt outside and reappeared with a large rat between his jaws. He padded across and laid the grisly trophy at Cranston’s feet as if it were a rose or a goblet of silver. The coroner made a face and shifted his feet away.
‘Sod off, Bonaventure!’ he grumbled, but the cat’s delight at seeing the fat coroner only seemed to intensify as he rubbed briskly against Sir John’s stout leg.
‘Oh, come,’ Athelstan murmured.
He rose, picked up the dead rodent by the tail and, followed by a watchful Bonaventure, took it outside to throw it on to the grass. He went back and scrubbed his hands, then followed by a still muttering Cranston, left the house and crossed to the church.
Two of Watkin’s children stood on guard but Athelstan noticed with alarm that a number of people had gathered, talking excitedly amongst themselves and gesturing at the church door.
‘What’s the matter with those idle buggers?’ Cranston grumbled.
‘I’ll tell you in a while, Sir John.’
The Piebald tavern was quiet; the inhabitants of Southwards ugly alleys and packed tenements apparently enjoying the fine weather, either down by the river or in their own little garden plots. The one-armed ex-pirate who owned the tavern greeted Sir John like a longlost brother, ignoring the coroner’ scowls and muttered curses.
‘Some ale!’ Cranston roared. ‘Good and rich with a fine head! None of your Thames bilge!’ He tossed a coin at the fellow who caught it deftly.
‘And for you, Brother, a cup of watered wine?’
‘No, Sir John, after all it’s Sunday. I’ll have the same ale as you. I think I am going to need it.’
The taverner overheard him. His eyes crinkled in pleasure at the prospect of increased custom.
‘Aye, Father, we have all heard the story. St Erconwald’s will be famous.’
‘What story?’ Cranston muttered as they sat under the window for the breeze and light.
Athelstan took a deep breath and briefly explained what had been found in the church a few hours earlier. Cranston heard him out.
‘What do you think, Monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John. Remember, I am a friar.’
‘Who cares?’ the coroner snapped. ‘Do you think it’s the remains of some saint?’
Athelstan waited until the taverner had served them.
‘No, the church isn’t old enough. But matters aren’t helped when there are no records. The last incumbent fled with everything he could lay his hands on. You might know him Sir John? William Fitzwolfe.’
Cranston half-drained his tankard and rubbed his fleshy nose Athelstan watched expectantly. There wasn’t a rogue in London whom Cranston didn’t know of. The coroner blew out his lips.
‘Ah, yes, I remember the bastard: William Fitzwolfe defrocked and excommunicated. He has been on the list of people I would like to talk to for the last five years. The knave’s reputedly gone to ground in the city.’
‘What I also need,’ Athelstan added, ‘are the records of the church. What stood on the site before it was built and when the old sanctuary was paved.’
‘I can help you with that,’ Cranston replied. ‘The corporation has its own archives. I’ll get some idle clerk to hunt around and see what can be found.’
‘And Fitzwolfe?’
‘Well, if he’s a defrocked priest, guilty of sacrilege and every other crime in the book, there’ll be a price on his head. What I’ll do, my beloved friar, is increase the amount and tell my legion of informants that whoever lays this rogue by the heels, wins my favour. If you know the buggers like I do, they need that.’
‘Sir John, you are so generous.’
‘Bollocks! You haven’t asked why I have come.’
‘Another murder?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Cranston grinned evilly. ‘Now I’ve got you wondering! But, look, before I tell you the whys and the wherefores, let’s go back to that silly little church of yours. The light is fading, and I would like to have a peek at this mysterious skeleton.’
CHAPTER 3