‘We try to keep things neat and wholesome,’ the Fisher of Men informed Athelstan. ‘Death may be stinking, but life is fragrant.’
The Fisher of Men led them down the line of the dead, describing the various corpses. ‘This was a maid who committed suicide near Queenhithe. Oh, and this one,’ he pointed to one bundle where a clawed hand hung from beneath its cover, ‘this is Sigbert, who thought he was a swan and tried to fly from the bridge. But this,’ he added triumphantly, ‘is what you are looking for.’ He pulled back the cover to expose the Judas Man, naked except for a cloth over his groin, still drenched in river water and covered in green slime. Despite the liverish skin, the changes brought by death and the river, Athelstan immediately recognised the hunter of men. He lay, eyes half closed as if asleep, lower lip jutting out, the pallid white flesh slightly swollen.
‘That’s caused by the river,’ Icthus explained in his high-pitched voice. ‘The body always swells.’
Athelstan was more concerned by the dreadful black-red wound high in the man’s chest, and the feathered crossbow bolt embedded deep.
‘Do you want me to remove that?’ the Fisher of Men said.
‘No, no.’ Athelstan lifted a hand.
For a while, his companions remained silent as he quickly performed the rites for the dead.
‘He was a soldier,’ Cranston observed. ‘You can tell that from the wounds on his body — look at the cuts.’
‘A fighting man,’ Icthus agreed. ‘The muscles on his arms and shoulders are strong.’
‘If he was a fighting man,’ Cranston declared, ‘how was he killed like that? Whoever held that crossbow must have been very close. Where did you find him?’
‘Beneath London Bridge,’ Icthus replied. ‘We were out this morning looking for Sigbert. I saw him, floating near the starlings, the wooden supports. A great deal of rubbish is dumped there, the reeds cluster thick and rich. He was trapped by it, floating face down, pushed up by the reeds underneath, as well as the refuse.’
‘If he was there,’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, ‘where was he thrown into the river?’
‘He was found just under the bridge,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘almost beneath the chapel of St Thomas, so I would guess he was thrown directly over.’
‘But,’ Athelstan gestured at the corpse, ‘he’s stark naked. Even at night the bridge is busy. How does a fighting man allow an enemy to get so close and release that deadly crossbow? If he was killed on the bridge and fell over, then he would still be in his clothes, sword belt on. I find it hard to imagine someone meeting the Judas Man in the centre of London Bridge, killing him with a crossbow, stripping his corpse and throwing it over, without being observed. Are you sure he wasn’t killed elsewhere on the river?’
‘Brother, you know religion,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘and I know the Thames. I can’t give you all the answers, but this man was thrown over London Bridge and his corpse trapped in the reeds below.’
Athelstan examined the corpse but could find no other wound, no blow to the head or stab wound to the back. He crossed himself and walked out of the barque, plucking at the Fisher of Men’s sleeve.
‘Tell me now,’ he said, ‘another matter. How many years have you worked here?’
‘I know what you are asking.’ The Fisher of Men shaded his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun. ‘It’s my business to know everything which goes on along the river. The robbery of the Lombard treasure? I was here then. I and my company.’ He made a face. ‘Though it was different then. Icthus was yet to be born, but his father was just as good. Well, we were paid to comb this river for the treasure. I swear the only thing we found was that barge, many miles downstream, trapped in the reeds where it is very marshy, few people go there.’
‘So do you think the attack took place at the Oyster Wharf?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I don’t. I never did. Quaysides are busy places.’
‘So why do you think you were told to look there?’
‘I don’t know. Our orders were to comb both sides of the river as far down as Westminster. Apart from that barge there was nothing else.’
‘And the barge?’ Cranston asked.
‘Empty, nothing but a floating piece of wood.’
‘Tell me,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you know the Thames. If you had to wait at night to take possession of a treasure chest, without others knowing or being seen?’
The Fisher of Men pointed south-east across the river.
‘Somewhere between Southwark and Westminster, where the banks are flat and firm, and you can see both the river and the land behind you.’
‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan asked, ‘for four men to be killed and their bodies to be-’
‘Hidden? Weighted down?’ the Fisher of Men asked. ‘I doubt it. Perhaps one corpse, but four? I know the story, Brother. If those four men were attacked at the dead of night, their assailants would be moving quickly, clumsily. You can tie rocks to a corpse, weigh down its clothes, but time and the river will take care of that. I’ve always said this, and I’ll say it again: if those men were killed by the riverside, their corpses were taken elsewhere.’
‘Buried along the banks?’ Cranston asked.
‘But that would take time,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘You’re not talking of a shallow grave, but a burial pit. I know enough about the river. Earth and soil are shifted; eventually their bodies would be uncovered.’
The Fisher of Men clasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘If you ever wish to become our chaplain, Brother, you are most welcome. You are correct. If those men were killed, their corpses must have been taken away. Is there anything more I can do to help?’
Athelstan shook his head, clasped the man’s hand and made their farewells to Icthus and the rest of the company.
‘Where to now?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan walked up an alleyway leading from the quayside.
‘Why, Sir John, the bridge.’
Athelstan kept to the alleyways as he and Cranston discussed what they had seen and heard at the Barque of St Peter. The coroner was full of observations. Athelstan, half distracted, kept thinking about what the Fisher of Men had said. How could four strong men be attacked at the dead of night, so swiftly, so deadly, their corpses removed, as well as the treasure?
He was still thinking about this when they reached the bridge and walked along its thoroughfare, stopping every so often to examine the gaps between the houses and shops built on either side. Some of these places were nothing more than short, thin alleyways leading down to the high rails overlooking the gushing water. Athelstan went into the Chapel of St Thomas, but quickly realised no one could bring a corpse in there. He went out, further down, until they came to the great refuse mound, piled high between two wooden slats with a third behind; this served as a drawbridge. Cranston explained how, when the cords were released, the slat would fall, and the be tipped into the river. The front of the lay stall was a high wooden board. Two young boys, pushing a wheelbarrow, loosened the pegs, pulled the board down and, wheeling their barrow in, tipped the rubbish out. The area around the lay stall was free of any encumbrance and the passers-by hurried along, clutching their noses, pulling cloaks up or using pomanders against the awful stench. The rubbish was a dark slimy mass: broken pots, scraps of clothing, the refuse of citizens, piled high to be fought over by rats, cats, and the gulls which wheeled screaming above them, angry at being disturbed from their feasting.
‘Must we stay here, Brother?’
‘That’s where the Judas Man was tossed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I’m sure of that. Buried deep in the rubbish. When that trap door was lowered, his corpse fell, into the river. Sir John, I’ve seen enough.’
They hurried across the bridge. Athelstan agreed with Sir John to stop at a small ale house to wash, as the coroner put it, the dirt and smell from their noses and mouths. Cranston persisted in questioning Athelstan about the lay stall on London Bridge, but the friar sat on a stool as if fascinated by the chickens pecking in the dust just outside the ale-house door. He seemed particularly interested in the carts which passed, and although Sir John asked him questions, Athelstan replied absent-mindedly; he even began to hum the ‘Ave Maris Stella’ under his breath.