By Murder's Bright Light

This title first published in Great Britain in 1994 under the pseudonym of
Paul Harding.

by Headline Book Publishing, Headline House

79 Great Titchfield Street, London W1P 7FN

eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1448300372 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

To John Brunton of Nottingham – many thanks

The great storm that had ravaged the south coast of England had now swept over the northern seas towards the ice lands where men, clad in deerskins, lit fires to nameless gods. The monkish chroniclers from London to Cornwall commented in detail how the storm was God’s judgement on a sinful kingdom. Indeed, God’s anger had been more than apparent in the last few months. A great French fleet under its pirate captain, Eustace the monk, had pillaged and plundered towns along the south coast. At Rye, in Sussex, the villagers had fled for sanctuary to their church. The French privateers had simply locked them in then burnt the place to the ground; they ignored the cries of those within as they loaded stolen carts with the silver objects, tapestries and food-stuffs looted from the ransacked houses.

The French fleet had withdrawn. Now London and its defences rested quietly as bleak autumn turned into freezing winter. Ships rode at anchor in the Thames, straining at their hawsers, their seamen resting and revelling in the city, leaving only skeleton crews on board to cry out the hours. But one ship, the big cog
God’s Bright Light,
was silent. The lantern high on its mast winked and blinked in the cold, grey light of dawn. The ship moved and creaked, floating gently to and fro on its anchor rope in the black, sluggish Thames. The cranes along St Paul’s Wharf opposite the ship were silent, the warehouse doors shuttered and padlocked. Only the occasional cat, foraging for fat-bellied mice and sleek rats, padded across the coils of oil-soaked ropes, the stacks of wood and the great hooped barrels of salt left there.

For the mice and rats it had been a night of plunder as they moved from the mounds of refuse and slipped under the doors of warehouses to nibble at sacks of grain and large, juicy hams wrapped in linen cloth. Of course, the vermin had to run the gauntlet of legions of cats who also hunted there. One rat, more daring than the rest, scuttled along the wharf, slithered down the wet, mildewed steps and swam out, its oily body bobbing on the river, towards the anchor rope of the
God’s Bright Light.
The rat was a keen hunter, so skilled and sly that it had survived three summers and grown grey around the muzzle. Cautiously it crept up the rope, using its small claws and tail, and slipped through the hawsehole on to the deck. There it paused, raising its pointed head to sniff. Something was wrong – its keen nose caught a sweaty odour mingled with perfume. The rat tensed, the muscles in its small black body bunching high in its shoulders. Its jet-black button eyes peered through the mist that trailed like a ghost around the deck; its ears strained into the silence, listening for the gentle swish of a cat’s tail or the harsh creak of timber as some other predator stalked the boards. But it saw or heard nothing untoward and began to edge forward. Then it stopped abruptly as it heard noises – the bump of a boat as it pulled alongside, followed by the sound of human voices. Recognising danger, it turned, went back to the hawsehole and scurried down the anchor rope. It slipped quietly into the water and swam back to shore and the waiting jaws of a mangy tomcat.

It was a small bumboat that had disturbed the rat; the voices were those of a sailor and his companion, a young doxy from the fishmarket just outside Vintry. The sailor was trying to persuade the prostitute, her blonde hair already soaked by the river mist, the garish paint on her face now running, to climb the rope ladder. He swayed drunkenly and rather dangerously in the boat.

‘Come on,’ he slurred. ‘Up you go! And, when you have pleasured me, you can have the rest! Each will pay a coin.’

The girl looked up at the precarious rope ladder and swallowed hard. The sailor had already been generous, paying her a whole groat. Now he had brought her back here for more tumbles with him and those poor unfortunates who had been left on guard as the ship’s watch. She watched him twirl a piece of silver in his fingers.

‘Marry and be damned!’ she cursed, using her favourite oath. She grasped the rope ladder and, with the sailor behind her pushing his hands up her skirts to urge her on, clambered over the bulwark and on to the deck. The sailor followed, tumbling alongside her, breathing heavily in a mixture of curses and subdued giggling. The girl got up.

‘Well, come on!’ she whispered. ‘Business is time and time is money. Where shall we do it?’

Her thin arms encircling the sailor’s waist, she pressed her body against his and began to move. The sailor grinned and grabbed the girl’s dyed hair, pulling her head against his chest. He was torn between the excitement in his loins and, beneath the befuddlement from the ale, a nagging suspicion that all was not well.

The ship’s too quiet,’ he muttered. ‘Bracklebury!’ he called. ‘Bracklebury, where are you?’

The girl squirmed. ‘Are you are one of those who like someone to watch?’ she whispered.

The sailor smacked her on the bottom and stared into the misty darkness.

‘Something’s bloody wrong!’ he muttered.

‘Oh, come on!’

‘Piss off, you little tart!’ He pushed the girl away and, holding on to the bulwark to keep himself steady, staggered along the deck.

‘Christ have mercy!’ he breathed. ‘Where is everybody?’ He looked out over the ship’s side, ignoring the whore, who sat huddled at the foot of the mast quietly grumbling, and stared across the misty river. Dawn was about to break; along the river he could see other ships and glimpse figures moving about on their decks. The cold morning air cleared the ale fumes from his mind.

‘They have gone,’ he whispered to himself.

He stared down at the dark, choppy waters of the Thames then looked back along the deck. The ship’s boat was still lashed to the deck. Ignoring the pleadings of the doxy, who still crouched at the foot of the mast, he ran to the stern castle and pushed open the cabin door. The oil lantern hanging on its heavy hook was still glowing merrily. Inside everything was undisturbed, all clean and neatly in order. The sailor stood stock-still, legs apart, letting himself roll with the gentle movements of the ship; he listened to the spars and timbers creaking and recalled the ghostly tales he and his companions had exchanged in the midnight watches. Was this the work of some magic? Had Bracklebury and the other two members of the crew been spirited away? They had certainly not left the ship in any natural way – the boat was still there and the freezing water would scarcely tempt even the most desperate sailor to swim for the pleasures of the city.

‘Bracklebury!’ he shouted, coming out of the cabin. Only the ship creaked and groaned in reply. The sailor looked up at the masthead, glimpsing the tendrils of mist swirling there.

‘What’s the matter?’ the doxy wailed.

‘Shut up, you bitch!’

The sailor walked back to the ship’s side. He wished he had never returned.

‘
God’s Bright Light?
he mocked under his breath. ‘This ship’s cursed!’

Captain Roffel had been a devil incarnate; even the sailor, hardened as he was by years of bloody fights at sea, had felt a flicker of pity at Roffel’s ruthless despatch of French prisoners. But now Roffel was dead, taken short by a sudden illness. His corpse, wrapped in oilskins, had been sent ashore; his soul probably went to hell. The sailor shivered and turned to the doxy.

‘We’d best raise the alarm,’ he said, ‘for what good that may do. Satan’s visited this ship!’

‘I accuse Eleanor Raggleweed of being a witch!’

Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London, moved his massive bulk behind his high, oak table. He ground his teeth in silent-fury as he gazed at the vixen-faced housewife from Rat-Tail Alley who stood pointing dramatically across the small chamber in the London Guildhall.

‘She is a witch!’ Alice Frogmore repeated. ‘And this’ – she pointed, equally dramatically, at the great fat toad squatting patiently in a metal cage on the floor –‘is her familiar!’

Cranston folded his hands across his enormous belly. He glared at the grinning scribe and smiled with false sweetness at Alice Frogmore.

‘You have made your allegation.’ He looked at the frightened Eleanor. ‘Now, please produce the proof!’

‘I have seen her!’ Alice trumpeted. ‘I have seen her in her garden at night, feeding her foul familiar with the sweetest bread and freshest milk. I have seen her talk to it and my husband also has proof!’

‘Step forward, Master Frogmore!’ Cranston boomed.

The man shuffled to stand by his wife. She, Cranston privately considered, looked more of a toad than the creature squatting in the cage: Alice Frogmore had little piggy eyes, almost hidden by rolls of fat, and her short squat arms hung determinedly either side of a rather bloated body. Cranston gazed at Master Frogmore. He hid a smile as he wondered how the two fared in bed, for Master Frogmore was thin as an ash pole, with straggly white hair, protruding teeth and the frightened eyes of a hunted hare.

‘Well, fellow,’ Cranston barked. ‘Have you seen anything?’

‘Yes, your excellency.’

‘"My lord coroner" will do.’

‘Yes, your excellency, my lord coroner.’

Cranston’s eyes darted to Osbert the scrivener, whose shoulders were beginning to shake with laughter.

‘Be careful, Osbert!’ Cranston whispered. ‘Be very, very careful!’ He stared at Frogmore. ‘Well, what did you see?’

‘It was on Walpurgis Night.’ Frogmore’s reedy voice dropped most dramatically. ‘The time of the Great Sabbat for witches. I saw Mistress Raggleweed go into the garden, light a candle and feed her hideous visitor from hell.’

‘How do you know about Walpurgis Night?’ Cranston interrupted, a look of mock innocence on his face. ‘You seem to know a great deal about witches, Master Frogmore?’

The man just hunched his shoulders.

‘And, more importantly, what were you doing spying on Mistress Raggleweed in the first place?’

‘I was in the garret of my house, mending the shutter on a window.’

‘In the dead of night?’ Cranston roared.

‘My wife told me to.’

Frogmore edged behind his wife, whose head was pushed forward, mouth set, cheeks bulging. Cranston wondered whether she was preparing to spit at him.

‘I need more proof than this,’ Cranston rasped. He scratched his bald pate, the cheery look disappearing from his merry face and ice-blue eyes. He glared at Alice Frogmore, whom he was beginning to name to himself ‘Mistress Toad’.

‘Sometimes,’ the woman shouted back, ‘that toad enters my garden and each time ill-fortune befalls me!’