By Murder's Bright Light (17 page)

The church bell began to toll on the hour so Athelstan walked slowly back to the tavern. He had hoped to find Sir John. Instead, the two scrutineers sat smiling in unison, almost as if they had been sitting there since the previous evening.

‘We received your request, Brother Athelstan.’

‘I wish all my prayers were answered so swiftly,’ the friar replied.

‘And where is that excellent coroner?’

‘Involved in other business.’

‘And what, my dear priest, do you have to tell us?’

Athelstan again repeated the conclusions he had drawn after his conversation with Lady Aveline and showed both scrutineers the crudely drawn map. The smiles on their faces faded.

‘Very clever,’ Peter, the taller one, replied. ‘Very clever indeed. So, Brother, you think that Sir Henry told Roffel about the ship and our pirate captain sank it?’

‘In a word, yes. What puzzled Sir John and me is why?’

‘Well, that’s simple enough,’ the scrutineer replied. ‘Sir Henry may not have been a traitor, but he was certainly a thief and a murderer. You see, Brother, we thought the ship had been sunk because of our agents and the despatches they carried. Now, I confess, it was sunk because of the belt of silver one of our agents wore.’ The scrutineer waved Athelstan closer. ‘Let me explain. You know the treasury is empty. We therefore take loans at a high rate of interest from men like Sir Henry. We thought he could be trusted. He often landed agents in France. A week before Roffel sailed, we sent one of our agents, a young clerk, to Sir Henry, who provided him with warrants and papers and also gave him a large leather belt with a veritable fortune stitched in the secret pockets within it. Our agent and a companion were to go to Calais and then, on an appointed day, sail from there to Dieppe. That bastard Ospring—’ The scrutineer paused to draw in his breath. ‘I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I am losing my temper.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the other one replied.

‘No, no, I shouldn’t, but it’s apparent that Sir Henry Ospring lent the treasury that silver and saw to the despatch of the agent. He then informed his piratical friend Roffel when the man would sail from our garrison in Calais to Dieppe.’

‘Clever, subtle trickery,’ Paul the scrutineer interrupted. ‘Sir Henry lends his money at a high interest. The treasury is forced to repay it whilst Sir Henry steals back the original amount.’

‘Roffel and Ospring deserved to die,’ his companion declared. ‘Thieves, murderers, Ospring particularly. He met our young agent and, even as he gave him the silver, was planning his death. Believe me, friar, whoever killed Sir Henry Ospring deserves a pardon.’ He caught the smile on Athelstan’s face. ‘Does that amuse you, Brother?’

‘No, sir, it does not. But many a true word is spoken in jest. Sir John and I may return to you on that matter.’

‘What is important,’ Peter remarked, ‘is to discover if Roffel had any accomplices and to get that silver back.’

The two scrutineers got to their feet.

‘We entrust everything to your capable hands, Brother Athelstan,’ the taller one announced. ‘When the game is over and the full truth is known, come back to us.’

Sir John and Brother Athelstan sat at the head of a dusty table in a shabby room on the top floor of the Guildhall. Both stared at their truculent-faced guests. Emma Roffel, pale and anxious, looked eager to be away; Tabitha her maid crouched next to her like some frightened lap dog. At the far end of the room, Sir Jacob Crawley refused to meet their eyes but drummed his fingers on the table top, lost in his own thoughts. The men from the
God’s Bright Light
– Philip Cabe, Dido Coffrey, Vincent Minter and the master-at-arms Tostig Peverill – looked ill at ease. They had protested at being so peremptorily summoned, only to be roared into silence by Cranston who, to Athelstan’s despair, was now taking generous swigs from his wineskin. The coroner pushed the stopper back and beamed falsely around.

‘Everything we’ve been told is a pack of lies,’ he began sweetly. ‘Except that Captain William Roffel, God assoil him, was a pirate and a thief as well as a murderer.’

Emma Roffel made to protest but she closed her mouth and sat smiling wanly to herself.

‘I object to this,’ Cabe said. ‘Roffel can go to hell and probably has, but that’s no reason to insult us, Sir John.’

Cranston clicked his fingers at Coffrey, the ship’s clerk.

‘You brought the log book?’

‘Sir John,’ the man whined, ‘you looked at that when you first visited us.’

‘Well, I want to look at it again. I also have questions to ask all of you.’

Coffrey pushed the calfskin-bound book down towards him. Cranston, half-watching the admiral from beneath bushy eyebrows, opened the book and leafed through the water-stained parchment. The entries were innocuous enough – they gave the ship’s daily position, recorded the booty taken and noted the occasional alarum or occurrence on board. Cranston closed the book, keeping his podgy finger as a marker, and stared at Sir Jacob.

‘Captain Roffel was under your command?’

‘In theory, yes,’ the admiral replied. ‘But his orders were quite explicit. He was to sail the Narrow Seas, attack enemy shipping and give assistance to any English ship in need of it. But he was free to seek out and take any prizes he could.’

Cranston smiled. ‘In which case, why is there no mention here of a fishing smack, ostensibly French, taken outside Calais? The vessel was destroyed and its crew killed. I believe it was sailing to Dieppe.’

‘Roffel took many ships,’ Coffrey whined.

‘Yes,’ Cranston said. ‘But aren’t you supposed to enter them in the log? Why miss this one out?’

‘It was only a fishing smack,’ Cabe said. ‘Nothing more than a floating log with a ragged sail.’

Cranston, bristling with rage, glared down the table at him.

‘You are a bloody liar!’ he roared. There were men aboard that ship and they weren’t French. Or, at least, not all of them.’

‘These are treasonable matters,’ Athelstan pointed out softly. ‘If we do not get the truth, we can only draw the conclusion that you were accomplices in Roffel’s nefarious activities.’

Emma Roffel made to rise.

‘This is none of my business,’ she declared, clutching at the hem of her cloak. ‘Sir John, I beg you, I have been through enough.’

‘My lady,’ Athelstan answered tactfully, ‘this concerns you very much. Don’t you want to know who murdered your husband?’ He smiled and Emma Roffel sat down.

‘It’s true,’ Tostig Peverill spoke up, ‘that we took a fishing smack outside Calais.’ He blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘Calais is in English hands but we thought it was a French ship – sometimes they do hop between the coastal towns.’ He pointed to the log book. ‘On reflection, however, it was obvious that Roffel was waiting for it. You see, we were fighting a head wind, a blustery north-westerly, and we should have run before it. Roffel, however, insisted we kept into the headland, keeping the coast of France just over the horizon. On the day we took that fishing smack we let bigger craft sail by. When that one appeared, Roffel ran it down.’ Peverill looked around at his companions. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘We all thought it was suspicious. Although it was only a fishing smack, once we were alongside, Roffel ordered my archers to loose as if it was some bloody war cog. He then led the boarding party himself.’

‘How many crew did it have?’ Athelstan asked.

‘No more than six or seven,’ Peverill replied. ‘By the time we reached the deck they were all either wounded or dead. Roffel was like a raging bull and headed straight for the cabin.’ The master-at-arms paused.

‘Then what?’ Cranston asked.

‘None of the rest of us went on board that ship,’ Cabe interrupted. ‘Only Peverill, the captain and fifteen archers.’

‘But something happened?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Master Peverill?’

Peverill closed his eyes before continuing. ‘As I said, the crew were either wounded or dead. I thought they were Frenchmen – but as I turned one over he cursed me in English. Then I heard Roffel talking to someone in the cabin. I am sure the other voice was English. There was a scream and Roffel came out, grinning from ear to ear, carrying a bundle of papers, possibly the ship’s log and manifesto. We took a tun of wine we found below. Roffel ordered the smack to be burnt. He tossed the papers he’d taken into the fire and we sailed on.’

‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked.

Peverill spread his hands. ‘What more should there be, Father? Oh, I confess, looking back, there was something suspicious going on, but Roffel was a cunning, ruthless bastard, a law unto himself.’

‘The crew were French,’ Athelstan mused, ‘but Englishmen was on board. So it must have been from our garrison at Calais.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Coffrey conceded, looking sheepishly around, ‘Roffel was not a man to care about such niceties.’

‘And how—?’ Athelstan broke off as Cranston leaned back in his chair and gave a loud snore. Athelstan gazed in bewilderment at his fat friend, then blushed as he heard a snigger further down the table.

‘The fellow’s drunk!’ Cabe whispered.

‘Sir John is not drunk!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘But tired, exhausted after his labours. So, I ask my question of you, Master Cabe, and I’ll ask it more bluntly, do you know if more was taken from that vessel than a tun of wine and some papers?’

Cabe shook his head.

‘You are sure?’

Cabe raised his right hand. ‘I will take my oath upon it. As Peverill said, the whole business was suspicious. Roffel seemed as pleased as a pig in shit though the devil knows why.’

‘Who here,’ Athelstan asked, ‘would have access to Roffel’s cabin? Or, to put it more bluntly, who had the opportunity to put arsenic into the flask he carried?’

‘Only Bracklebury,’ Cabe replied. The captain was very jealous of his flask. When he wasn’t carrying it he hid it away.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps we should ask Bracklebury?’

‘Oh, I will.’

Cranston opened his eyes, smacking his lips.

‘Bracklebury is now a hunted man, Master Cabe.’ The coroner smiled at the astonishment on their faces. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you, last night Roffel’s whore Bernicia was brutally murdered in her house – or should I say his house? Anyway, the place was ransacked as if the murderer was looking for something. We believe that earlier in the evening Bernicia met a sailor, perhaps Hubert Bracklebury, at a secret drinking-place and that they left together.’

‘Bracklebury’s still alive?’ Emma Roffel whispered.

At the end of the table Crawley stirred. ‘But, Sir John, I thought he was either dead or had fled. Why jump ship and hide in London?’

‘Perhaps you could help us there, Sir Jacob,’ Cranston suggested, his face devoid of any compassion for his one-time friend.

‘What do you mean?’ Crawley stuttered.

‘You claimed to have stayed aboard your own flagship, ‘the
Holy Trinity,
the night Bracklebury disappeared.’

Crawley abruptly got to his feet. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, a word in private?’

Athelstan looked at Cranston, who shrugged.

‘Perhaps outside,’ Cranston murmured.

He and Athelstan rose and went out into the draughty corridor outside the room. Sir Jacob joined them, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘I know what you are going to say,’ Crawley stammered. ‘But, Sir John, you must believe me. I have an honest tongue, but I refuse to be interrogated in front of my men.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘For God’s sake, I have my honour. Perhaps you and Brother Athelstan will join me aboard ship for supper tonight?’

‘If you serve good food,’ Cranston replied, ‘we’ll come for that, as well as the truth. Now, come, I still have questions to ask the rest.’

They went back into the chamber where their forced guests sat in sullen silence. Athelstan could understand Emma Roffel’s isolation but he sensed also that the seamen had a great deal to hide.

‘We know,’ Athelstan began, as Sir Jacob and Cranston took their seats, ‘that something mysterious happened aboard the
God’s Bright Light.
Peverill’s story about the crew being frightened of ghosts may be accurate – Bracklebury wanted them off the ship for his own purposes. Using a lantern, he certainly sent signals to someone hiding on the quayside. And who could that have been?’

‘This is monstrous!’ Cabe blustered. ‘Bracklebury was first mate! He ordered us off the ship and we went. Ask my companions. We spent the night roistering together. I’ll be honest, we toasted Roffel’s death. But none of us went back to that quayside.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Cranston said testily. ‘But the mystery remains, Master Cabe. I think Bracklebury stayed on board to look for something.’

‘Such as what?’ Vincent Minter, the ship’s surgeon, who had sat tight-lipped throughout, now asserted himself. ‘Such as what, Sir John? You apparently know something we don’t, so why not tell us what it is, instead of trying to trap us?’

Cranston’s white moustache and beard seemed to take on a life of their own. Athelstan placed his quill down and tapped the coroner gently on the wrist.

‘Let me tell them,’ he said. His glance swept around the table. ‘We know, from another source, that Captain Roffel stole a great deal of silver from that fishing smack. This treasure had been sent by the exchequer to the king’s agents in Calais, as bribes or as payment for spies working in French-held towns. Roffel knew it was being sent. That’s why he attacked the vessel and killed its crew, including two of the crown’s good servants.’

Athelstan studied his listeners’ faces closely. He sensed that he was edging slowly towards the truth.

‘Roffel was happy with his crime,’ Athelstan continued. ‘He took that silver aboard the
God’s Bright Light
and hid it. We think that Bracklebury, after Roffel’s death, was looking for it.’ Athelstan picked up his quill and tapped it against the parchment. ‘Now, I thought, given all these facts – and they are facts – that Bracklebury may have seized the silver and fled. But this seems not to be the case. Apparently Bracklebury found nothing and fled the ship, perhaps after killing his two shipmates. I think that he believed he had been tricked and his suspicion fell on the whore Bernicia, hence the murder and the ransacking of Bernicia’s house.’ Athelstan spread his hands and smiled. That may only be conjecture, but I am certain Roffel stole that silver.’ He shrugged. ‘After that come the questions. Who killed Roffel? Where is the silver now? Why did Bracklebury flee? Why did he kill Bernicia?’ He stared down the table at Emma Roffel. ‘Mistress Roffel, now you see why you were summoned here.’