By Murder's Bright Light (7 page)

‘It’s taken to a warehouse,’ Crawley explained, ‘and guarded until it’s sold. I collect the proceeds. Some goes to the crew, with a large portion for the captain, some to the exchequer. Of course, Sir Henry, if he had been alive, would have received his portion.’

‘Go on,’ Athelstan urged, looking at Cabe.

‘Well, the crew were given shore leave. We began to check the ship for damage done, repairs to be made, stores to be bought.’

‘And Roffel’s body?’

‘Oh, the first mate, Bracklebury, took that ashore at first light – that and the captain’s personal possessions. He handed them over to his widow.’

‘Were there any visitors during the day?’

‘I came on board,’ Crawley replied, ‘for the usual inspection and routine questions.’

‘You were not upset that you’d lost a good captain?’

Crawley shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a good captain, Father. He was a good seaman. Personally, I couldn’t stand him. I know, I know, the man’s dead, God rest him, but I’ll say it now, I did not like him!’

‘Then in the afternoon,’ Cabe quickly picked up the conversation, ‘as is the custom, some whores came on board.’ He looked away sheepishly. ‘You know how it is, Father? Men at sea for some time, especially the young ones, if they don’t get their greens, they desert.’

Cranston coughed. ‘And the whores did their business?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Cabe replied tartly. ‘They stood in the stern and sang carols!’ He caught the warning look in Cranston’s eyes. ‘Of course they did, but we had them off the ship before darkness fell, when most of the crew left.’

‘Were there any other visitors?’

‘Bernicia,’ Minter the surgeon said with a smirk.

‘Who’s she?’

Now even Crawley was smiling.

‘Well, come on man, share the joke!’

‘She’s a whore, Sir John. Well, Roffel’s mistress. A pretty little thing. She has a house in Poultney Lane near the Lion Heart tavern. She didn’t know that Roffel was dead.’

‘And?’

‘When we told her the captain was dead, coffined and sent to his wife, she started blubbing. We let her stay for a while in the captain’s cabin, smacked her bottom and sent her ashore. No more bloody fingers for her.’

‘What do you mean, bloody fingers?’ Cranston asked.

Cabe leaned forward, out of the shadows.

‘When we took ships, Sir John, we were always in a hurry. We boarded them, despatched the crew, grabbed the plunder, sank the ship and left. Roffel always scrutinised every corpse for valuables, particularly rings. If they didn’t come off fast enough, he hacked the fingers off. He thought it was a joke. He used to give the rings, fingers still in them, to Bernicia his doxy.’

Athelstan looked away in disgust. He had heard about the war at sea, bloody and vicious on both sides, but Roffel seemed the devil incarnate. No wonder his wife could hardly be described as the grieving widow.

‘And after Bernicia had left?’ Cranston asked.

‘Everything was done. Bracklebury fixed the watch – himself and two other reliable fellows. We had our purses full of coins, so we took a bumboat and went ashore.’

‘Wasn’t the watch rather small in number?’ Cranston asked.

‘Not really,’ Crawley said. The ships are moored in fine on the Thames. An officer and at least two men should stay on each vessel, one at the stern and one in the bows.’ His eyes fell away.

‘But not really enough?’ Cranston insisted.

This is the devil’s own ship, Sir John,’ Coffrey said. ‘We wanted to get off. Especially after . . .’

‘After what?’ Athelstan asked quietly.

‘Children’s nightmares.’ Crawley laughed. I’ve heard of this.’

‘During the afternoon,’ Cabe explained, ‘when the day began to die and the mist started rolling in, some of the men said the ship was haunted by Roffel’s ghost.’ He shrugged. ‘You know sailors. We’re a superstitious lot. They talked of feeling cold, of an unseen presence, of scrabbling noises from the hold. They put this to the mate, he asked for two volunteers to stay, the rest of us went ashore.’

‘So, after dark,’ Athelstan said, ‘there was only the mate and two of the watch? Did anyone here approach the ship?’

There was a chorus of denials.

‘But we keep in contact,’ Crawley explained. ‘On every hour, when the candle flame reaches the ring, the password is sent along from ship to ship by speaking trumpet. On the half-hour, a shuttered lantern on each ship sends three quick flashes of light as a sign that all is well.’

‘So.’ Athelstan stretched. ‘Further up the river you have the
Holy Trinity.
The watch on that ship would pass the message to the
God’s Bright Light.
A password on the hour, a lantern flashing every half-hour?’

Crawley nodded.

‘And was this done?’

‘The watch on the
Holy Trinity
did it.’

‘But did the
God’s Bright Light
pass it on to the
Saint Margaret?
’

‘Oh yes,’ Crawley replied. ‘That’s where the mystery comes in. You see, Father, the
Holy Trinity
is my own ship. I let my men go ashore and I myself commanded the night watch.’

‘And the messages were sent from you?’

Crawley nodded. ‘At five o’clock I sent on the password, through a speaking trumpet. At half-past five the lamp winked three times.’

‘And at six?’

‘Ah, there were no more messages. One of the crew returned with a whore. He found the ship deserted and raised the alarm. He forced the whore to help him and rowed, with her screaming and shouting, over to my ship. I and my two men went aboard. It was like a ghost ship. The cabin was tidy, the decks in order, nothing amiss. The lantern on top of the mast was still burning as was the shuttered lantern in its recess outside the cabin door. No mark of violence, nothing missing.’

‘So’ – Athelstan picked up his quill to make a few more notes – ‘let us say this sailor returned fifteen minutes after the last message was sent and fifteen minutes before the password. According to his story and to yours, Sir Jacob, in that time three able-bodied sailors disappeared from this ship?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘And the ship’s boat wasn’t missing?’

‘No!’ Crawley snapped his fingers. ‘You might as well question the man yourself.’

Cabe went out and returned with the monkey-faced fellow who had first greeted them; he told his story in a strange, sing-song accent and it agreed exactly with what Cranston and Athelstan had already been told.

‘As you approached the ship,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you notice anything untoward?’

‘No, Father.’

‘And once on deck?’

‘Quiet as a grave.’

Athelstan thanked him and the fellow left.

‘Could someone have come aboard by boat?’ Cranston asked. ‘And left again after inflicting some terrible damage?’

‘Impossible,’ Cabe replied. ‘First, the watchers on the other ships would have seen it.’

There was a river mist,’ Cranston pointed out.

‘No.’ Cabe shook his head. ‘Even if you were half-asleep you’d hear the splatter of the oars, the boat bumping alongside. Secondly, any approaching boat would have been hailed. Thirdly, Bracklebury would have fought any boarders. The sound would have carried and the alarm raised. None of this happened. Everything was in order. Even the galley. We haven’t touched it.’

‘There’s one possibility,’ Cranston suggested. ‘Maybe the mate and the two sailors abandoned ship? Swam to the shore and disappeared?’

‘Why should they do that?’ Cabe asked. ‘And if they did, someone on the other ships would surely have seen them.’

Coffrey spoke up. ‘This is the devil’s ship, Sir John. Many of the men think Satan came aboard to claim Roffel’s spirit for his own and took Bracklebury and the others with him!’

Athelstan shivered; even by these cynical, hardened men, Coffrey’s pronouncement was not disputed.

Cranston and Athelstan brought the meeting to an end and the seamen went back to their duties. The admiral took Cranston and Athelstan around the ship, showing them the broad deck, the cavernous, smelly hold partitioned into sections, the primitive living quarters of the crew and archers, the storage space for weapons and the small, fetid galley. Everything was clean and in order, though Athelstan flinched as the occasional dark, furry rat scampered across the deck or scurried along the timbers.

‘Was anything amiss when the ship was inspected?’

Crawley shook his head. ‘Not even in the galley. The cups were cleaned and the fleshing knives back on their hooks.’ Crawley rubbed the side of his face. ‘It was as if a devil had climbed on board and simply swept all three sailors away.’

‘And there’s been no sign of them since?’

‘None whatsoever.’

Crawley took them back on deck and summoned a bumboat. The coroner and Athelstan took their leaves and clambered down, Sir John muttering that he was no wiser than when he arrived.

‘Where to now?’ Athelstan asked, settling himself in the stern next to Cranston.

As they were rowed back across the choppy Thames towards Queen’s hithe the coroner studied the darkening sky.

‘It’s late,’ he murmured, ‘but perhaps we should inspect Captain Roffel’s corpse before the requiem is sung and he is committed to the grave.’

Cranston and Athelstan found the church of St Mary Magdalene on the corner of Milk Street cloaked in darkness. The parish priest, Father Stephen, had been asleep in his chair before a roaring fire in the presbytery. He greeted them owl-eyed, his aged face heavy with sleep, but he greeted them kindly. He held up the lantern and peered at the coroner.

‘God bless my tits!’ he said. ‘It’s Sir John!’

Cranston shoved his face closer. ‘Why, it’s Stephen Grospetch!’

The two men shook each other warmly by the hand.

‘Come in! Come in!’ the priest invited. ‘I have heard of your exploits, Sir John, but you are too busy for old friends.’

Cranston tapped him affectionately on the shoulder and smacked his lips.

‘Yes, Sir John, I have some claret.’ Grospetch pulled two stools before the fire. ‘Sit down! Sit down! Father Athelstan?’

The priest gripped Athelstan’s hand as the coroner finished his introductions.

‘Well, well, well, Cranston and a Dominican. You always told me you didn’t like friars, Sir John.’ Father Stephen winked mischievously at Athelstan.

‘You are a lying mongrel!’ Cranston answered, pretending to be cross. He eased himself on to a stool, spreading his great hands before the flames. Father Stephen bustled about bringing cups of claret. Athelstan thought it was a miracle he didn’t trip, for the room was shrouded in darkness, except for the single candle on its spigot and the light from the roaring fire.

The old priest sat in his chair. He toasted Cranston and Athelstan, slurping merrily from his wine cup.

‘This priest,’ Cranston explained, turning to Athelstan, ‘was chaplain in the retinue of the Prince Edward. He could say the quickest Mass and sometimes had to. The French were bastards’ – the coroner glowered – ‘they never gave us time to finish our prayers.’

For a while Father Stephen and Cranston exchanged pleasantries and news of old comrades. Then the old priest put his cup on the floor and rubbed his hands.

‘Right, Sir John. You are not here to kiss my lovely face. It’s business isn’t it?’

‘Captain William Roffel,’ Cranston replied.

‘Gone to God,’ the priest said. ‘And where to next is up to the good Lord.’

‘Why do you say that, Father?’

‘Well, he was in my parish yet I never saw him or his wife darken my church. She came to see me yesterday. She wanted a Christian burial for her husband and paid a fee for a Mass to be said. Last night, I received the corpse, all encased in its cedar coffin. It now lies before the high altar and will be buried tomorrow.’

‘So you know nothing about the Roffels?’

‘Not a thing. The wife was calm. She claimed other business had kept her from attending our church.’

‘So, she wasn’t the grieving widow?’

‘Now, Sir John, don’t be harsh. She was very agitated.’ The old priest shrugged. ‘But I get many such requests. And you know canon law? Unless a person has been publicly excommunicated, Christian burial must be provided as speedily as possible.’

‘And did she hire mourners? You know, people to keep vigil.’

‘She and her maid attended when the corpse was received into the church. They went away. Mistress Roffel returned just before midnight and I allowed her to stay there until dawn this morning.’

Cranston looked over the old priest’s shoulder and winked at Athelstan. But Father Stephen was quicker than he seemed and caught the glance.

‘Come on, you old rogue, what do you want?’

‘Father, is it possible for us to look at the corpse?’

The priest rubbed his lips. ‘It’s against canon law,’ he replied slowly. ‘Once a corpse has been sheeted and coffined—’

‘God would want it!’ Athelstan broke in quietly. ‘Father Stephen, on my oath as a fellow priest, terrible crimes may have been committed.’

‘You mean Roffel?’

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied brusquely. ‘He may have been murdered.’

Father Stephen stood and picked up his cloak. He lit a lantern and shoved it into Athelstan’s hand.

‘As soon as I clapped eyes on Cranston,’ he grumbled, ‘I knew it was bloody trouble.’

Returning the banter, Cranston and Athelstan followed the priest out into the cold, wind-swept churchyard. Father Stephen unlocked the church door and they entered. Athelstan later swore that he would never forget the scene awaiting them. The nave of the church was black and cold. The lantern’s flickering light made it all the more eerie as they walked up towards the sanctuary. They all stopped, Cranston cursing, as a loose window shutter banged shut.

‘That shouldn’t happen,’ Father Stephen whispered. He took the lantern from Athelstan, walked past the pillars and into the transept. He stopped and looked up at where the shutters clattered against the stonework.

‘I closed these,’ Father Stephen explained over his shoulder, his words ringing hollow through the church. ‘There’s no glass here, so anyone can get in.’

Athelstan walked over. He took the lantern and held it close to the ground.