by Paul Doherty
The coroner extended a podgy hand. The landlord grasped it and smiled.
‘I have heard of you. I am Richard Crawley, one-time ship’s master, now lord of all I survey. I know why you are here or can I guess? Roffel’s death. God damn him!’
‘You didn’t like him?’
‘Like my cousin, Sir Jacob, I hated Roffel’s guts. He was a bad bastard and I hope he gets what he richly deserves, rotting in hell—’ He broke off suddenly and shouted at a scullion. ‘By a mermaid’s paps! Hold that platter straight! You’re listing like a scuppered ship!’
‘Why did you hate him?’
‘Why not? The same reason as Sir Jacob. I had a half-brother,’ the landlord continued, lowering his voice, ‘a good sailor, plying the cloth trade between the Cinque Ports and Dordrecht. His ship went down with all hands. Roffel was cruising in the vicinity at the time. He blamed the French. I blamed him.’
‘But you did business with him?’
‘Of course I bloody well did – and charged him highly for it. A Scotsman, he liked his drink, usquebaugh. I bought it in cask from Leith in Scotland and sold it at treble the price to that evil bastard. He always filled his flask before he left for any voyage. Roffel knew, to the last drop, how much he had left.’
‘Do you have any of it now?’
‘Yes,’ Richard replied, ‘and I’ll finish it myself one day and toast his black soul with every drop.’
‘May we see it?’ Athelstan asked.
The landlord shrugged and, going back into the scullery, returned with a cask about a foot wide and a foot across with a small tap in the bottom. He took a battered pewter cup from the shelf, ran a few drops into it and handed it to Cranston.
‘Taste that!’
Sir John did, drinking it down in one gulp while the landlord grinned evilly.
‘Shitting ships!’ Cranston exclaimed. His face turned puce and he coughed. ‘Satan’s balls! What in hell is that?’
‘Usquebaugh, Sir John. Do you like it?’
Sir John smacked his lips. ‘Hot,’ he said. ‘Strong at first, but it certainly warms the belly. How many barrels do you have of this?’
‘Just the one cask.’
‘And before he sailed on his last voyage Roffel filled his flask from it himself?’
‘Oh, of course, he did. And then he drank some, a small cup.’
Athelstan, who was half-watching a Portuguese sailor feed his pet monkey, which was climbing all over his shoulders, looked at the landlord in surprise.
‘He drank some here?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The landlord turned and glared towards the clamour from the kitchen. ‘Sir John, if you have no more questions, I have a trade to follow.’
Cranston muttered his thanks and they left the tavern. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. The coroner gripped Athelstan’s shoulder.
‘It can’t have been the usquebaugh can it, Brother? Or the flask?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, not if Roffel drank some here and suffered no ill effects.’ He shook his head as he and the coroner trudged up the rain-soaked street.
‘Aren’t we going in the wrong direction, Sir John? Shouldn’t we be going to Roffel’s house?’
‘Ah, no, there’s someone else.’ Cranston stopped and took a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘As I said, Brother, someone who knows and watches what goes on along the river.’
At the corner of the alleyway the coroner suddenly stopped and turned quickly. The two figures at the other end of the alleyway didn’t bother to hide. Athelstan followed the coroner’s gaze.
‘Who are they, Sir John?’ He strained his eyes. Dressed in brown robes, the figures looked like Benedictine monks. ‘Are they following us?’
‘They have been with us most of the time,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s leave them for a while.’
They walked on, across Thames Street, down towards Vintry, then turned right past the warehouses and along Queen’s hithe towards Dowgate. A thick, cloying mist boiled over the river, hiding the ships that rode at anchor there.
‘Where are we going?’ Athelstan demanded.
‘Patience, my dear friar. Patience!’
They walked along the quayside. Cranston peered into the dark corners then suddenly stopped.
‘Come out!’
A ragged, hooded figure shuffled forward. As the man came closer, Athelstan saw the rags swathed across his face and around his hands and tried to hide his revulsion. The man moved in an ungainly shuffle and, as he did so, he rang a small bell.
‘Unclean!’ the ghastly figure croaked. ‘Unclean!’
‘Oh, bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘I doubt if I’ll catch leprosy!’
The man stopped a few paces from them. To Athelstan he seemed like some apparition from hell, with the rags covering his face and hands, the dark cowl pulled well forward. Now and again tendrils of mist would drift between them.
‘These are the gargoyles,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Cripples, beggars and lepers. They work for the Fisher of Men. They take corpses from the Thames, murder victims, suicides, those who have suffered accidents as well as drunks. If the man’s alive, they earn tuppence, for murder victims three pence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’
‘You wish to meet the Fisher of Men?’ the leper croaked.
‘That’s right, my jolly lad!’ Cranston called back. And, taking a penny from his pocket, he flicked it at the man who, despite his disability, neatly caught it in one hand.
‘Tell the Fisher of Men old Jack Cranston wants a word.’ He pointed down the alleyway. ‘I’ll meet him in the alehouse there.’
‘And what business shall I say?’
‘The God’s Bright Light. He’ll know,’ Cranston added to Athelstan. ‘Nothing happens along the riverside without the knowledge of the Fisher of Men.’
The leper disappeared. Cranston led Athelstan down the alleyway into a small, smelly alehouse with only one window high in the wall. It was dark and dank, lit by smoky tallow candles and smelly oil lamps, but the ale was rich and frothy, the blackjacks clean and the tables and stools neatly wiped.
‘You have met the Fisher of Men?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes, you introduced us some months ago,’ Athelstan replied.
Cranston stuck his nose into his tankard but his eyes never left the doorway.
‘Here he comes.’
The doorway became black with huddled figures, cowled and hooded like the one they had met on the quayside. The tapster nervously waved them back but they crouched at the threshold, staring into the tavern like a huddle of ghosts peering into the land of the living. Their leader, the Fisher of Men, came from amongst them, walked soundlessly towards the coroner and Athelstan and, without invitation, sat down on the stool between them. He pulled back his hood revealing a face as sombre as any death mask – alabaster white, thick-lipped and snub-nosed, with black button eyes. Red, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. He pointed a lanky finger at Cranston.
‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’ The finger moved. ‘And you are Athelstan, his secretarius or clerk, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. Sir John, Lady Maude went shopping today. Brother Athelstan, your sanctuary man is safe. He is helping your parishioners prepare the stage for their mystery play.’
Athelstan smiled at the Fisher of Men’s implicit boast at how much he knew.
‘But we are not here to exchange gossip,’ the Fisher of Men continued. Again the finger pointed. ‘Three days ago the ship so inappropriately called God’s Bright Light dropped anchor opposite Queen’s hithe. The captain’s corpse was taken ashore. His soul has gone to God’s judgement . . .’ The voice trailed away.
‘And what else do you know?’ Cranston asked.
The man spread his hands and indicated with a nod of his head the group in the doorway.
‘Sir John, of your mercy I have my brethren to feed.’
Cranston pushed a silver coin across the table. The Fisher of Men plucked it up.
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‘You do me great honour, Sir John. The ship was berthed and that night the crew and their doxies went ashore. I know because I had one of them. Fresh and clean she was. Black curly hair, merry eyes, active and vigorous as a puppy in my bed.’
Athelstan fought to control his face at the image of this strange figure making love to a young whore.
‘Very good,’ Sir John interrupted hastily. ‘And?’
‘Three men were left on board, one in the bows, one at the stern, the mate in the middle. Or rather, he kept to the cabin.’
‘And?’ Cranston insisted.
‘Oh, a whore, a male whore’ – the Fisher of Men grimaced – ‘came down about midnight to the quayside. However, she, or he, depending on your viewpoint, was driven off by a stream of curses from the ship.’ The Fisher of Men played with his lank hair. ‘The sailor on board sounded drunk, but the signals and passwords continued to be perfect!’
‘And nothing happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh yes, about two hours after midnight a small craft approached the ship.’
‘From the river bank?’
‘Oh no, from the admiral’s cog, the Holy Trinity. Two men were in it.’
‘And then what?’
‘The small boat was there for just over an hour, but then it returned.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, the password and the signals still continued.’
‘Did anything else happen?’ Cranston asked.
‘A sailor returned just before dawn and the confusion began.’
‘But the watch?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘What happened to the watch?’
The Fisher of Men licked his lips, reminding Athelstan of a frog which could see something savoury. ‘If the river has them,’ the fellow replied, ‘It will caress and kiss them and put them ashore.’ His face became solemn. ‘I and my brethren have already looked, but we have found nothing. We did not see them go in. Perhaps we shall not see them come out.’
‘But if you find them you will tell us?’
The man looked down at the silver coin in his hand. Cranston pushed another piece towards him. The Fisher of Men picked it up, got to his feet and gave them a solemn bow.
‘You are my friends,’ he declared. ‘And the Fisher of Men never forgets. In the name of my brethren, I thank you.’
He slipped out of the alehouse and the gargoyles, chattering and clattering, followed him down the alleyway.
‘Let’s see Crawley.’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Our dear admiral has been lying through his teeth and I think we should know the reason why. But first, Mistress Roffel. Come on, Brother, sharpen your wits and open your ears. Let’s see what our good widow has to say for herself.’
They left the quayside. The clouds were beginning to break up as the daylight died. The streets were busy with apprentices and traders packing away the stalls. The huge dung-carts were out, trying to clear the swollen sewers. Athelstan saw one of the dung-collectors cheerfully pick up the bloated corpse of a cat and throw it with a thud into the cart. Beggars whined for alms. Mangy dogs strutted, stiff-legged, tails up, fighting and snarling over the piles of refuse. At the corner of an alleyway, Cranston stopped and peered over his shoulder.
‘Our friends are still with us.’
Athelstan turned quickly and glimpsed the two monk-like figures a good thirty paces behind him.
‘Do you recognise them, Sir John?’
‘They are not monks,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are clerks, royal officials from either the chancery or the exchequer. If they are from the latter then God help us!’
Athelstan caught Cranston’s arm. ‘Why, Sir John?’
‘The exchequer,’ Cranston replied, ‘has a group of very secret, sharp-witted officials called scrutineers. They deal with many matters – debts owing to the crown, royal prerogatives, but they also handle foreign matters, particularly the financing of spies and clandestine missions abroad.’
‘Shouldn’t we confront them?’ Athelstan asked.
Sir John smiled bleakly. ‘If we walk back, they’ll retreat. They’ll choose the moment and the place to approach us.’
Athelstan stared up as they approached a large town house, his attention caught by the tilers working there. He stopped and stared.
‘Come on, Athelstan!’ Cranston shouted.
Athelstan watched the men working, smiled and hurried on. Sir John paid a link boy a penny to lead them to Mistress Roffel’s house, a narrow, three-storeyed building pushed between a haberdashery shop and an ironmonger’s. The windows were all shuttered up, the wooden slats covered with black drapes as a sign of mourning. Athelstan lifted the iron knocker, crafted in the shape of a ship’s anchor, and brought it heavily down.
CHAPTER 7
Emma Roffel and her maid Tabitha entertained Sir John and Brother Athelstan in the downstairs parlour. The chamber was nondescript. Fresh rushes covered the floor but the room was devoid of any wall hangings and the table and chairs were old and rather battered. Emma Roffel followed Cranston’s gaze.
‘Not the house of a successful sea voyager, eh, Sir John?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘But Captain Roffel was tight-fisted with his monies. And you’ve met his creature, Bernicia, with her pretty face and tight bum?’
Athelstan stared at this hard-faced woman, who was so cold and distant about her husband’s death. Athelstan admired her honesty. He remembered a maxim he had heard – ‘the opposite of love is not hate but indifference’.
‘Was it always like that?’ he asked.
Tears welled in the woman’s eyes.
‘Mistress, I did not mean to upset you.’
Emma Roffel looked over his head, fighting to keep her face impassive.
‘You do not.’ Her eyes took on a haunted, distant look as her mind conjured up visions, ghosts from the past. ‘Roffel was a priest, you know. A curate in the parish of St Olave’s in Leith just outside Edinburgh. My father owned a fishing smack and Roffel was interested in the sea. Sometimes he would go fishing with my father.’
‘Did you ever accompany him?’
Emma smiled bleakly. ‘Of course not. I fear the sea. It’s taken too many good men.’
‘What happened?’ Athelstan persisted. Like all priests, he was fascinated by those of his brethren who left their calling for the love of a woman.
Emma sighed. ‘William couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Rumours abounded about his relationships with certain widows in the town. Eventually the archdeacon intervened, but by then William and I had met and fallen deeply in love.’ She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve. The archdeacon was furious and my father threatened violence, so we fled across the border. At first to Hull, then south to London.’ She licked her lips. ‘In the beginning, I thought we were in paradise. William soon proved to be a fine seaman – competent, effective, a firm disciplinarian.’ She laughed sourly. ‘But then he met Henry Ospring. A friendship formed in hell. Ospring gave him money and hired a small ship and William turned to piracy. Sir Henry also introduced him to the fleshpots of the city. I was pregnant when I first found out about his—’ She pulled a face. ‘When I found out that he had a passion for fondling the bottoms of young boys.’ She rocked herself quietly in her chair. ‘I lost my baby. I also lost William and William lost me. We began the descent into our own private hells. We became strangers. William pursued his career. He had the devil’s own luck – second mate, first mate and finally captain.’
‘You hated him?’ Cranston asked.
Her eyes darted at him. ‘Hate, Sir John? Hate? I felt cold, empty, like watching someone in a dream. He left me alone and I reciprocated.’
‘Before that last voyage,’ Athelstan said, ‘did he speak of anything unusual that was about to happen?’
‘Not a word!’
‘You know he was murdered?’ Athelstan continued.
‘Yes, I think he was, Brother. If you want to accuse me, then do so, but remember I was here at home. I really couldn’t have cared if he l
ived or died.’ She shrugged. ‘It was only a matter of time before someone took a knife to him.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You are sure he was murdered?’
‘Poisoned, Mistress.’
She leaned forward in surprise. ‘But how? He always boasted that he ate and drank what his crew did.’
‘What about the usquebaugh?’ Cranston asked. ‘And the flask he always filled at the Crossed Keys tavern?’
Emma Roffel pulled a face in surprise. She turned and whispered to Tabitha, who scurried off quiet as a mouse. Emma sat staring into the fire until her maid returned, carrying a pewter flask. Emma took it and thrust it at Cranston.
‘This is the famous flask, Sir John. When they brought my husband’s body ashore, they brought his possessions with him.’
She unstoppered the flask and sniffed its contents, then poured a little liquid from it into a goblet she took from a small table behind her. Smiling she offered the goblet in turn to Cranston and Athelstan. They shook their heads.
‘You should drink usquebaugh,’ she said. ‘It warms the heart and fortifies the body against old age. Ah well.’ And, before either could stop her, she poured the contents down her throat. She coughed, winced and smiled. ‘If this flask was poisoned then I will soon join my husband.’
‘You seem most confident, Mistress.’
Emma Roffel grinned, put down the goblet and re-stopped the flask. She winked at Athelstan. Her good humour made her face look younger. Years earlier, Athelstan reflected, Emma Roffel had been beautiful enough for a priest to break his vows because of her.
‘That was reckless,’ he murmured.
She shook her head. ‘I apologise. I tease you. I sipped from the flask when it was first returned.’ She pulled a face. ‘I admit that that was stupid – risking a husband and wife poisoned by the same drink.’
‘So, you think the murder was committed on board the God’s Bright Light?’ Cranston asked.
‘Of course,’ Emma replied. ‘He was hated by the crew.’
‘And by his admiral?’
Emma shrugged. ‘Crawley considered my husband a pirate. He once threatened to hang him because of his depredations at sea.’
