by Paul Doherty
The seaman shrugged. ‘Perhaps watered ale?’
Cranston called out the order and they waited until it was served. Cabe sipped gingerly from the tankard.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘The truth,’ Athelstan replied.
‘I have told you that already.’
Cranston leaned over and squeezed the man’s wrist.
‘No, you haven’t. You are a liar, a thief and a murderer! And, if you don’t tell me the truth, I’ll see you hang!’ Cranston smiled bleakly. ‘Now, be a good boy and put both hands on the table, well away from the knife tucked in your belt. Come on!’
Cabe obeyed.
Cranston smiled. ‘You may touch your tankard but nothing else. Now, my secretarius will describe things as they are.’
Athelstan edged closer. ‘You were second mate on the God’s Bright Light,’ he began, ‘when it attacked and sank a fishing smack off the French coast, killing all its crew. But this was no chance attack. Roffel knew that there was silver on board. He found the silver and carried it back to the God’s Bright Light. However, Roffel, in Sir John’s words, was a mean bastard. He should have shared the silver with his crew, especially his officers, as well as with the crown. Instead he hid it away in some secret place. By some chance you and Bracklebury found out about it.’
Cabe stared dumbly at his tankard.
‘Now Roffel fell ill and died. In fact, he was poisoned.’
‘I didn’t do that,’ Cabe muttered.
‘I do not claim you did, but Roffel’s demise provided you and Bracklebury with an excellent opportunity to search the ship. You found nothing. But once the God’s Bright Light had anchored in the Thames you and Bracklebury could search more thoroughly. You drew up your plans. The crew, apart from a small watch, would be sent ashore and Bracklebury would take the opportunity to search the ship thoroughly from poop to stern.’
Cranston sipped from his own tankard.
‘Now, if both of you had stayed behind it might have created some suspicions – after all, no sailor is eager to stay on board a ship back into port after a time at sea.’ Athelstan placed his tankard down. ‘Now, Bracklebury had Roffel’s corpse taken ashore. The whores came on board and then you and most of the crew left. However, you didn’t fully trust Bracklebury, so you insisted that he stayed in communication with you. You devised a system of signals between Bracklebury, with the lantern on board ship, and you, in some darkened recess on the quayside.
‘Now, everything went according to plan until that sailor and his whore returned, just before dawn, to find the ship completely deserted. Master Cabe, I can only imagine both your fury and doubt over what had happened. You must have been mystified by his disappearance! How had this been done? Where was Bracklebury and, above all, where was the silver?’
‘A fairy story!’ Cabe scoffed.
‘Oh no,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Sir John here knows I am telling the truth. You, Master Cabe, began to believe you had been double-crossed. And you began to wonder who it was. Now, while you were hiding in the shadows, you had seen the whore Bernicia come down to Queen’s hithe. Perhaps you thought she and Bracklebury had planned to steal the silver and make a fool of you?’
‘How would Bracklebury know Bernicia?’ Cabe muttered.
Athelstan shrugged. ‘Oh, you never know, Master Cabe, in this world of lies, greed makes strange allies. Anyway, somehow or other, you became convinced Bernicia knew where the silver was. So you planned to meet her and used Bracklebury’s name.’
Cabe drank from the tankard and sneered.
‘But, if Bracklebury was her ally, how could I appear as him?’
‘That I don’t know,’ Athelstan replied truthfully.
‘Something had changed your mind so that you believed Bracklebury may not have double-crossed you but that Bernicia certainly had: Anyway,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you took Bernicia to a secret drinking place, invited yourself back to her house, cut her throat and ransacked the place.’
‘What proof do you have of this?’ Cabe snapped.
Cranston leaned over, tapping the table. ‘I’ll be honest, not much, my bucko. But, there again, perhaps if we took you back to that secret drinking-place, who knows who might recognise you?’
Cabe’s face became even paler.
‘Come on,’ Cranston urged gently. ‘Sooner or later the truth will be out.’
‘What happens-’ Cabe looked up. ‘What happens if I tell the truth, as I see it?’
Cranston gestured with his hand. ‘Murder is murder, Master Cabe, and murderers hang. But those who turn king’s evidence may seek the royal pardon and agree to leave England’ – Cranston screwed up his eyes and looked towards the door of the tavern – ‘for, shall we say, three years?’
Athelstan grabbed the seaman by the arm. ‘For the love of God, Master Cabe, tell us the truth!’
‘Can I have some wine, Father?’
Cranston ordered him a goblet of claret. Cabe sipped at it carefully.
‘These are the facts,’ he began tonelessly. ‘Roffel was a murdering bastard. God forgive us, it wasn’t the first time he attacked a ship and killed the prisoners, but this time it was special. Roffel was looking for something.’ He shrugged. ‘Ah, well, you know what happened. Afterwards Bracklebury and I decided to confront him. Now, perhaps, Roffel meant to lock the cabin door but he didn’t; anyway it was very rare for us just to walk in. On that morning, however, we did; Roffel was sitting at his table, the money belt before him, silver coins spilling out. We knew at a glance what had happened. Roffel just roared at us to get out and said he would hang us if we ever did that again.’ Cabe rubbed his face. ‘Well, Bracklebury and I were furious. It wasn’t the first time Roffel had stolen our shares.’ Cabe glanced at Athelstan. ‘Whatever you think of me, Father, I am a good seaman and I am not frightened of anything that walks on earth. My whole body is one scar from head to toe. And for what? Stale wine, cheap whores, a damp bed in some seedy alehouse?’ He picked up his goblet and gulped at the wine. ‘Bracklebury and I laid our plans, but then Roffel fell ill and died.’
‘Did you murder him?’ Cranston interrupted.
Cabe raised his hand. ‘Before God, I had no hand in Roffel’s death!’
‘Did Bracklebury?’
‘God knows! Anyway,’ Cabe continued, ‘Roffel’s death gave us the opportunity to search the cabin. We went through everything but there was no trace of a belt full of silver. The ship anchored in the Thames, Bracklebury took Raffel’s corpse ashore and, for a while, we acted our parts. We allowed the sailors to have their whores on board then, as you said, Bracklebury cleared the ship. Bracklebury was a good mate but I didn’t trust him fully so we agreed that, about each hour, he would flash the signal lamp towards shore and I would answer.’ Cabe licked his lips. ‘The rest of the officers were too drunk to remember where each of us wandered off to. I spent most of the bloody night on that quayside fearful of everything. What happened if Bracklebury didn’t find the silver? What happened if Bracklebury did and decided to flee? It was then that I saw the whore Bernicia standing on the quayside, looking out to the ship. I heard Bracklebury curse her and the misbegotten creature disappeared.’ Cabe slurped his wine. ‘The mist shifted – sometimes it blanketed the God’s Bright Light completely, at other times it parted. I saw the signals being flashed and the admiral’s boat go across. We had expected that but Bracklebury said he would fob him off.’ Cabe splayed his fingers out on the table top. ‘The next morning I thought I was in a nightmare. The God’s Bright Light was deserted. There was no sign of Bracklebury or the rest of the watch. I immediately concluded that Bracklebury had found the silver and either killed his two shipmates and fled or shared it with them and jumped ship.’ He smiled thinly at Cranston. ‘But it wasn’t as simple as that, Sir John, was it? There was all the mystery of who kept passing the signals between the ships and neither myself nor anyone else had seen anyone leave or approach the God’s Bright Light.’ Cabe tapped the
table top. ‘That did intrigue me, because Bracklebury couldn’t swim.’ Cabe gulped at the wine and stared beseechingly at Cranston. ‘You promise I won’t hang?’
‘I promise.’
‘Well, two days ago I got a note. It was written in some scrivener’s hand but it bore Bracklebury’s mark, a circle with a dot in the centre. It simply said that he had jumped ship and was in hiding from the law. The message also claimed that, somehow or other, Bernicia had seized the silver. The whore had double crossed everyone!’
‘You know Bernicia was a man?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, I discovered that when I killed the slut.’
‘So, you did murder Bernicia?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Cabe replied. ‘I followed her to that drinking-hole.’
‘You didn’t wonder how Bernicia could have found the silver?’
‘At first I did. But then I remembered Bernicia being on board, just after we docked, and thought perhaps she could have found it then.’
‘Why did you use Bracklebury’s name?’
‘Well, in his note he said that he was in hiding because you, Sir John, had circulated his description along the riverside as well as in the city. Now, I was still suspicious. I thought Bracklebury could be playing some devious game.’ Cabe shrugged. ‘So I went to that tavern and met Bernicia. I didn’t actually say I was Bracklebury but merely hinted at it.’ He blew his lips out. ‘Bernicia didn’t seem to know the difference and that, I thought, proved the message correct – Bernicia must have the silver. So I killed her. I then ransacked the house but found nothing.’ Cabe laughed softly. ‘Do you know, I still thought Bracklebury was alive and that I’d fallen into some subtle trap. When his body was washed up, I just gave up.’ Cabe paused and looked at Athelstan. ‘You never explained how that happened?’
The friar shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was the river battle or perhaps the rope worked loose!’
‘When I saw his corpse,’ Cabe continued flatly, ‘I didn’t know anything any more.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘Do you know who sent that message?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, but-’
‘But what?’ Cranston insisted.
‘What if Bracklebury is still alive? What if that corpse is someone who just looks like him? Where is the other member of the watch, Clement? Who else knew about the silver? Who knew Bracklebury’s personal mark?’ Cabe leaned over the table. ‘Sir John, in God’s name, what did happen?’
‘In God’s name,’ Cranston replied slowly, ‘we don’t really know.’
‘What about me?’ Cabe asked.
‘When does the God’s Bright Light sail?’
‘In two days’ time.’
‘Be on it!’ Cranston ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that, before it sails, you’ll get a royal pardon. That pardon will only be effective provided you are not seen in London, and I mean London, for the space of three years!’
Cabe got to his feet. He turned to walk away, stopped and looked around.
‘I hope you trap the bastard!’ he hissed. ‘I hope you hang him high!’
Athelstan watched the sailor leave.
‘Do you know what to do now, Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother, I do,’ Cranston replied. ‘One thing, however, does puzzle me, Brother – how did Roffel and Ospring expect to steal that silver and escape the scrutineers?’
Athelstan sighed. ‘Both men would have lied, perhaps even blamed the spy. Sir Henry was powerful enough to bribe officials.’ He drained his tankard. ‘Sir Jacob is still in St Bartholomew’s?’
‘He is and none the worse for wear.’
‘Good! Then let the dance begin!’
CHAPTER 14
Tabitha Velour answered the door and her face crinkled in a smile as she waved Athelstan in.
‘Good morrow, Brother, surely not more questions?’
She ushered the friar into the small parlour where Emma Roffel sat before the fire, a book of accounts in her lap. She smiled as Athelstan entered.
‘Brother, why are you here? Please take a seat? She turned to Tabitha. ‘Bring Brother Athelstan some ale!’
Athelstan sat down. Tabitha came back with the ale and a platter of fresh milksops which she placed on the corner of the hearth.
‘Well, Brother, what can I do for you?’ Emma Roffel’s face seemed softer, calmer.
Athelstan smiled. ‘I was on my way to see Sir Jacob Crawley at St Bartholomew’s hospital and I stopped by to see if you could stitch this’ – he showed a rent in the sleeve of his robe – ‘as well as to ask you a few questions before this matter is ended.’
‘Ended?’ Emma Roffel straightened up in her chair.
Athelstan nodded. ‘I am going to meet Sir John at St Bartholomew’s. He will be there with bailiffs and warrants to arrest Sir Jacob Crawley for the murder of your husband and of Bracklebury and his two shipmates.’
Emma Roffel closed her eyes. ‘God save us!’ she muttered.
She leaned over and took the sleeve of Athelstan’s gown. ‘As you know, Tabitha is a good seamstress. She can stitch this.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, woman!’
Tabitha hurried to the small box seat under the window, opened it and took out a small casket and crouched beside Athelstan. The friar jumped at a loud knocking on the door.
‘I’ll see to that!’ Emma Roffel declared.
Athelstan heard her go down the passageway, open the door, say a few words and close the door again.
He didn’t look up as she came back into the room.
‘Who was it?’ Tabitha asked.
Emma didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and returned, her hands up the sleeves of her voluminous gown. She sat down and stared into the fire.
‘We have a clever, clever little priest here, Tabitha!’
Athelstan looked up. Emma Roffel’s face was a mask of fury, pale, tight-lipped, her dark, powerful eyes blazing.
‘Mistress?’ he asked.
‘Leave his gown, Tabitha, and come and sit next to me!’
The maid scurried across. Athelstan clasped his arms over his stomach and hoped his fear wouldn’t show. Emma leaned across. ‘A cunning, conniving priest, who’s not going to St Bartholomew’s!’ she spat out. ‘Do you know who knocked on the door, Tabitha?’ Her eyes never left Athelstan’s face. ‘Another priest, that stupid, ancient, dribbling Father Stephen from St Mary Magdalene church.’
‘Why should that alarm you, mistress?’ Athelstan asked innocently.
Emma Roffel shuffled in her seat. She, too, smiled, as if enjoying this clash of minds.
‘You know full well, priest, but tell me anyway!’
‘Oh, yes, I will, madam. I’ll tell you a story about a young Scottish girl born in a fishing village near Edinburgh. She married a defrocked priest, but a marriage she thought was made in heaven became a hatred forged in hell. You, Mistress Roffel, hated your husband. It curdled both your souls. Roffel turned to his male whore Bernicia, and you to your love, Tabitha.’ Athelstan looked at Tabitha, who gazed coolly back. ‘You planned to murder your husband,’ he continued, ‘by poisoning his flask of usquebaugh. You thought that, if this was detected, someone on board the God’s Bright Light would surely be blamed, for your husband was hated by his crew.’
‘But, Father,’ Emma Roffel purred, ‘William always kept the flask by him. He, not I, took it to be filled at Richard Crawley’s tavern.’ She hugged her arms closer. ‘I am sure that, if you and that fat coroner make enquiries, you will find that my husband drank from the flask and suffered no ill effects. Indeed, as you know, I drank from it. You drank from it, too. There was no poison in it.’
‘Don’t mock me, madam,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘I shall tell you what happened. You took that flask when it was empty and put the arsenic in. Captain William filled it with usquebaugh. It would take more than one swig for the poison on the bottom to mingle and make its presence felt. As you planned, it eventually did, but only when he was at sea. Any apoth
ecary will tell you that white arsenic is not a poison that kills immediately. It takes time to build up in the victim’s body.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘When the flask was brought back here, you washed and scoured it. You then found some usquebaugh and refilled it, placing it back among your husband’s possessions as if it had never been disturbed.’
Emma Roffel just gazed coolly at him.
‘Now, the death of your husband,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was reward enough for you, but when Bracklebury brought his corpse back you noticed something amiss. Perhaps Bracklebury made one last search of the corpse? Or did you study the pages at the back of your husband’s book of hours and realise that "in S.L." stood for "in secreto loco, in a secret place". The last entry was fresh, so you knew that your husband had recently taken some-thing precious and hidden it away.’ Athelstan paused to wet his dry lips. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make Bracklebury talk – his only thought was to find that silver.’
‘And?’ Emma Roffel asked, in mock innocence.
‘You knew, God knows how, about this secret place of your husband’s and so you entered into an unholy alliance with Bracklebury. You would find the silver and share it with him. You’d then act the grieving widow, maintaining your cool mistress-and-servant relations with Tabitha until you could both disappear and go to some other city in England or Scotland under new names.’
‘But I never went aboard the God’s Bright Light that night,’ Emma Roffel scoffed. ‘I was in the church of St Mary Magdalene, mourning for my husband.’
‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You did go aboard that day. You disguised yourself as one of the whores and Bracklebury hid you in the cabin so that you could begin your search – or rather pretend to, because you already knew where the hiding place was. Bracklebury told you about his agreement with Cabe and about the signals that had to be passed between the ships and between himself and Cabe on the quayside.’
‘But how could I do all this,’ Emma insisted, ‘if I was in a church mourning for my husband?’
‘You were not,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Your maid Tabitha was. Father Stephen is old, his eyesight is failing and you, of course, are no church-goer. So you sent Tabitha to the priest’s house pretending to be you. Father Stephen accepted her for what she claimed to be. It was Tabitha who was there that night.’
