By Murder's Bright Light Read online

  ‘Your name is Bernicia?’ he asked. ‘Can we come in?’

  The girl nodded and beckoned them forward, down the stone-vaulted passageway into a small, cosy parlour. She made them welcome, pouring two cups of wine whilst Cranston and Athelstan stared around the room. Everything was neat; small tables were polished and draped with linen cloths, the floor was covered with Ottoman rugs, on the hearth the fire tongs gleamed brilliantly in the light of the flames. The air was heavy with a musky perfume which mingled with the scent from the candles and small capped braziers standing in each corner of the room.

  ‘You live in comfort, Mistress Bernicia?’

  The young woman shrugged and smirked. Cranston peered at her closely. Her every movement was elegant. She flounced her hips as she walked in her high-heeled pattens. When she sat, crossing her legs, she pulled her gown further down but not so far as to hide the creamy whiteness of her petticoats and the scarlet and gold of her hose. She leaned forward.

  ‘So, what can I do for you, sirs?’

  Cranston thought how mellow and rich her voice was.

  ‘You were . . .?’ he began tentatively.

  ‘I was William Roffel’s paramour.’ Bernicia held up a hand and sniggered softly behind beringed fingers. Her nails were painted a deep purple.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Cranston’s unease grew. ‘And he visited you often?’

  She spread her hands and looked around the room.

  ‘Captain Roffel was generous for the favours I gave him.’

  ‘And did you love him?’ Athelstan asked.

  Again the pretty snigger and the quick movement of her hand.

  ‘Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous! How can you love someone like Captain Roffel? A blackguard born and bred! He was generous and I was available.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You know he was a defrocked priest?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Roffel was once a curate in a parish near Edinburgh. He became involved in some trouble and had to leave his parish rather quickly.’

  ‘What was this trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And you met him where?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘In a tavern.’

  ‘Which one?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I forget.’

  ‘Did you ever meet his wife?’

  ‘Oh Lord, that sour bitch. Never!’

  ‘Did you give Captain Roffel anything before he left on his last voyage?’

  ‘A nice, big kiss.’

  ‘And are you suspicious about his death?’

  ‘Oh, no, the evil bastard always had a weak stomach.’ Bernicia shrugged. ‘Now he’s gone’ – she fluttered her eyelashes – ‘and I’m available again.’

  ‘Do you know anything about his last voyage?’

  ‘Nothing. I went on board the ship. They wouldn’t even let me go to his cabin, so I came ashore.’

  ‘Did Roffel have any enemies?’

  Bernicia rocked with laughter. ‘I think the question, Sir John, should be, "Did he have any friends?" He had enemies all along the river Thames. Roffel may have been one of the king’s captains but he was also a pirate.’ Bernicia lowered her voice. ‘You’ve heard the stories, surely? Roffel was not above attacking any ship. Many a sailor’s lonely widow curses him before she falls asleep at night.’

  ‘Have you visited his coffin in St Mary Magdalene?’ Athelstan asked. He, too, had caught Cranston’s unease and was studying the woman carefully.

  ‘No, I haven’t and I don’t intend to.’

  Perhaps it was the way that she said it, moving her face sideways. Or perhaps, in the light of the fire, Cranston caught a glimpse of hair on her upper lip not quite covered by the white paste she had rubbed there. Suddenly the coroner leaned forward and grabbed her by the knee.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the pretty one?’ he growled. ‘What’s your real name, Bernicia?’

  She tried to struggle free. Sir John’s hand went further up her thigh. He shrugged off Athelstan’s warning glance.

  ‘I have heard of your type,’ he said. ‘I wonder, if I kept moving my hand up to your privy place what I’d find, eh?’ He placed his other hand gently on her rather flat chest, his fingers gently pressing back the muslin. ‘Bernicia the whore,’ he said softly, ‘you’re no woman. You’re a man!’

  Athelstan’s jaw sagged. He gaped at Bernicia and then at Sir John. Bernicia tried to struggle free.

  ‘The truth,’ Sir John demanded. ‘Otherwise I’ll have the beadles brought in and have you stripped. You can’t hide what God gave you!’ He leaned forward and touched Bernicia’s hair. ‘I know where you met Roffel,’ he continued. ‘In the Mermaid tavern down near St Paul’s Wharf. What’s your real name? Come on, what is it?’

  ‘My name is Roger-atte-Southgate.’

  Athelstan could only keep gaping.

  ‘I once served as a cabin boy with Roffel. I was, I am a woman in a man’s body.’ Bernicia looked into the fire. ‘I used to envy the whores, the way they moved, the clothes they could wear, the excitement they aroused in the sailors. And then, one night, I discovered there were others like me.’

  ‘If the sheriffs discover you,’ Cranston warned, ‘they’ll burn you as a sodomite at Smithfield! Isn’t that true, Father?’

  Athelstan could only stare. He studied Bernicia more closely and caught the lost, despondent look in her eyes. Athelstan blinked. He still considered her a woman, whatever Sir John or she might say. He felt a wave of compassion. In his days in the novitiate, and in camps in France, he had met men who liked to be used as women, but never had he met one who dressed and acted the part so convincingly.

  ‘Your secret is safe with us,’ he said gently. ‘Sir John and I are not here to inflict any pain, though you are involved in serious sin.’

  ‘Am I, Father? Men like Roffel? I have known them as far as my memory stretches. They like to use me as a woman, so why blame me for what others made me? Oh, yes, there were priests too. They liked such strange bed sports.’

  Athelstan held his hand up. ‘I am not your judge nor your confessor.’

  ‘Little point in that,’ Bernicia interrupted. ‘I have no need for either. There’s no God and, if there is, he’s forgotten all about us.’ Bernicia moved on her chair. ‘Roffel used to bring me precious trinkets – fingers with the rings still on them, once an ear with a small gold band in it. He used to sit where you are, Father, and boast about what he had done. How he would cheat his crew, his business partner Ospring and even his dull wife.’

  ‘Did you return to the ship last night?’ Cranston abruptly asked.

  Bernicia looked away.

  ‘Don’t lie! Did you return?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Well, at least, to the quayside. I wanted to see if Roffel had left any of his valuables. He always had a full purse and a little coffer full of trinkets. I thought the first mate might let me back on board.’

  ‘Why only to the quayside?’ Cranston asked.

  ‘Well, there was no bumboat available to take me to the ship. I did hail it, though.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘One of the watch must have heard me, for the first mate came.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Oh, it was about midnight. I thought it was safe then. The quayside is usually deserted by that time – all the revellers have gone home or are too drunk to care.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  The mate came to the side of the ship. He was drunk. He just waved his cup at me and shouted, "Piss off!".’

  ‘Strange,’ Cranston mused. ‘The nearest ship was the admiral’s Holy Trinity and he did not tell us about any disturbance?’

  ‘I have told you what I saw.’ Bernicia pulled a face. ‘But there was something strange.’

  ‘What?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Well, I was on the quayside; it was deserted, cold and windswept. I realised how foolish I had been, even in going there. Now, as I turn
ed away, I am sure I saw a figure move in the doorway of one of those warehouses.’

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Oh yes. There were the usual night sounds along the quayside – rats slithering about, the lapping of the water – but I heard a scrape as if someone had drawn a sword or was carrying some metal implement. I am sure whoever was hiding there was keeping watch and guard on the ship. I called out, but there was no response so I hurriedly left.’

  ‘And that’s all you saw or heard?’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is.’

  ‘Did you ever meet any of Roffel’s crew?’

  ‘Oh, only from a distance. When they accompanied the captain ashore, Roffel usually kept me away from them.’

  ‘And Sir Henry Ospring?’

  ‘No, though Roffel did receive letters from Ospring accusing him of embezzling some of the profits.’

  ‘And Roffel’s squire, a man called Ashby?’

  Bernicia shook her head.

  Cranston looked at Athelstan and raised his eyes heavenwards. He took a sip of the wine, but it tasted bitter to him. He pulled a wry mouth and got to his feet.

  ‘So, you know nothing at all?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Sir John,’ Bernicia pleaded, ‘you will keep my secret?’

  The coroner nodded.

  ‘I have one final question.’ Athelstan picked up his leather writing bag and cradled it against his chest. ‘Tonight we visited St Mary Magdalene’s church. Someone had broken in, plucked Roffel’s corpse from his coffin, slit his throat and left him sprawling in the sanctuary chair. There was a piece of parchment pinned to his chest with the word "assassin" daubed on it in his own blood. Now, who hated the captain enough to do that?’

  Bernicia sneered. ‘Sir Henry Ospring for one.’

  ‘He’s dead, murdered too!’

  Bernicia smiled. ‘Roffel will be pleased to have company in hell.’

  ‘Who else?’ Cranston insisted. ‘Whom did Roffel mention in anger or spite?’

  ‘You should go back to the fleet, Sir John. Ask the admiral, Sir Jacob Crawley. Roffel always said he hated him.’

  ‘Why should Roffel hate Crawley?’

  ‘Oh, no, the other way round. Crawley couldn’t stand the sight of our good captain. I think there was bad blood between them. Roffel once said Crawley had accused him of sinking a ship in which one of Crawley’s kinsmen had been murdered. Roffel said he’d never drink or eat with the admiral and would always be careful never to turn his back on him.’

  ‘In which case, mistress—’ Cranston grinned sourly. ‘Yes, I’ll call you that. In which case, we bid you goodnight.’

  Once outside the house Cranston gave vent to a belly laugh which rang like a bell through the narrow street. A householder opposite opened a window and shouted for silence. Cranston apologised, hitched his cloak about him and led Athelstan back into Cheapside.

  ‘So, so, so,’ he muttered. ‘Here’s another mystery. A man who dresses as a woman and claims to be the dead captain’s whore.’ He yawned, stretched and looked up at the night sky. Tomorrow we’ll continue,’ he said. ‘They talk of the mysteries of the sea. But, mark my words, Brother, what happened on the God’s Bright Light last night is a mystery that deepens by the hour.’ He patted the friar on the back. ‘Now, come on, Brother, I’ll walk you back to London Bridge and tell you a very funny story about the bishop, the parson and someone very like our young Bernicia!’

  CHAPTER 5

  Athelstan celebrated his usual early morning Mass, surprised to see his sparse congregation graced by the presence of Aveline Ospring. She knelt by the rood screen, hands piously joined, but her eyes never left young Ashby, who was helping Crim the altar server during the ceremony. Once the Mass was finished, Athelstan hung up his vestments, cleared the altar and went out to find Aveline and Ashby sitting on the sanctuary steps quietly conversing.

  ‘Do you want some breakfast?’ Athelstan asked.

  Ashby nodded. ‘I am starving, Father. Is it possible to have a razor and some soap? Lady Aveline’ – he patted the saddle bag – ‘has brought me other necessities.’

  Athelstan went across to his house. He built up the fire and, after giving the ever-hungry Philomel his morning meal of hay, washed his hands and took a tray of bread, cheese and wine back into the church. Ashby ate hungrily. Now and again Aveline, who looked more composed and certainly more radiant than on the day before, sipped from Ashby’s cup or nibbled on the bread and cheese.

  ‘I came to see that all was well,’ she said shyly, looking at him from beneath long-lashed eyelids.

  Athelstan nodded, then started as Bonaventure, who was sleeping by the pillars, suddenly stood up, back arching, tail high, as the door of the church opened. Marston entered and stood, arms crossed, staring down into the sanctuary. Athelstan ignored him and looked down at Aveline.

  ‘My lady,’ he said quietly, ‘you are in the House of God, so you must not lie.’

  Ashby choked on a piece of bread. Athelstan patted him vigorously on the back.

  ‘It is barely dawn, my lady,’ Athelstan continued drily, ‘yet you, the daughter of the man Ashby has supposedly murdered, bring him supplies and whatever comforts he needs. Now you sit beside him on the altar steps sharing his food.’

  Lady Aveline blushed crimson and glanced away.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘And you her, young Ashby?’

  The young man nodded and wiped his eyes, still streaming after his fit of coughing.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ Athelstan said. ‘And I suppose you want to marry?’

  ‘Yes,’ they whispered in unison.

  ‘Good!’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘However, Holy Mother Church teaches that before you can take the sacrament of matrimony you must confess and be shriven. Now, I can hear your confessions separately or perhaps together?’

  The two lovers stared at each other.

  Athelstan fought hard to hide his amusement. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘You have no objections, so I’ll proceed. Nicholas, you stand accused of the sin of murder, of slaying Sir Henry Ospring.’ He spoke softly so that his words were not carried to where Marston stood at the back of the church. ‘You didn’t do it, did you?’

  ‘I am innocent!’ the young man whispered.

  ‘Which,’ Athelstan said, turning to Aveline, ‘cannot be said of you.’

  She looked up, her eyes rounded in shocked surprise.

  ‘God forgive me,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But, Lady Aveline, I accuse you of your father’s murder.’

  The young woman’s face turned white as chalk. She stood up, placing her fingers together in agitation.

  That’s wrong!’ Ashby hissed, but Athelstan pressed his fingers against the young man’s lips. ‘Don’t lie in confession!’ he said. ‘Lady Aveline, please sit down.’

  The young woman did so and Athelstan gripped her ice-cold hands.

  ‘You did murder your father?’

  ‘God forgive me, Father, yes I did. How did you know?’

  Athelstan looked down the nave. Marston, who had apparently seen how agitated Aveline had become, now began to walk slowly forward. Athelstan rose and went to meet him.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to protect the lady Aveline from that murderer.’

  ‘Lady Aveline is safe in my hands,’ Athelstan replied.

  ‘I am also here to see that bastard doesn’t escape.’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Not in God’s house.’

  The man stepped back, crestfallen.

  ‘Please wait outside,’ Athelstan said. ‘You may wait on the steps. Be assured no one will leave this church without you knowing.’

  Marston was about to object.

  ‘Sir John Cranston would like that,’ Athelstan added sweetly.

  Marston shrugged and left, closing the door behind him.

  Athelstan went back into the sanctuary where Ashby
and Aveline were sitting, heads together, talking conspiratorially. Athelstan unceremoniously sat down between them.

  ‘How, when, did you know?’ Ashby asked.

  ‘Oh, this morning during Mass,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It is a matter of logic. First, you were found with your hand on the dagger. Why? Because you were getting ready to pull it out. But why should you do that? It wasn’t yours, it was, as you claimed, Sir Henry’s. Yours is still in its sheath hanging on your belt. I noticed that yesterday morning. Secondly, if you didn’t kill Sir Henry, then who did? Who had the right to approach such a powerful lord whilst he was still dressed in his nightshirt? Certainly not Marston. He made that very clear. So, if it wasn’t you or Marston, who else? Now, when I arrived in Sir Henry’s room, I discovered the window had been locked until you used it to effect your escape. Accordingly, I doubted if anyone had broken into the room. Moreover, Sir Henry was a powerful man and there was no sign of a struggle. To conclude, the murderer must have been someone who had every right to be close to Sir Henry. And who does that leave but you, Aveline?’

  ‘Oh, my God, she’ll hang!’ Ashby whispered. ‘No one would ever believe her story.’

  ‘Let me try,’ Athelstan replied. ‘My lady?’

  ‘Yes, I killed my father,’ she replied. ‘To be precise, he was my stepfather. My mother’s first husband, my real father, was killed in the king’s wars in France. At first, all was well. I was an only child. I think my mother regretted her re-marriage, but she died eight years ago. In the main, Sir Henry left me alone. He looked after me. I was spoilt, even pampered. But’ – she began to play with the bracelet on her wrist – ‘as I grew older, he began to take more notice of me. Nothing much at first, just asking me to sit on his knee while he stroked my hair. Sometimes he would touch me in a privy place and say it was our secret.’ Aveline blinked to hold back her tears. ‘I had everything,’ she continued. ‘Or everything except a maid. He wanted it that way. As I grew older his attentions became more demanding. I avoided him, though there were times I could not. On the evening before he died, as he sat at table at the Abbot of Hyde inn, he told me to come to him at first light because he wanted to give me something precious that had belonged to my mother. I should have known.’ Aveline’s lower lip quivered and her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘He was filthy!’ she whispered. ‘Obscene! He tried to embrace me, place his hand on my breast. He claimed he had lain awake all night thinking about me. Then—’