By Murder's bright Light

lucrative trade,’ Cranston continued evenly, ‘which ensures that the captains not only defend English shipping but constantly search for well-laden French ships or the occasional undefended town along the Seine or the Normandy coast. Sometimes they even turn to piracy against English ships.’ Cranston took his beaver hat off and rolled it in his large hands. ‘After all, if an English ship goes down, it can always be blamed on the French.’
    ‘Sir Henry was not like that,’ Marston snapped. ‘Aye,’ Cranston said drily. ‘And cuckoos don’t lay their eggs in other birds’ nests.’
    The coroner paused at a tap on the door. A young woman entered, her face as white as a sheet, her corn-coloured hair loose. She was agitated, her fingers lacing together, and she played nervously with the silver-tasselled girdle around her slim waist. Her red-rimmed eyes flitted to the great four-poster bed. Marston rose as she entered.
    ‘I am sorry,’ she stuttered. She wiped her hands on the tawny sarcanet of her high-necked dress.
    Athelstan strode across the room and took her hand. It was cold as ice.
    ‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘You had best sit down.’ He took her gently to the stool Marston had vacated. ‘Do you wish some wine?’
    The young woman shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the great four-poster bed.
    ‘It’s Lady Aveline, Sir Henry’s daughter,’ Marston explained. ‘She was next door when Ashby was in here.’
    Athelstan crouched down and stared into Aveline’s doe-like eyes.
    ‘God rest him, my lady, but your father’s dead.’
    The young woman plucked at a loose thread on her dress and began silently to cry, tears rolling down her cheeks.
    ‘I don’t want to see him,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t bear to see him, not in a nightshirt soaked in blood.’ She looked at Marston. ‘Where’s Ashby?’
    ‘He’s taken sanctuary in a church.’
    Suddenly there was a commotion in the passage outside. The door was flung open and a tall woman with steel-grey hair swept into the room. Behind her followed another woman, rather similar in appearance but more subdued. Both women wore heavy cloaks with the hoods pushed back. The innkeeper followed, waving his hands in agitation.
    ‘You shouldn’t! You shouldn’t really!’ he spluttered. ‘Shut up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Who are you?’
    The first and taller of the two women drew her shoulders back and looked squarely at Sir John.
    ‘My name is Emma Roffel, wife to the late Captain Roffel. I came here to see Sir Henry Ospring.’
    Cranston bowed. ‘Madam, my condolences on your husband’s death. Was he a sickly man?’
    ‘No,’ she replied tartly. ‘As robust as a pig.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I know you. You’re Cranston , Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city. What has happened here? This fellow’ — she indicated the innkeeper — ‘says Sir Henry has been murdered!’
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan tactfully intervened, seeing the look on Cranston ’s face. ‘Sir Henry has been murdered and we have the culprit.’
    Emma Roffel’s face relaxed. Athelstan studied her curiously. She was rather pretty, he thought, in a tired-looking way. He was always fascinated by women’s faces and Emma’s struck him as a strong one, with its high-beaked nosed and square chin. Its pallor emphasised lustrous dark eyes, though these were now red-rimmed and tinged with shadows. She let her cloak fall open and he glimpsed her black widow’s weeds. She smiled at Athelstan.
    ‘I apologise for my entrance but I couldn’t believe the news.’ She pointed to the other woman, quiet and mousey, standing behind her. “This is Tabitha Velour, my maid and companion.’
    Aveline still sat on the stool, her face white with shock. Emma Roffel went over and touched the girl gently on the shoulder.
    ‘I am sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Truly sorry.’ She glanced up at Cranston . ‘How did this happen?’
    ‘Stabbed by his squire,’ Cranston said. ‘Nicholas Ashby.’
    Emma Roffel pulled her face in surprise.
    ‘You find that difficult to believe, madam?’ Athelstan asked.
    The woman pursed her lips and stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, I do. Ashby was quiet, more of a scholar than a soldier.’
    ‘But he sailed with your husband?’
    Emma Roffel smiled cynically. ‘God forgive me and God rest him but Sir Henry was a suspicious man. Yes, squire Ashby was often sent by his master to make sure his investment gained a just