By Murder's bright Light

shall we do it?’
    Her thin arms encircling the sailor’s waist, she pressed her body against his and began to move. The sailor grinned and grabbed the girl’s dyed hair, pulling her head against his chest. He was tom between the excitement in his loins and, beneath the befuddlement from the ale, a nagging suspicion that all was not well.
    The ship’s too quiet,’ he muttered. ‘Bracklebury!’ he called. ‘Bracklebury, where are you?’
    The girl squirmed. ‘Are you are one of those who like someone to watch?’ she whispered.
    The sailor smacked her on the bottom and stared into the misty darkness.
    ‘Something’s bloody wrong!’ he muttered.
    ‘Oh, come on!’
    ‘Piss off, you little tart!’ He pushed the girl away and, holding on to the bulwark to keep himself steady, staggered along the deck.
    ‘Christ have mercy!’ he breathed. ‘Where is everybody?’ He looked out over the ship’s side, ignoring the whore, who sat huddled at the foot of the mast quietly grumbling, and stared across the misty river. Dawn was about to break; along the river he could see other ships and glimpse figures moving about on their decks. The cold morning air cleared the ale fumes from his mind.
    They have gone,’ he whispered to himself.
    He stared down at the dark, choppy waters of the Thames then looked back along the deck. The ship’s boat was still lashed to the deck. Ignoring the pleadings of the doxy, who still crouched at the foot of the mast, he ran to the stem castle and pushed open the cabin door. The oil lantern hanging on its heavy hook was still glowing merrily. Inside everything was undisturbed, all clean and neatly in order. The sailor stood stock-still, legs apart, letting himself roll with the gentle movements of the ship; he listened to the spars and timbers creaking and recalled the ghostly tales he and his companions had exchanged in the midnight watches. Was this the work of some magic? Had Bracklebury and the other two members of the crew been spirited away? They had certainly not left the ship in any natural way — the boat was still there and the freezing water would scarcely tempt even the most desperate sailor to swim for the pleasures of the city.
    ‘Bracklebury!’ he shouted, coming out of the cabin. Only the ship creaked and groaned in reply. The sailor looked up at the masthead, glimpsing the tendrils of mist swirling there.
    “What’s the matter?’ the doxy wailed.
    ‘Shut up, you bitch!’
    The sailor walked back to the ship’s side. He wished he had never returned.
    ‘ God’s Bright Light !’ he mocked under his breath. ‘This ship’s cursed!’
    Captain Roffel had been a devil incarnate; even the sailor, hardened as he was by years of bloody fights at sea, had felt a flicker of pity at Roffel’s ruthless despatch of French prisoners. But now Roffel was dead, taken short by a sudden illness. His corpse, wrapped in oilskins, had been sent ashore; his soul probably went to hell. The sailor shivered and turned to the doxy.
    ‘We’d best raise the alarm,’ he said, ‘for what good that may do. Satan’s visited this ship!’

CHAPTER 1

    ‘I accuse Eleanor Raggleweed of being a witch!’
    Sir John Cranston, coroner in the city of London , moved his massive bulk behind his high, oak table. He ground his teeth in silent fury as he gazed at the vixen-faced housewife from Rat-Tail Alley who stood pointing dramatically across the small chamber in the London Guildhall.
    ‘She is a witch!’ Alice Frogmore repeated. ‘And this’ — she pointed, equally dramatically, at the great fat toad squatting patiently in a metal cage on the floor — ‘is her familiar!’
    Cranston folded his hands across his enormous belly. He glared at the grinning scribe and smiled with false sweetness at Alice Frogmore.
    ‘You have made your allegation.’ He looked at the frightened Eleanor. ‘Now, please produce the proof!’
    ‘I have seen her!’ Alice trumpeted. ‘I have seen her in her garden at night, feeding her foul familiar with the sweetest bread and freshest milk. I have seen her talk to it and my husband also has proof!’
    ‘Step forward, Master Frogmore!’ Cranston boomed. The man shuffled to stand by his wife. She, Cranston privately considered, looked more of a toad than the creature squatting in the cage: Alice Frogmore had little piggy eyes, almost hidden by rolls of fat, and her short squat arms hung determinedly either side of a rather bloated body. Cranston gazed at