By Murder's bright Light

would appear so.’
    ‘And the ship’s boat wasn’t missing?’
    ‘No!’ Crawley snapped his fingers. ‘You might as well question the man yourself.’
    Cabe went out and returned with the monkey-faced fellow who had first greeted them; he told his story in a strange, sing-song accent and it agreed exactly with what Cranston and Athelstan had already been told.
    ‘As you approached the ship,’ Athelstan asked, ‘did you notice anything untoward?’
    ‘No, Father.’
    ‘And once on deck?’
    ‘Quiet as a grave.’
    Athelstan thanked him and the fellow left.
    ‘Could someone have come aboard by boat?’ Cranston asked. ‘And left again after inflicting some terrible damage?’
    ‘Impossible,’ Cabe replied. ‘First, the watchers on the other ships would have seen it.’
    There was a river mist,’ Cranston pointed out.
    ‘No.’ Cabe shook his head. ‘Even if you were half-asleep you’d hear the splatter of the oars, the boat bumping alongside. Secondly, any approaching boat would have been hailed. Thirdly, Bracklebury would have fought any boarders. The sound would have carried and the alarm raised . None of this happened. Everything was in order. Even the galley. We haven’t touched it.’
    ‘There’s one possibility,’ Cranston suggested. ‘Maybe the mate and the two sailors abandoned ship? Swam to the shore and disappeared?’
    ‘Why should they do that?’ Cabe asked. ‘And if they did, someone on the other ships would surely have seen them.’
    Coffrey spoke up. This is the devil’s ship, Sir John. Many of the men think Satan came aboard to claim Roffel’s spirit for his own and took Bracklebury and the others with him!’
    Athelstan shivered; even by these cynical, hardened men, Coffrey’s pronouncement was not disputed.

CHAPTER 4

    Cranston and Athelstan brought the meeting to an end and the seamen went back to their duties. The admiral took Cranston and Athelstan around the ship, showing them the broad deck, the cavernous, smelly hold partitioned into sections, the primitive living quarters of the crew and archers, the storage space for weapons and the small, fetid galley. Everything was clean and in order, though Athelstan flinched as the occasional dark, furry rat scampered across the deck or scurried along the timbers.
    ‘Was anything amiss when the ship was inspected?’ Crawley shook his head. ‘Not even in the galley. The cups were cleaned and the fleshing knives back on their hooks.’ Crawley rubbed the side of his face. ‘It was as if a devil had climbed on board and simply swept all three sailors away.’
    ‘And there’s been no sign of them since?’
    ‘None whatsoever.’
    Crawley took them back on deck and summoned a bumboat. The coroner and Athelstan took their leaves and clambered down, Sir John muttering that he was no wiser than when he arrived.
    ‘Where to now?’ Athelstan asked, settling himself in the stem next to Cranston .
    As they were rowed back across the choppy Thames towards Queen’s hithe the coroner studied the darkening sky.
    ‘It’s late,’ he murmured, ‘but perhaps we should inspect Captain Roffel’s corpse before the requiem is sung and he is committed to the grave.’
    Cranston and Athelstan found the church of St Mary Magdalene on the corner of Milk Street cloaked in darkness. The parish priest, Father Stephen, had been asleep in his chair before a roaring fire in the presbytery. He greeted them owl-eyed, his aged face heavy with sleep, but he greeted them kindly. He held up the lantern and peered at the coroner.
    ‘God bless my tits!’ he said. ‘It’s Sir John!’
    Cranston shoved his face closer. ‘Why, it’s Stephen Grospetch!’
    The two men shook each other warmly by the hand.
    ‘Come in! Come in!’ the priest invited. ‘I have heard of your exploits, Sir John, but you are too busy for old friends.’
    Cranston tapped him affectionately on the shoulder and smacked his lips.
    ‘Yes, Sir John, I have some claret.’ Grospetch pulled two stools before the fire. ‘Sit down! Sit down! Father Athelstan?’
    The priest gripped Athelstan’s hand as the coroner finished his introductions.
    ‘Well, well, well, Cranston and a Dominican. You always told me you didn’t like friars, Sir John.’ Father Stephen winked mischievously at Athelstan.
    ‘You are a lying mongrel!’ Cranston answered, pretending to be cross. He eased himself on to a stool, spreading his great hands before the flames. Father Stephen bustled about