By Murder's bright Light

bringing cups of claret. Athelstan thought it was a miracle he didn’t trip, for the room was shrouded in darkness, except for the single candle on its spigot and the light from the roaring fire.
    The old priest sat in his chair. He toasted Cranston and Athelstan, slurping merrily from his wine cup.
    ‘This priest,’ Cranston explained, turning to Athelstan, ‘was chaplain in the retinue of the Prince Edward. He could say the quickest Mass and sometimes had to. The French were bastards’ — the coroner glowered — “they never gave us time to finish our prayers.’
    For a while Father Stephen and Cranston exchanged pleasantries and news of old comrades. Then the old priest put his cup on the floor and rubbed his hands.
    ‘Right, Sir John. You are not here to kiss my lovely face. It’s business isn’t it?’
    ‘Captain William Roffel,’ Cranston replied.
    ‘Gone to God,’ the priest said. ‘And where to next is up to the good Lord.’
    ‘Why do you say that, Father?’
    ‘Well, he was in my parish yet I never saw him or his wife darken my church. She came to see me yesterday. She wanted a Christian burial for her husband and paid a fee for a Mass to be said. Last night, I received the corpse, all encased in its cedar coffin. It now lies before the high altar and will be buried tomorrow.’
    ‘So you know nothing about the Roffels?’
    ‘Not a thing. The wife was calm. She claimed other business had kept her from attending our church.’
    ‘So, she wasn’t the grieving widow?’
    ‘Now, Sir John, don’t be harsh. She was very agitated.’ The old priest shrugged. “But I get many such requests. And you know canon law? Unless a person has been publicly excommunicated, Christian burial must be provided as speedily as possible.’
    ‘And did she hire mourners? You know, people to keep vigil.’
    ‘She and her maid attended when the corpse was received into the church. They went away. Mistress Roffel returned just before midnight and I allowed her to stay there until dawn this morning.’
    Cranston looked over the old priest’s shoulder and winked at Athelstan. But Father Stephen was quicker than he seemed and caught the glance.
    ‘Come on, you old rogue, what do you want?’
    ‘Father, is it possible for us to look at the corpse?’ The priest rubbed his lips. ‘It’s against canon law,’ he replied slowly. ‘Once a corpse has been sheeted and coffined—’
    ‘God would want it!’ Athelstan broke in quietly. ‘Father Stephen, on my oath as a fellow priest, terrible crimes may have been committed.’
    ‘You mean Roffel?’
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied brusquely. ‘He may have been murdered.’
    Father Stephen stood and picked up his cloak. He lit a lantern and shoved it into Athelstan’s hand.
    ‘As soon as I clapped eyes on Cranston ,’ he grumbled, ‘I knew it was bloody trouble.’
    Returning the banter, Cranston and Athelstan followed the priest out into the cold, wind-swept churchyard. Father Stephen unlocked the church door and they entered. Athelstan later swore that he would never forget the scene awaiting them. The nave of the church was black and cold. The lantern’s flickering light made it all the more eerie as they walked up towards the sanctuary. They all stopped, Cranston cursing, as a loose window shutter banged shut.
    That shouldn’t happen,’ Father Stephen whispered. He took the lantern from Athelstan, walked past the pillars and into the transept. He stopped and looked up at where the shutters clattered against the stonework.
    ‘I closed these,’ Father Stephen explained over his shoulder, his words ringing hollow through the church. There’s no glass here, so anyone can get in.’
    Athelstan walked over. He took the lantern and held it close to the ground.
    ‘Well, whether you like it or not, Father, you have had unexpected visitors. See, the mud-marks and scraps of dried leaf?’ He moved the lantern. ‘Look, a faded footprint.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ Father Stephen moaned. ‘Oh, don’t say they’ve rifled the sanctuary again!’ His face looked ghostly in the lantern light. ‘Or worse,’ he whispered. The lords of the crossroads, the black magicians, are always searching for sacred vessels to use in their blasphemous rituals. Come on! Come on!’
    They hurriedly walked up the church, Athelstan’s sandals slapping against the paving stones, and went through the rood screen.
    Not as grand as mine, Athelstan thought, but then quietly prayed for