By Murder's bright Light

‘Imagine, Brother, let us say even a party of six to ten. They reach the ship, clamber on board without the watch noticing, despatch three men without raising any alarm. They leave no mark of violence before disappearing over the side. Yet we have no reason for why they came. No one sees them and the lights and the password are still passed on. I can think of only one possibility — those three sailors jumped ship.’ Cranston blew his cheeks out. ‘But two problems remain. No one saw them leave and the signals still continued; If they had left the ship, they must have done so at almost the same time as that sailor and his whore arrived, yet that would have been noticed.’ Cranston shoved his cup away. ‘I am tired, Brother.’
    ‘Do you think we should go home?’
    ‘No.’ Cranston gathered up his cloak. ‘We should make one more visit. Roffel’s little whore or mistress. Perhaps she can cast some light on the gathering gloom.’

    As Athelstan and Cranston refreshed themselves in the Holy Lamb of God, a man, garbed in black from head to toe, strode quietly along a passage in a house that stood on the comer of Lawrence Lane and Catte Street . He moved softly, the rags wrapped around the soles of his leather boots deadening any footfall. He gripped his leather sack and gazed intently through the eye-holes of his mask at the precious candlesticks he could glimpse on a table at the end of the passage, their silver filigree glinting through the darkness.
    The thief smiled with pleasure. As usual, everything had been cunningly planned. The old fool Cranston would never discover how he was able to enter and leave these deserted mansions without any trace of forced entry. He reached the table, took the candlesticks and placed them carefully in his leather bag. Moving stealthily on, he was passing one of the rooms when its door opened. A young, sleepy-eyed maid came out. She must have sensed something wrong, for she turned and glimpsed the thief in the light of the candle she carried. She dropped the candle and opened her mouth to scream but the man sprang. He clapped his hands over her mouth and drove a thin, stiletto dagger straight into her chest. The girl’s eyes widened with terror and pain. She struggled, but the thief had her pinioned against the wall. He brought the dagger out and stabbed once more. The girl coughed. He could feel her hot blood seeping through the glove on his hand. Then she sank against him and crumpled slowly to the floor.

    Sir John and Athelstan tapped on the door of the house in Poultney Lane near the Lion Heart tavern. There was no response so Cranston rapped again. This time he was answered by the sound of running footsteps. A small voice asked, rather prettily, ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and Brother Athelstan his secretarius!’
    Locks turned and bolts were pulled back. A young red-headed woman in a murrey-coloured dress came out to greet them. She held a horn lantern high and thrust her thin, pale face towards them.
    “What do you want? What can I do?’
    ‘You knew Captain William Roffel?’
    The eyes, ringed with black kohl, blinked. Athelstan was fascinated by the brightly painted lips, garish against the pallor of the woman’s skin.
    ‘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 comer 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