By Murder's bright Light

around.
    The two cloaked women must have walked over quietly. They stood, white-faced, staring at him.
    ‘Emma Roffel.’ She pulled back her hood. ‘You remember me, Father?’
    Emma’s face was drawn and her grey hair was unruly, as if she had hardly bothered to finish her toilet. Tabitha Velour, standing just a pace behind her, looked similarly drawn and tired.
    ‘You’d best come in.’ Athelstan led them into the kitchen and sat them down. He offered some bread and wine but they declined. He sat at the head of the table, gently stroking a purring Bonaventure, who had jumped into his lap.
    ‘Why are you here?’ he asked Emma. ‘I thought your husband was to be buried this morning?’
    ‘He is to be, within the hour,’ Emma replied. ‘I’m here because of what happened at St Mary Magdalene church last night.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I had to ask you, Father. Have you found the culprit? Why should anyone do so disgusting a thing?’
    ‘You have come across the river to ask me that?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Sir John and I did intend to visit you today.’
    ‘I went to Sir John’s house,’ Emma said, ‘but he was not there. He had been summoned to the Guildhall. I just want to know who did it.’
    ‘Madam, we don’t know who or why but your husband had few friends and many enemies.’
    Emma sighed heavily.
    ‘He was a hard man, Father.’
    Athelstan peered at her. That’s not really why you came,’ he said. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
    ‘I will speak for her.’ Tabitha Velour leaned forward. ‘When we went to St Mary Magdalene church this morning, Father Stephen was still very upset. He overheard you tell Sir John that Captain Roffel may have been poisoned. Is this true?’
    ‘I think so,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Probably white arsenic. It’s cheap and easy to obtain.’
    ‘But how?’ Emma Roffel asked. ‘My husband was very careful on board ship, only eating and drinking what the crew did.’
    That’s not quite true,’ Athelstan said. ‘Your husband was Scottish. He had a special flask which he filled at a tavern near Queen’s hithe with a fiery Scottish drink called usquebaugh.’
    Emma Roffel put her finger to her lips. ‘Of course,’ she whispered. ‘Where he went, so did that flask.’ She stared at Athelstan. ‘But he always filled it at that tavern! He took it there himself, because he paid the landlord to import a special cask from the port of Leith in Scotland .’
    ‘Did he always carry the flask around with him?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘He never drank from it on land,’ Emma answered. ‘But at sea, always. He would never leave it in his cabin but carried it on his person.’
    ‘And at sea, of course, he could not refill it,’ Athelstan mused.
    Emma suddenly stood up. ‘Father, you must excuse us. The funeral Mass is at ten o’clock. There will only be the two of us there. We must go.’
    ‘We may visit you afterwards?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently and, followed by her maid, hurried out of the house.

    Athelstan banked the fire. He collected the leather bag containing his writing materials, filled Bonaventure’s bowl with milk and went out to saddle the protesting Philomel.
    ‘Come on, old man,’ he whispered as he gingerly heaved himself into the saddle. ‘Let’s go and see old Jack Cranston, eh?’
    Philomel snickered in pleasure. The old destrier liked nothing better than butting the fat coroner’s protuberant stomach or expansive backside. As they passed the church door, Athelstan glimpsed Marston and two other of Sir Henry’s retainers lurking in the alley opposite. Athelstan did not stop. His parishioners had now spilled out on to the steps. Neatly divided into two groups, one led by Watkin and the other by Pike, they were fiercely debating whether God the Father was, in fact, superior to God the Holy Ghost.
    Lord help us, Athelstan thought, perhaps I should be Three Persons in One and Watkin and Pike could be two of the archangels. He turned Philomel out of the church grounds and into the alleyway, smilingly sketching a blessing towards where Marston and his accomplices lurked. Then he forced his way through the smelly, noisy throngs in Southwark’s narrow alleyways. Outside the Piebald tavern, two of his parishioners, Tab the tinker and Roisia his wife, were engaged in a bitter verbal battle, much to the delight of a growing crowd of onlookers. Athelstan stopped to watch and listen.
    ‘We’ve been