By Murder's bright Light

the confusion of Cranston ’s household behind him, pushed his way through the throng. He stabled Philomel in the Holy Lamb of God’s stables and entered the taproom. Lady Maude was right. Cranston was sitting in his favourite chair, a tankard of ale in front of him, and staring mournfully into the garden.
    ‘Good morrow, Sir John.’
    The coroner, full of self-pity, looked at his secretarius, who slipped on to the bench opposite him.
    ‘You are in poor spirits, Sir John?’
    ‘Bloody murder!’
    ‘You mean the business at Queen’s hithe?’
    ‘No, there have been burglaries in the streets around Cheapside . Always the same pattern. A deserted house is robbed but the felon leaves no sign of any forced entry or exit. Last night there was another one, in Catte Street . I have just been down to the Guildhall. A group of angry aldermen gave me and under-sheriff Shawditch the rough edge of their tongues!’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Anyway, what do you want, Brother?’
    ‘Emma Roffel came to see me. She was shocked about what had happened to the corpse of her husband and by the rumours that he had been murdered. She’s at the funeral now.’
    ‘We’ll deal with my troubles first,’ Cranston muttered.
    He grabbed his cloak and trudged out of the tavern across Cheapside , so sullen, he ignored the usual banter and good-natured abuse hurled at him.
    ‘Sir John, is this so serious?’ Athelstan asked, hurrying beside him.
    ‘Never forget, Brother. The city council pays my salary. I am friendly to all of them but ally to none. Sometimes I think they’d like to remove me.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan protested.
    ‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ the coroner said dolefully. ‘And how’s your bloody parish?’
    ‘My bloody parish is fine, preparing for the play.’ Athelstan seized Cranston ’s sleeve. ‘Sir John, pause a minute.’
    Under his thick beaver hat, the coroner’s fat, usually cheery face now looked so mournful that Athelstan had to bite his lip to hide his smile.
    ‘Sir John, will you be in our play?’
    He caught the flicker of amusement in the coroner’s eyes.
    ‘As what?’
    ‘Satan.’
    Cranston stared at him, threw his head back and roared with laughter. He clapped the friar so vigorously on the shoulder that Athelstan winced.
    ‘Of course I bloody will! I’ll even buy my own costume. Now come on!’
    He led Athelstan up a lane and stopped before the main door of a grand four-storeyed house.
    ‘Who lives here?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘A big fat merchant,’ Sir John replied. ‘He made a fortune in the wine trade and is now absent from the city visiting friends and relations.’
    Cranston hammered on the door. A pale-faced servant opened it. Sir John roared who he was and marched straight in. Shawditch was already in the large, white-washed kitchen questioning the servants, who sat, anxious-faced, around the great fleshing table. Cranston introduced Athelstan, who shook the under-sheriff’s hand.
    ‘Well, what happened?’ the coroner snapped.
    ‘The same as ever, Sir John, with one difference. Last night some footpad entered the house. God knows how — the doors were barred and the windows shuttered. He stole precious objects from the upper floors. Unfortunately a linen-maid, Katherine Abchurch, had fallen asleep in one of the chambers. She woke after dark, opened the door and surprised the intruder, who promptly stabbed her to death.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘Disappeared leaving no trace of how he left or how he entered.’
    Cranston nodded towards the servants. ‘And you have questioned all of these?’
    ‘They can all account for their movements. In fact, the steward here noticed Katherine was missing and went looking for her.’
    Athelstan beckoned the under-sheriff closer. ‘Is there anyone here who had anything to do with the previous burglaries?’ he asked.
    Shawditch shook his head. ‘No one.’
    ‘And you are sure that all the entrances and exits were sealed?’
    ‘As sure as I can be.’
    ‘Ah well, let’s see for ourselves,’ Cranston said. ‘Come on, Shawditch.’
    The under-sheriff led them along a corridor and up a broad staircase where the oak gleamed like burnished gold. The walls were panelled and the plaster above them painted a soft pink. Heraldic shields hung there and, on one wall, the head of a ferocious-looking boar had been mounted on a wooden plaque. On the second floor just outside a chamber, Katherine Abchurch lay where she had fallen, a