By Murder's bright Light

good sailor, plying the cloth trade between the Cinque Ports and Dordrecht . His ship went down with all hands. Roffel was cruising in the vicinity at the time. He blamed the French. I blamed him.’
    ‘But you did business with him?’
    ‘Of course I bloody well did — and charged him highly for it. A Scotsman, he liked his drink, usquebaugh. I bought it in cask from Leith in Scotland and sold it at treble the price to that evil bastard. He always filled his flask before he left for any voyage. Roffel knew, to the last drop, how much he had left.’
    ‘Do you have any of it now?’
    ‘Yes,’ Richard replied, ‘and I’ll finish it myself one day and toast his black soul with every drop.’
    ‘May we see it?’ Athelstan asked.
    The landlord shrugged and, going back into the scullery, returned with a cask about a foot wide and a foot across with a small tap in the bottom. He took a battered pewter cup from the shelf, ran a few drops into it and handed it to Cranston .
    ‘Taste that!’
    Sir John did, drinking it down in one gulp while the landlord grinned evilly.
    ‘Shitting ships!’ Cranston exclaimed. His face turned puce and he coughed. ‘Satan’s balls! What in hell is that?’
    ‘Usquebaugh, Sir John. Do you like it?’
    Sir John smacked his lips. ‘Hot,’ he said. ‘Strong at first, but it certainly warms the belly. How many barrels do you have of this?’
    ‘Just the one cask.’
    ‘And before he sailed on his last voyage Roffel filled his flask from it himself?’
    ‘Oh, of course, he did. And then he drank some, a small cup.’
    Athelstan, who was half-watching a Portuguese sailor feed his pet monkey, which was climbing all over his shoulders, looked at the landlord in surprise.
    ‘He drank some here?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ The landlord turned and glared towards the clamour from the kitchen. ‘Sir John, if you have no more questions, I have a trade to follow.’
    Cranston muttered his thanks and they left the tavern. Thankfully, the rain had stopped. The coroner gripped Athelstan’s shoulder.
    ‘It can’t have been the usquebaugh can it, Brother? Or the flask?’
    Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, not if Roffel drank some here and suffered no ill effects.’ He shook his head as he and the coroner trudged up the rain-soaked street.
    ‘Aren’t we going in the wrong direction, Sir John? Shouldn’t we be going to Roffel’s house?’
    ‘Ah, no, there’s someone else.’ Cranston stopped and took a generous swig from his wineskin. ‘As I said, Brother, someone who knows and watches what goes on along the river.’
    At the comer of the alleyway the coroner suddenly stopped and turned quickly. The two figures at the other end of the alleyway didn’t bother to hide. Athelstan followed the coroner’s gaze.
    ‘Who are they, Sir John?’ He strained his eyes. Dressed in brown robes, the figures looked like Benedictine monks. ‘Are they following us?’
    ‘They have been with us most of the time,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s leave them for a while.’
    They walked on, across Thames Street , down towards Vintry, then turned right past the warehouses and along Queen’s hithe towards Dowgate. A thick, cloying mist boiled over the river, hiding the ships that rode at anchor there.
    ‘Where are we going?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘Patience, my dear friar. Patience!’
    They walked along the quayside. Cranston peered into the dark corners then suddenly stopped.
    ‘Come out!’
    A ragged, hooded figure shuffled forward. As the man came closer, Athelstan saw the rags swathed across his face and around his hands and tried to hide his revulsion. The man moved in an ungainly shuffle and, as he did so, he rang a small bell.
    ‘Unclean!’ the ghastly figure croaked. ‘Unclean!’
    ‘Oh, bugger that!’ Cranston retorted. ‘I doubt if I’ll catch leprosy!’
    The man stopped a few paces from them. To Athelstan he seemed like some apparition from hell, with the rags covering his face and hands, the dark cowl pulled well forward. Now and again tendrils of mist would drift between them.
    ‘These are the gargoyles,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Cripples, beggars and lepers. They work for the Fisher of Men. They take corpses from the Thames , murder victims, suicides , those who have suffered accidents as well as drunks. If the man’s alive, they earn tuppence, for murder victims three pence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’
    ‘You wish to meet the Fisher of Men?’ the leper