By Murder's bright Light

croaked.
    ‘That’s right, my jolly lad!’ Cranston called back. And, taking a penny from his pocket, he flicked it at the man who, despite his disability, neatly caught it in one hand.
    Tell the Fisher of Men old Jack Cranston wants a word.’ He pointed down the alleyway. ‘I’ll meet him in the alehouse there.’
    ‘And what business shall I say?’
    ‘The God’s Bright Light. He’ll know,’ Cranston added to Athelstan. ‘Nothing happens along the riverside without the knowledge of the Fisher of Men.’ The leper disappeared. Cranston led Athelstan down the alleyway into a small, smelly alehouse with only one window high in the wall. It was dark and dank, lit by smoky tallow candles and smelly oil lamps, but the ale was rich and frothy, the blackjacks clean and the tables and stools neatly wiped.
    ‘You have met the Fisher of Men?’ Cranston asked. ‘Yes, you introduced us some months ago,’ Athelstan replied.
    Cranston stuck his nose into his tankard but his eyes never left the doorway.
    ‘Here he comes.’
    The doorway became black with huddled figures, cowled and hooded like the one they had met on the quayside. The tapster nervously waved them back but they crouched at the threshold, staring into the tavern like a huddle of ghosts peering into the land of the living. Their leader, the Fisher of Men, came from amongst them, walked soundlessly towards the coroner and Athelstan and, without invitation, sat down on the stool between them. He pulled back his hood revealing a face as sombre as any death mask — alabaster white, thick-lipped and snub-nosed, with black button eyes. Red, greasy hair fell to his shoulders. He pointed a lanky finger at Cranston .
    ‘You are Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city.’ The finger moved. ‘And you are Athelstan, his secretarius or clerk, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark. Sir John, Lady Maude went shopping today. Brother Athelstan, your sanctuary man is safe. He is helping your parishioners prepare the stage for their mystery play.’
    Athelstan smiled at the Fisher of Men’s implicit boast at how much he knew.
    ‘But we are not here to exchange gossip,’ the Fisher of Men continued. Again the finger pointed. ‘Three days ago the ship so inappropriately called God’s Bright Light dropped anchor opposite Queen’s hithe. The captain’s corpse was taken ashore. His soul has gone to God’s judgement...’ The voice trailed away.
    ‘And what else do you know?’ Cranston asked.
    The man spread his hands and indicated with a nod of his head the group in the doorway.
    ‘Sir John, of your mercy I have my brethren to feed.’ Cranston pushed a silver coin across the table. The Fisher of Men plucked it up.
    ‘You do me great honour, Sir John. The ship was berthed and that night the crew and their doxies went ashore. I know because I had one of them. Fresh and clean she was. Black curly hair, merry eyes, active and vigorous as a puppy in my bed.’
    Athelstan fought to control his face at the image of this strange figure making love to a young whore. ‘Very good,’ Sir John interrupted hastily. ‘And?’
    ‘Three men were left on board, one in the bows, one at the stem, the mate in the middle. Or rather, he kept to the cabin.’
    ‘And?’ Cranston insisted.
    ‘Oh, a whore, a male whore’ — the Fisher of Men grimaced — ‘came down about midnight to the quayside. However, she, or he, depending on your viewpoint, was driven off by a stream of curses from the ship.’ The Fisher of Men played with his lank hair. The sailor on board sounded drunk, but the signals and passwords continued to be perfect!’
    ‘And nothing happened?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh yes, about two hours after midnight a small craft approached the ship.’
    ‘From the river bank?’
    ‘Oh no, from the admiral’s cog, the Holy Trinity. Two men were in it.’
    ‘And then what?’
    The small boat was there for just over an hour, but then it returned.’ The Fisher of Men smiled. ‘And, before you ask, Sir John, the password and the signals still continued.’
    ‘Did anything else happen?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘A sailor returned just before dawn and the confusion began.’
    ‘But the watch?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘What happened to the watch?’
    The Fisher of Men licked his lips, reminding Athelstan of a frog which could see something savoury. ‘If the river has them,’ the fellow replied, ‘it will caress and kiss them and put them ashore.’ His face