By Murder's bright Light

became solemn. ‘I and my brethren have already looked, but we have found nothing. We did not see them go in. Perhaps we shall not see them come out.’
    ‘But if you find them you will tell us?’
    The man looked down at the silver coin in his hand. Cranston pushed another piece towards him. The Fisher of Men picked it up, got to his feet and gave them a solemn bow.
    ‘You are my friends,’ he declared. ‘And the Fisher of Men never forgets. In the name of my brethren, I thank you.’
    He slipped out of the alehouse and the gargoyles, chattering and clattering, followed him down the alleyway.
    ‘Let’s see Crawley .’ Cranston drained his tankard. ‘Our dear admiral has been lying through his teeth and I think we should know the reason why. But first, Mistress Roffel. Come on, Brother, sharpen your wits and open your ears. Let’s see what our good widow has to say for herself.’
    They left the quayside. The clouds were beginning to break up as the daylight died. The streets were busy with apprentices and traders packing away the stalls. The huge dung-carts were out, trying to clear the swollen sewers. Athelstan saw one of the dung-collectors cheerfully pick up the bloated corpse of a cat and throw it with a thud into the cart. Beggars whined for alms. Mangy dogs strutted, stiff-legged, tails up, fighting and snarling over the piles of refuse. At the corner of an alleyway, Cranston stopped and peered over his shoulder.
    ‘Our friends are still with us.’
    Athelstan turned quickly and glimpsed the two monk-like figures a good thirty paces behind him.
    ‘Do you recognise them, Sir John?’
    ‘They are not monks,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are clerks, royal officials from either the chancery or the exchequer. If they are from the latter then God help us!’ Athelstan caught Cranston ’s arm. ‘Why, Sir John?’
    ‘The exchequer,’ Cranston replied, ‘has a group of very secret, sharp-witted officials called scrutineers. They deal with many matters — debts owing to the crown, royal prerogatives, but they also handle foreign matters, particularly the financing of spies and clandestine missions abroad.’
    ‘Shouldn’t we confront them?’ Athelstan asked.
    Sir John smiled bleakly. ‘If we walk back, they’ll retreat. They’ll choose the moment and the place to approach us.’
    Athelstan stared up as they approached a large town house, his attention caught by the tilers working there. He stopped and stared.
    ‘Come on, Athelstan!’ Cranston shouted.
    Athelstan watched the men working, smiled and hurried on. Sir John paid a link boy a penny to lead them to Mistress Roffel’s house, a narrow, three-storeyed building pushed between a haberdashery shop and an ironmonger’s. The windows were all shuttered up, the wooden slats covered with black drapes as a sign of mourning. Athelstan lifted the iron knocker, crafted in the shape of a ship’s anchor, and brought it heavily down.

CHAPTER 7

    Emma Roffel and her maid Tabitha entertained Sir John and Brother Athelstan in the downstairs parlour. The chamber was nondescript. Fresh rushes covered the floor but the room was devoid of any wall hangings and the table and chairs were old and rather battered. Emma Roffel followed Cranston ’s gaze.
    ‘Not the house of a successful sea voyager, eh, Sir John?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘But Captain Roffel was tight-fisted with his monies. And you’ve met his creature, Bernicia , with her pretty face and tight bum?’
    Athelstan stared at this hard-faced woman, who was so cold and distant about her husband’s death. Athelstan admired her honesty. He remembered a maxim he had heard — ‘the opposite of love is not hate but indifference’.
    ‘Was it always like that?’ he asked.
    Tears welled in the woman’s eyes.
    ‘Mistress, I did not mean to upset you.’
    Emma Roffel looked over his head, fighting to keep her face impassive.
    ‘You do not.’ Her eyes took on a haunted, distant look as her mind conjured up visions, ghosts from the past. ‘Roffel was a priest, you know. A curate in the parish of St Olave’s in Leith just outside Edinburgh . My father owned a fishing smack and Roffel was interested in the sea. Sometimes he would go fishing with my father.’
    ‘Did you ever accompany him?’
    Emma smiled bleakly. ‘Of course not. I fear the sea. It’s taken too many good men.’
    ‘What happened?’ Athelstan persisted. Like all priests, he was fascinated by those of his brethren who left