By Murder's bright Light

know.’
    They made their farewells and left the house. Both jumped as the Fisher of Men, with two of his gargoyles trailing behind him, slunk out of the shadows.
    ‘Satan’s futtocks!’ Cranston swore. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing, creeping up on good Christians like that?’
    ‘Sir John, you gave me and mine some money, so me and mine will earn it!’
    ‘What have you found?’
    ‘We saw the light gleaming.’ The Fisher of Men turned and patted one of his creatures.
    ‘Yes, I know about the lights!’ Cranston growled. ‘The ships pass signals between each other.’
    ‘Oh, no, not those. Something else. A lamp winked from the ship God’s Bright Light every hour until just before dawn and someone on the quayside answered it with a lamp.’
    ‘Do you know who it was?’
    ‘No, it was someone in the shadows. When we find out, Sir John, we’ll let you know.’ The Fisher of Men stepped back and disappeared as silently as he had arrived.
    Athelstan, aware of the drizzle beginning to fall, pulled his cowl well over his head. ‘ Bernicia said that,’ he remarked.
    ‘Said what?’ Cranston asked testily.
    That there was someone in the shadows of the warehouses watching the ship.’
    ‘Satan’s balls! I have had enough of this!’ Cranston grumbled. ‘I’m hungry, I’m cold and wet!’
    He stamped down the alleyway, Athelstan hurrying behind him. The coroner sped, direct as an arrow, past the door of his own house, across a deserted Cheapside and into the Holy Lamb of God. He stopped abruptly, Athelstan almost colliding with him. Cranston glared angrily at the two men dressed in brown robes who sat at his favourite table.
    ‘Who the sod are you?’ Cranston snapped.
    The men smiled in unison and waved them over to the waiting stools.
    ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, please be our guests. We have already ordered blackjacks of ale.’
    Cranston and Athelstan sat down as the landlord’s wife placed tankards before them.
    ‘Your good health, Sir John.’ The brown-robed men raised their tankards in a toast to the coroner.
    Athelstan gazed at the strange pair. They looked like peas out of the same pod — merry-faced, balding, dressed the same, they seemed to do everything in unison. They would have passed as two merry monks from one of the city monasteries, with their soft skin and easy smiles, but for their eyes, hard and watchful. The friar shivered. These men were dangerous. They followed the coroner of London around the streets and did not give a damn. Now they sat waiting for him in his favourite tavern as if they knew his every movement.
    ‘Your names?’ Cranston growled.
    ‘Oh, you can call me Peter,’ the taller of the two replied. He smiled at his companion. ‘And that is Paul. Yes, call us Peter and Paul, the holders of the keys. What a nice touch!’
    ‘I could call you a lot of things,’ Cranston said grimly.
    ‘But you wouldn’t, Sir John,’ the one who had been given the name Paul replied. ‘We are like you; we may not be Children of the Light but we are their servants.’ He turned and smiled cheerily at Athelstan. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you, Brother?’
    Cranston swung his cloak back, touching the long stabbing dirk sheathed in his belt. Peter watched the movement, grinned and held his soft, white hands up in a gesture of peace.
    ‘Sir John,’ he lisped. ‘You are in no danger. We only wish to help.’
    ‘What with?’ Cranston snapped. ‘My marriage, my boys, my treatise, my bowels?’
    ‘God’s Bright Light !’ Peter snapped back, the good humour draining from his face.
    Athelstan spoke up, leaning across the table. ‘We appreciate your help, but who are you?’
    ‘We are the scrutineers. Do we work for the king’s council?’ Peter smiled and shook his head. ‘For the king himself?’ Again the shake of the head. ‘Brother Athelstan, we work for the crown. Princes and councillors come and go. We do not serve individuals, or noble families or a certain blood line but the crown itself.’ He leaned his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers, and gazed quickly around the warm, cheery tavern. ‘The life blood of the crown,’ he continued, ‘is its money. We scrutinise what should be the crown’s, its taxes, rights, prerogatives, levies and dues.’
    ‘So, you are treasury officials?’
    Again the smile. ‘Oh and much more! We are particularly interested in the crown’s rights in France and, Sir John, you know what has happened there?