By Murder's bright Light

shred of evidence of who’s the main mover behind all this.’
    ‘It might be Crawley ,’ Athelstan replied. ‘He had both the motive and the opportunity to approach the ship. Or what about Ospring? Where was our good merchant the night these strange events occurred?’ The friar sighed. ‘We understand all the officers were ashore, roistering and enjoying themselves, yet they could be lying. One or more might have stayed on board or returned later.’ Athelstan flung his quill down. ‘Yet, there again, no one saw any boat approach the ship from the quayside. If one did, it would have been challenged and how could three fit, strong sailors have been so quietly killed? Bernicia could be lying, she may have had a hand in this business. Finally, Mistress Roffel, though she disliked her husband, was, according to Father Stephen, praying over her husband’s corpse at St Mary Magdalene church.’ Athelstan wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘As you say, hell’s teeth, Sir John. I can’t see any of the women boarding a ship at night, despatching the crew and leaving without being seen.’
    Cranston drained his tankard. ‘And this brings us no nearer to the mystery of who murdered Captain Roffel, how and why.’ He ran his finger around the rim of the tankard. ‘Have you thought that those two lovebirds in your church, Aveline and Nicholas Ashby, might be involved in this?’
    Athelstan laughed. ‘In God’s name, Sir John, anybody and everybody could have been.’ He looked down at what he had written. ‘We have a number of mysteries to solve. How was Roffel poisoned? What went on during that last voyage? And what happened the first night the God’s Bright Light rode at anchor opposite Queen’s hithe? So far we have no clue, not a shred of evidence or a loose thread, except one. Our beloved admiral, Sir Jacob Crawley, he needs to be questioned again.’
    ‘Sir John, I have finished my ale,’ Leif shouted from the far corner of the taproom.
    Sir John looked over his shoulder to where the beggar, crouched on a stool, sat waving across at him.
    ‘I’d better go, Brother. Lady Maude awaits . Do you wish to join me?’
    Athelstan shook his head. He rolled his parchment up and put that and his writing implements back in the leather bag.
    ‘No, Sir John, I’d best go back.’ His face brightened. ‘Benedicta returns soon and I have a few questions to ask Master Ashby. I am also worried about Marston hanging around the church. We still have that problem to solve, Sir John.’
    Cranston got to his feet, turning his beaver-skin hat in his hands. ‘Aye,’ he muttered, ‘and Shawditch will be hammering on my door about that bloody footpad. You’ll be safe going back, Brother?’
    Athelstan stood up. ‘Who,’ he asked with great solemnity, ‘would dare touch the secretarius of the coroner of the city of London ?’
    Sir John grinned and moved away.
    ‘And don’t forget, Sir John,’ Athelstan called out, ignoring the surprised looks from the other customers, ‘you promised to play the role of Satan in our play!’
    ‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston bawled back, ‘even the Lord Beelzebub will seethe with envy when he sees me dressed in all my regalia!’
    Cranston swept out, Leif hopping and chattering like a squirrel behind him.
    Athelstan sighed, collected his horse from the stables and rode through the silent, darkened Cheap-side. He let his old horse find its own way as he halfdozed, his mind flitting back over the events of the day. All around him were the sounds of the night — shouts and songs from the taverns, a child crying from a high window, dogs barking. Cats slunk in and out of the shadows as they patrolled the sewers, ever vigilant for the mice and rats that foraged there. Athelstan crossed himself and softly intoned into the darkness ‘Veni Sancte Spiritus — Come, Holy Spirit, and send out from heaven the beam of your light.’
    He reached London Bridge , showed the warrant Cranston had given him and the night watch let him by. Half-way across he stopped; peering through the huddled buildings he glimpsed the Thames . The night mist shifted, revealing the fighting ships riding at anchor.
    ‘Oh, Lord!’ Athelstan prayed. ‘Solve these mysteries, these terrible murders, these secrets of the seas!’
    He recalled all the people he had met that day: Emma Roffel, the Fisher of Men, the poor hapless murdered maid, the scrutineers, enigmatic and dangerous.
    ‘We are,’ he muttered to himself, ‘like