By Murder's bright Light

got to her feet and left.
    Athelstan continued to gaze into the fire.
    ‘What do you think, Brother?’ Benedicta asked.
    ‘My view is that Sir Henry Ospring was a very powerful nobleman with far too many fingers in far too many pies. Now we know that Roffel stopped and sank a fishing smack sailing between Dieppe and Calais . We also know that young Ashby gave Roffel a sealed package. Now, I suspect, that package contained a copy of this map as well as instructions about where and when to intercept the fishing smack. However, in the natural order of things there’s nothing wrong with that. Ospring could have heard some gossip about precious cargo.’ He tapped the crudely drawn map. ‘Nevertheless, in this case the vessel was carrying important despatches as well as English spies.’ Athelstan got to his feet and went to warm his fingers at the fire. ‘My first urge is to challenge Marston, to discover if he knows anything but that may alarm people. Benedicta.’ He looked over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Will you do me a favour?’
    ‘Whatever you ask, Father.’
    ‘Forget the disputes between Pike and Watkin. I want you to take a short message and place it in the iron-bound coffer before the statue of Our Lady and Child in St Paul ’s cathedral.’ His smile widened at the look of puzzlement on Benedicta’s face.
    ‘Just a simple message. Write “Saints Peter and Paul, intercede for us”. Sign it, “Brother Athelstan”. Don’t worry,’ he added drily, ‘the blessed apostles won’t intervene but two gentlemen from the exchequer will be very pleased to renew their acquaintance with me.’
    He went across and took his cloak from a peg on the wall.
    ‘But now I must see to some building work.’
    Leaving a bemused Benedicta, Athelstan went round the house to saddle the protesting Philomel. A few minutes later he was making his way through Southwark’s narrow alleyways. He glimpsed Marston and the other bully-boys standing at the door of a tavern, their vantage point from which to see who entered and left the church. Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction and smiled to himself. If his suspicions proved correct, he’d give Marston something to worry about apart from poor Ashby.
    The day was cold but bright; a heavy hoar frost had frozen the puddles and ruts. Philomel, whom Athelstan considered to be the most cunning horse on earth, deftly made his way around these and past the stalls and booths. At last Athelstan reached a place where builders were erecting a three-storey house, commissioned by some merchant who wished to be free of the tolls, levies and taxes imposed on houses across the river. Athelstan watched swearing and cursing men, their breath heavy on the frosty morning air, carry bricks up makeshift ladders. Carpenters sawed wood and apprentices jumped around like monkeys. Athelstan loved to watch the builders at work and, when they shouted out greetings, he waved his hand in acknowledgement. He paid particular attention to the tiler busy on the roof, admiring his skill and confidence. Then, turning his horse, he made his way back in the direction of London Bridge . As he passed his church, Crim the altar boy came flying out.
    ‘Father! Father!’
    Athelstan reined Philomel in. Anxious lest Marston and his thugs might have attempted some mischief, he looked towards the church, but all seemed quiet.
    ‘Crim, what is it?’
    ‘Father,’ the boy stuttered. ‘It’s Lord Horsecruncher!’
    ‘You mean Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city?’
    ‘Aye, Father, old fat arse!’
    ‘Crim!’
    ‘Sorry, Father, but he sent a messenger across. You know, Father, the one with a tight bum who walks like a duck, his face pulled down as if he had smelt something rotten.’
    ‘And what did this messenger say?’ asked Athelstan patiently.
    ‘Well, Sir John wishes to see you urgently in Cheapside . The lady Benedicta has left already,’ Crim continued breathlessly. ‘She said she would call in and tell Sir John you are already on your way.’
    Athelstan tossed the lad a coin and continued his journey. For the first time in weeks he made Philomel trot and scarcely bothered to acknowledge the greetings and salutations shouted out to him. Clattering on to the bridge, he looked neither to left nor right as he wondered why Sir John so impatiently demanded his presence. As a courtesy, he called at the coroner’s house in Cheapside , but a tight-lipped Lady Maude told him that ‘the bird has