By Murder's bright Light

ambitions, Pike’s bold-faced teasing, Pernell the Fleming’s desperate attempts to dye her hair and the sardonic amusement, as well as something else, he’d glimpsed in Benedicta’s lovely eyes. He wondered how Ashby was faring with Aveline. He felt more comfortable about her now — by the time Cranston finished this business, Sir Henry Ospring would not be held in high regard by the king. He began to think about the mystery play and to work out where the congregation would sit...
    His eyes closed and he began to doze. He started awake as someone on the deck above him dropped something with a crash. The cabin was growing dark. He wondered whether Sir John had a flint so that he could light the lantern that hung from one of the thick wooden posts that supported the deck above. He got up and opened the front of the lantern then stared at the thick, bronze or copper hook from which it hung. The hook was carried on a plate which in turn was screwed to the post. Athelstan felt a flicker of excitement. Why such a heavy hook to carry a lantern which felt much lighter than those that good citizens hung outside their doors at night? The plate was at least nine inches across. Athelstan took the lantern down and tugged at the hook. Nothing happened. He tried twisting the hook clockwise, but it held fast. Then he tried to turn it in the opposite direction and this time he felt it give and the base plate move a little. He turned the hook further, as though unscrewing it, and the plate began to loosen and eventually come free, revealing a recess in the post behind it. Athelstan pushed his hand inside. His fingers touched soft shavings of wood, then a cold, hard object. He got two fingers around it and pulled it out. A silver coin rolled in the palm of his hand.
    He heard a boat pull alongside and hastily replaced the hook in the post and went across to rouse Cranston .
    ‘Sir John!’ he hissed. ‘For God’s sake, wake up, Sir John!’
    The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips.
    ‘A cup of claret,’ he breathed. ‘A beef and onion pie and I’ll see the poppets immediately.’
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Sir John!’ Athelstan shook him. ‘We are on board ship!’
    Cranston rubbed his face and struggled to his feet. ‘What the bloody hell?’ His voice trailed off as Athelstan held the silver piece in front of his eyes.
    ‘You ferret of a friar! You little ferret of a friar!’ Cranston chortled and, grabbing Athelstan by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks.
    Athelstan, not knowing whether to rub his shoulders where they ached or wipe his face, pointed to the lantern. Cranston lumbered across, his face still heavy with sleep.
    ‘In there? That’s a daft place!’
    ‘No, Sir John, behind the hook plate is a small recess. Whatever Roffel took from that fishing boat he hid there, but now it’s gone.’
    ‘So!’ Cranston breathed. ‘It all fits together.’ Athelstan hid the silver coin at the rap on the door. Southchurch entered.
    ‘I told Sir Jacob you were here,’ he said, ‘and he sent a messenger. Despite the present alarums, he still wishes you to be his guests aboard the Holy Trinity.’ Cranston looked down at himself. ‘I would like to change but’ — he grinned — ‘I suppose I’m handsome whatever I wear.’ He ran a finger along the stubble on Athelstan’s chin. ‘ Which is more than I can say for you, my little friar. Come on, I’m starved and Crawley can be a good host.’
    As a thick mist blanketed the river, the frenetic activity of the afternoon began to die. News of the French galleys had reached the city and church bells were already ringing the alarm. Many taverns were closed. Even the whores moved east of Southwark Bridge , confident that if any galleys penetrated the Thames this would prove a natural barrier to the invaders. A group of traders went down to Westminster to protest to the king’s council about this further sign of a fall in English fortunes. The more selfish began to hide belongings and place precious objects in strongboxes. Darkness fell; the quaysides were deserted except for the Fisher of Men and his gargoyles, who began to peer out of the shadowy alleyways and filthy runnels which ran down to the Thames. The Fisher of Men’s strange eyes gleamed at the prospect of profit. If there was a battle on the river, corpses could be plucked from the water, purses cut and fees demanded from the city authorities. He and his group of cowled figures crept by the