By Murder's bright Light

Leif shouted. ‘Surely, Sir John, a toast to Brother Athelstan?’
    Cranston readily agreed and offered a coin. The beggar grabbed it and thrust it into the tapster’s hand.
    ‘You heard my lord coroner. We celebrate his victory.’
    Cranston , catching Athelstan’s warning look, now clapped his hands.
    ‘But enough for today. Enough is enough! Go on, have your drink. Leave me alone!’ Cranston drew himself up. ‘City business, city business awaits !’
    The crowd reluctantly dispersed and Athelstan slid into the seat beside Sir John.
    ‘A great victory, Sir John.’
    Cranston looked at him slyly. ‘Aye, Brother. Only five galleys reached the open sea. We gave Eustace the Monk a smack across his arse he won’t forget in a hurry!’
    ‘But now we have to capture a felon,’ Athelstan reminded him.
    ‘Aye,’ Cranston muttered. ‘Our glorious physician Theobald has left and the news is bruited abroad.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You think the felon will strike tonight, Brother?’
    Athelstan nodded. ‘I do, Sir John. It’s been some time since the last murderous crime and the city is fairly distracted by the fight on the river. How is Crawley ?’
    ‘Drinking himself stupid at St Bartholomew’s.’
    ‘And the Lady Maude and the two poppets?’
    ‘Proud as peacocks! Proud as peacocks!’ Cranston dug his face into the cup of brimming claret. ‘Strange,’ he muttered, smacking his hps.
    ‘What is, Sir John?’
    ‘Well, our under-sheriff’s reported, as we expected, that no boats were hired to go to the God’s Bright Light but that mad bugger the Fisher of Men sent me a message.’
    ‘What did he want?’
    ‘To see me, but he’ll have to wait.’
    Athelstan thanked the tapster who placed a tankard of ale in front of him.
    ‘Sir John, are you sure no other boat approached the God’s Bright Light the night Bracklebury disappeared?’
    Cranston nodded. ‘First, before you ask, Brother, I have already arranged for the city to reward Moleskin. But, to answer your real question, no boat went there.’
    ‘So, how did Bracklebury leave?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Don’t forget he was laden down with the silver.’
    ‘He probably swam.’
    ‘He couldn’t. Ashby told me that.’
    Cranston ’s face became serious. ‘Tasty tits!’ he muttered, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. What I have done is issue a proclamation throughout the city that Bracklebury is to be taken, if possible, alive.’
    They sat for a while discussing plans and possibilities as the day began to die. Cranston demanded and got a pie and a dish of vegetables which he shared with Athelstan.
    After that they left, crossing a dark, cold, empty Cheapside and walking through a maze of streets to Theobald de Troyes’ house. A steward let them in, his face full of surprise.
    ‘Sir John, Master Theobald has gone!’
    ‘I know,’ Cranston rephed. ‘And, while the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh?’
    The steward looked puzzled.
    ‘Where is everyone?’ Cranston continued.
    The steward pointed down the passageway to the kitchen. ‘We are having our evening meal.’
    Cranston ’s podgy nose twitched at the savoury smells.
    ‘What is it, man?’
    ‘Capon, Sir John, marinated in a white wine infused with herbs.’
    ‘I’ll have two plates of that,’ Cranston said immediately. ‘With a couple of loaves. Bring them to the garret. Now, no one here is to leave this house, you included! And no one is to come upstairs until I say. Be a good fellow and piss off and do what I have told you!’ The steward scurried away. Athelstan and Cranston made their way through the opulently furnished house to the bleak garret at the top. The steward, now in total awe of Sir John, came up with the food. Cranston ordered him to bring candles and the thickest woollen blankets he could find. The steward obeyed. Cranston and Athelstan settled down.
    At first the coroner insisted on recounting every blow of the river battle, with anecdotal references to his days of glory when he served with Prince Edward against Philip of France. At last, his belly full of capon and after generous swigs from his wineskin, Cranston began to doze. For a while Athelstan just sat in the darkness, remembering his own days in France and his brother Francis who had died there. He shook his head to clear it of the still-painful memories and thought instead about his parish. He prayed that Basil the blacksmith and Watkin the dung-collector would not come to blows. His eyes grew