By Murder's bright Light

The housebreaker disappears.’ Cranston drummed his fingers on his fat knee. ‘Now that problem would tax any law officer. However, when Athelstan and I visited the last house, where the poor girl was killed, we noticed that the straw beneath the garret’s roof was rather damp. Well’ — Cranston leaned over and squeezed Athelstan’s hand — ‘in the normal course of events, the average law officer would have thought, “Ah, I know how the felon got in — through the tiles. He removed some, climbed down, robbed the house, went out through the roof and replaced the tiles behind him. Easy enough for a professional tiler.” The trouble with that theory, though, is that another tiler could easily detect what had been done.’ He glared at Shawditch. ‘Is that clear?’
    The man nodded vigorously.
    ‘So we asked Trumpington if a tiler had been summoned, and when he said yes we accepted his story.’ Cranston leaned over for Lady Maude to fill his goblet. ‘And if the beadle had had the roof examined by a tiler, who had found no signs of disturbance, then this could not be how the thief entered the house. But’ — he waved an airy hand — ‘this is where our logic comes in. Brother Athelstan and I considered the following possibility: what if Trumpington, the beadle, was involved in the housebreaking and the tiler used to check the roofs was also involved?’ Cranston slurped from the goblet. ‘A subtle little piece of trickery that might have deceived us had we not noticed those damp rushes.’ Cranston licked his lips. ‘Isn’t that right, Brother?’
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘your logic is impeccable. Trumpington and the tiler were working hand in glove. The beadle would find out which houses were empty and how they were organised. Then, while he was patrolling the streets, bawling out all was well, his accomplice was busy robbing the house.’
    ‘Have they confessed?’ Shawditch asked.
    ‘Oh yes, and some of the plunder has been found in their houses,’ Cranston replied. ‘They are now in Newgate awaiting trial. For the murder of that girl, both will hang.’
    He got to his feet and warmed his great backside before the fire. ‘Master Shawditch,’ he said magnanimously, ‘you may have credit for the arrest.’
    ‘Sir John, I thank you.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Cranston replied. ‘Now be off with you. Make sure that all the stolen property is returned to its owners.’
    Once the under-sheriff had left, Cranston was about to continue with his tales of triumph, even threatening to go back to his great victory on the river. But Athelstan yawned and stretched.
    ‘Sir John, I thank you for your hospitality, but the hour is late and tomorrow we have other business.’
    ‘I know, I know,’ Cranston replied testily. ‘That bloody Fisher of Men is still sending messages to me. He probably wants to be paid for the corpses he’s plucked out of the river.’
    Lady Maude got to her feet and pointed to a comer of the parlour.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, I have made up a comfortable bed for you.’
    Athelstan thanked her, rose and stretched.
    ‘Now, come on, Sir John.’ Lady Maude seized her husband by the elbow. ‘Come. The poppets will be up early and you know they always cry for Daddy.’
    Sir John, mollified, headed towards the door and the stairs to the bedchamber. He turned and waggled a finger at Athelstan.
    ‘You sleep well, Brother, and don’t worry about Grog and Magog. They are both locked in the kitchen. They won’t get out and eat you!’
    Athelstan breathed a sigh of rehef — Cranston ’s new acquisitions, two great Irish wolfhounds, were harmless enough but so boisterous in their greetings they could knock the wind from the unwary visitor.
    Sir John and his wife left. Athelstan snuffed out the candles and knelt by his bed to say his prayers, but his mind kept going back to Crawley lying on the deck and to the words he had uttered just before he swooned.
    The door opened behind him.
    ‘Brother?’
    ‘Yes, Sir John?’ Athelstan replied without turning. ‘You know I am a terrible teller of tales?’
    Athelstan smiled. ‘You are a great man, Sir John.’
    ‘No, Brother, it is you who deserve the credit. On behalf of that little murdered girl, I thank you. You saw old Jack do justice.’
    The door closed. Athelstan finished his prayers, crossed himself and chmbed into bed. He had intended to he awake and think, but his head had hardly touched the bolster before he was fast