By Murder's bright Light

leather belts, their salt-stained jackets pulled back to display daggers and short swords. Athelstan fleetingly wondered what would happen if all four of these men were taken to that goldsmith? But that would prove little and might only alert suspicions. The goldsmith would be frightened of implicating himself. Moreover, the mysterious sailor who had brought the silver might be an innocent third party only used by the thief and murderer for that particular transaction. Athelstan blinked as Cabe leaned over and whispered to Cranston . The coroner just glared back.
    ‘I appreciate you coming,’ Sir John declared falsely. ‘My excuse for asking you is that I thought you might want to meet an old friend.’
    ‘What the bloody hell do you mean?’ Peverill asked. Cabe stepped back. ‘You are not saying Roffel’s climbed out of his grave?’ Cranston shook his head, grinned and sipped from his wine cup.
    ‘No, but Bracklebury might have.’
    ‘Bracklebury!’ Coffrey exclaimed. ‘Have you caught him?’
    ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Cabe snarled. ‘What is this, Sir John? To be summoned by some benighted sloven from our duties on the quayside.’
    Cranston gazed beyond him at the door where Emma Roffel now stood with the ubiquitous Tabitha in tow. Behind her was the thin-faced, red-haired Fisher of Men.
    Emma swept grandly towards the coroner.
    ‘You’d best not be wasting my time, Sir John!’ She flicked a look of contempt at her dead husband’s officers. ‘What is it now?’
    ‘You’ll see! You’ll see!’ the Fisher of Men called from the door. ‘A mummer’s play is about to begin. The cast is waiting.’
    ‘Come on, Sir John,’ Athelstan whispered. Cranston realised that the ship’s officers and Emma Roffel were in danger of walking off in protest, so he lumbered to his feet.
    ‘This is no petty matter,’ he said. ‘All of you had best follow me.’
    They followed the Fisher of Men, surrounded by his gargoyles, back to the warehouse. He opened the door and ushered them in. While others lit candles and torches, he led them past the grisly, decaying corpses laid out on the floor or on the makeshift tables.
    Athelstan watched the others. Emma Roffel, pale at the sights she glimpsed, was supporting Tabitha. The maid clutched her mistress’s arm, her eyes half-closed, her face turned inwards so she did not have to look at the pale faces and open, staring eyes. Even the sailors, used to battle and sudden death, lost their arrogance. Coffrey became distinctly nervous and, on one occasion, turned away to gag at the offensive stench. At last they reached the arrow chest. The Fisher of Men held up a torch, giving the corpse’s face an eerie light of its own.
    ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Minter the ship’s surgeon crouched down.
    Coffrey turned away. Peverill gazed in astonishment. Cabe, who seemingly couldn’t believe his eyes, walked closer and stared at the dead man’s face.
    ‘Is it Bracklebury?’ Sir John asked.
    ‘God rest him!’ Minter whispered. ‘Of course it is!’
    ‘Do you all recognise him?’
    ‘We do!’ they chorused.
    ‘Mistress Roffel, is this the man who brought your husband’s corpse back to your house?’
    ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘It is.’
    ‘Then I pronounce and declare,’ said Cranston formally, ‘that this is the corpse of Bracklebury, first mate of the God’s Bright Light, murdered by person or persons unknown. May God bring them swiftly to judgement! ’ Cranston pointed at the Fisher of Men. ‘You may apply for the reward.’ He turned to the ship’s surgeon. ‘Can you tell us how this man died?’
    Minter, overcoming his distaste, pulled the water-sodden corpse from its box and laid it on the ground.
    ‘Do you need me any more, Sir John?’ Emma Roffel asked.
    ‘No, no, of course not. I thank you for coming.’
    Minter was now stripping the corpse and examining it carefully, turning it over as if it was some dead fish on the quayside.
    ‘Well?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘No signs of any blow to the head or stab wound. No marks of violence, except these—’ He turned the grisly corpse over and indicated the lacerations on each side of the neck and the large purple welt on the chest.
    Emma Roffel, turning to leave and still holding the tearful Tabitha, slipped on the wet floor. Athelstan caught her by the hand.
    ‘Steady!’ he whispered.
    ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘If you could help me, Brother.’
    Athelstan helped