By Murder's bright Light

awe of the mountainous Sir John with his voracious appetite and constant yearning for refreshment.
    ‘What are you smiling at?’ Cranston asked crossly. ‘Oh nothing, Sir John, I just...’ Shawditch’s words trailed away.
    ‘Anyway,’ Cranston boomed, turning to walk down the street, ‘Athelstan is always saying if there’s a problem there must be a solution, it’s just a matter of observation, speculation and deduction.’
    Cranston hopped aside, with an agility even Thomas the toad would have admired, as an upper window opened and a night jar of slops was thrown into the street. Shawditch was not so lucky and his cloak was slightly spattered. He stopped to shake his fist up at the window, then moved as quickly as Cranston as it opened again and another nightjar appeared.
    There should be a law against that,’ he grumbled. ‘But you were saying, Sir John?’
    ‘Well.’ The coroner tugged his beaver hat firmly over his large head. ‘Question, how does the footpad get into the houses? Secondly, how does he know they are empty?’
    ‘As to the second question, I don’t know. And the first? Well, it’s a mystery.’
    ‘Have you checked the roofs?’ Sir John asked.
    ‘Yes, Trumpington summoned a tiler, the fellow inspected the roofs and found nothing amiss.’
    They reached the comer of Bread Street . Cranston was about to go when Shawditch plucked at his sleeve.
    ‘I said I had two problems for you, Sir John. The second is more serious.’
    Cranston sighed. “Well, not here.’
    He led the under-sheriff up Cheapside and into the welcoming warmth of the Holy Lamb of God. He roared at the landlord’s wife for his capon pie and bowls of claret for himself and his friend. Once he had taken his first bite, he nodded at the under-sheriff. ‘Right, tell me.’
    ‘You know the king’s ships have been at sea against the French?’
    ‘Aye, who doesn’t?’ Cranston munched at his pie. John of Gaunt, pestered into action by parliament, had at last assembled a flotilla of fifteen armed ships to carry out reprisals against French privateers in the Channel as well as surprise attacks on towns and villages along the Normandy coast.
    ‘Well,’ Shawditch continued, ‘some of the flotilla are berthed in the Thames opposite Queen’s hithe, among them the cog God’s Bright Light.’ Shawditch sipped at his wine. The ship was commanded by William Roffel. It returned to port two days ago, after capturing and sinking a number of French vessels. Roffel, however, on the return voyage, caught a sudden sickness and died. His corpse was taken ashore. The crew were paid their wages and given seven days’ shore leave. Now, last night, the only watch left on the ship was the first mate and two other sailors. One in the bows and one at the stem.’ Shawditch gnawed at his Lip. ‘A lantern was left on the mast and the ship was in earshot of others riding at anchor.’
    ‘What happened?’ Cranston interrupted him impatiently.
    ‘Just before dawn a sailor came back with his doxy. They climbed on board and found the ship deserted — no first mate, no watch.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Well, no one had seen anyone leave or approach the ship, although it’s true there was a thick river mist that night. But that’s only half the mystery, Sir John. You see, an hour before the sailor returned, in accordance with the admiral’s instructions, the watch on board the neighbouring ship, the Holy Trinity, asked if all was well? A voice from the God’s Bright Light replied, using the established password.’
    ‘Which was?’
    The glory of St George.’
    Cranston sat back. ‘So, what you are saying is that nothing apparently untoward happened on board this ship? The watch even responded with the correct password to the neighbouring vessel?’
    ‘Aye, and then passed it on to another ship, the Saint Margaret,' Shawditch answered.
    ‘And yet,’ Cranston continued, ‘a short while later the ship is found deserted. No trace whatsoever of the first mate or the rest of his watch, two able-bodied sailors?’
    ‘Exactly, Sir John.’
    ‘Could they have deserted?’
    Shawditch pulled a face.
    ‘And there was no sign of violence?’
    ‘None whatsoever.’
    ‘Anything stolen?’
    Shawditch shook his head.
    ‘Well! Well! Well!’ Cranston breathed. ‘I wonder what Athelstan will make of this?’
    ‘God knows!’ Shawditch replied. ‘But the mayor and council demand an answer.’

CHAPTER 2

    Brother Athelstan sat at the table in