By Murder's bright Light

Father!’ the lad shouted. ‘It’s time for Mass!’
    Athelstan decided to hurry down immediately rather than wash and change first. He followed Crim out of the house and through the swirling mist to the church door. A few of his parishioners were already waiting.
    ‘You are late, Father!’ Tiptoe the tapster accused.
    ‘And I can’t ring the bell!’ Mugwort declared mournfully.
    ‘I was tired,’ Athelstan answered impatiently. ‘But, come!’
    He opened the church door, letting Ashby slip out to relieve himself. Ursula the pig-woman stood guard to make sure that Marston or one of his thugs didn’t reappear. Athelstan quickly donned his vestments, trying to ignore Bonaventure, who kept rubbing up against his leg.
    ‘Go away, cat!’ Athelstan muttered. ‘You are a mercenary and a traitor.’
    The cat’s rubbing became even more vigorous so Crim had to put him outside. Athelstan lit the candles, celebrated Mass and, when he had finished, still distracted by the conclusions he had drawn earlier that morning, gave Crim a penny and a message for Cranston . Then he hurried back to his house, washed and shaved. He hastily ate some bread and cheese, told Mugwort he was in charge of the church until Benedicta or Watkin appeared, saddled Philomel and rode down to London Bridge.
    Athelstan found his journey slow. Philomel was sluggish and London Bridge was thronged with barrows, carts and pack-horses as people fought to get across before the markets opened. Athelstan stopped off at the church of St Thomas Becket half-way across. He said a prayer and lit a candle before the statue of the Virgin to ask for her guidance and wisdom in establishing the truth. Once in the city, Athelstan had to face more delays. In Bridge Street a house had caught fire and, further along, a group of Abraham men performed one of their crazed dances to the amusement of some of the onlookers and the exasperation of others. By the time he reached Cheapside , Athelstan was saddle-sore and bitterly cursing a journey that had taken over an hour. He found Cranston ensconced in the Holy Lamb of God. The coroner was sitting at his favourite table, watching the innkeeper and his wife and their army of scullions building fires and starting the ovens. Because the hour was early, the fat coroner was for once content just to sit back and enjoy the savoury smells beginning to come from the kitchen.
    He grinned at Athelstan. ‘Monk, you look angry.’
    ‘Sir John, I’m a friar and I’m fretful.’ Athelstan gingerly sat down and peered into Cranston ’s tankard.
    ‘It’s watered ale!’ Cranston said. ‘But I have ordered a minced-beef pie with onions, leeks and a dash of garlic and rosemary.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Just think of it, Brother, rich, savoury meat simmering under a thick, golden crust. By the way, I have sent for him.’ Cranston cocked open one eye and peered across at the hour candle on its iron spigot near the door. ‘So you had best tell me what you plan.’
    Athelstan did, haltingly at first, but becoming more articulate as his confidence in his conclusions grew. At first Cranston roared with laughter.
    ‘Bollocks and tits!’ he scoffed.
    ‘And the same to you, my son!’ Athelstan replied.
    Sir John calmed down. Once again Athelstan described his conclusions, hammering home his every point with both reason and evidence and Cranston ’s merriment began to fade. Athelstan paused as the landlord’s wife, who always cosseted the coroner, brought a blackjack of ale and served a steaming pie on a large trancher. The sight of the pie made Athelstan hungry, so she cut a piece off for him. They both ate and drank in silence. Once Cranston was finished, Athelstan outlined his strategies. The coroner asked a spate of questions. Athelstan answered and Sir John finally nodded.
    ‘I accept what you say, Brother! Perhaps just in time, here he comes!’
    Philip Cabe had slipped through the doorway. He caught sight of Cranston and Athelstan, swaggered across and slumped down on the stool Athelstan pulled over.
    ‘Sir John, the hour is early.’
    ‘Master Cabe, the matter is pressing.’
    Athelstan studied the seaman carefully. Cabe looked much the worse for wear — he was unshaven and his grey eyes were bleary from a heavy night’s drinking.
    ‘What are you worried about, Master Cabe?’ Athelstan asked gently.
    ‘Nothing, Father.’
    ‘You want something to drink?’
    The seaman shrugged. ‘Perhaps watered ale?’ Cranston