By Murder's bright Light

declared.
    Athelstan heard her go down the passageway, open the door, say a few words and close the door again.
    He didn’t look up as she came back into the room.
    ‘Who was it?’ Tabitha asked.
    Emma didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and returned, her hands up the sleeves of her voluminous gown. She sat down and stared into the fire.
    ‘We have a clever, clever little priest here, Tabitha!’
    Athelstan looked up. Emma Roffel’s face was a mask of fury, pale, tight-lipped, her dark, powerful eyes blazing.
    ‘Mistress?’ he asked.
    ‘Leave his gown, Tabitha, and come and sit next to me!’
    The maid scurried across. Athelstan clasped his arms over his stomach and hoped his fear wouldn’t show. Emma leaned across. ‘A cunning , conniving priest, who’s not going to St Bartholomew’s!’ she spat out. ‘Do you know who knocked on the door, Tabitha?’ Her eyes never left Athelstan’s face. ‘Another priest, that stupid, ancient, dribbling Father Stephen from St Mary Magdalene church.’
    ‘Why should that alarm you, mistress?’ Athelstan asked innocently.
    Emma Roffel shuffled in her seat. She, too, smiled, as if enjoying this clash of minds.
    ‘You know full well, priest, but tell me anyway!’
    ‘Oh, yes, I will, madam. I’ll tell you a story about a young Scottish girl born in a fishing village near Edinburgh . She married a defrocked priest, but a marriage she thought was made in heaven became a hatred forged in hell. You, Mistress Roffel, hated your husband. It curdled both your souls. Roffel turned to his male whore Bernicia , and you to your love, Tabitha.’ Athelstan looked at Tabitha, who gazed coolly back. ‘You planned to murder your husband,’ he continued, ‘by poisoning his flask of usquebaugh. You thought that, if this was detected, someone on board the God’s Bright Light would surely be blamed, for your husband was hated by his crew.’
    ‘But, Father,’ Emma Roffel purred, ‘William always kept the flask by him. He, not I, took it to be filled at Richard Crawley’s tavern.’ She hugged her arms closer. ‘I am sure that, if you and that fat coroner make enquiries, you will find that my husband drank from the flask and suffered no ill effects. Indeed, as you know, I drank from it. You drank from it, too. There was no poison in it.’
    ‘Don’t mock me, madam,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘I shall tell you what happened. You took that flask when it was empty and put the arsenic in. Captain William filled it with usquebaugh. It would take more than one swig for the poison on the bottom to mingle and make its presence felt. As you planned, it eventually did, but only when he was at sea. Any apothecary will tell you that white arsenic is not a poison that kills immediately. It takes time to build up in the victim’s body.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘When the flask was brought back here, you washed and scoured it. You then found some usquebaugh and refilled it, placing it back among your husband’s possessions as if it had never been disturbed.’
    Emma Roffel just gazed coolly at him.
    ‘Now, the death of your husband,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was reward enough for you, but when Bracklebury brought his corpse back you noticed something amiss. Perhaps Bracklebury made one last search of the corpse? Or did you study the pages at the back of your husband’s book of hours and realise that “in S.L.” stood for “in secreto loco, in a secret place”. The last entry was fresh, so you knew that your husband had recently taken something precious and hidden it away.’ Athelstan paused to wet his dry lips. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make Bracklebury talk — his only thought was to find that silver.’
    ‘And?’ Emma Roffel asked, in mock innocence.
    ‘You knew, God knows how, about this secret place of your husband’s and so you entered into an unholy alliance with Bracklebury. You would find the silver and share it with him. You’d then act the grieving widow, maintaining your cool mistress-and-servant relations with Tabitha until you could both disappear and go to some other city in England or Scotland under new names.’
    ‘But I never went aboard the God’s Bright Light that night,’ Emma Roffel scoffed. ‘I was in the church of St Mary Magdalene , mourning for my husband.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Athelstan replied. ‘You did go aboard that day. You disguised yourself as one of the whores and Bracklebury hid you in the cabin so that you could begin your search