Murder most holy

explained what had been found in the church a few hours earlier. Cranston heard him out.
    ‘What do you think, Monk?’
    ‘Friar, Sir John. Remember, I am a friar.’
    ‘Who cares?’ the coroner snapped. ‘Do you think it’s the remains of some saint?’
    Athelstan waited until the taverner had served them.
    ‘No, the church isn’t old enough. But matters aren’t helped when there are no records. The last incumbent fled with everything he could lay his hands on. You might know him, Sir John? William Fitzwolfe.’
    Cranston half-drained his tankard and rubbed his fleshy nose. Athelstan watched expectantly. There wasn’t a rogue in London whom Cranston didn’t know of. The coroner blew out his lips.
    ‘Ah, yes, I remember the bastard: William Fitzwolfe, defrocked and excommunicated. He has been on the list of people I would like to talk to for the last five years. The knave’s reputedly gone to ground in the city.’
    ‘What I also need,’ Athelstan added, ‘are the records of the church. What stood on the site before it was built and when the old sanctuary was paved.’
    ‘I can help you with that,’ Cranston replied. ‘The corporation has its own archives. I’ll get some idle clerk to hunt around and see what can be found.’
    ‘And Fitzwolfe?’
    ‘Well, if he’s a defrocked priest, guilty of sacrilege and every other crime in the book, there’ll be a price on his head. What I’ll do, my beloved friar, is increase the amount and tell my legion of informants that whoever lays this rogue by the heels, wins my favour. If you know the buggers like I do, they need that.’
    ‘Sir John, you are so generous.’
    ‘Bollocks! You haven’t asked why I have come.’
    ‘Another murder?’
    ‘Well, yes and no.’ Cranston grinned evilly. ‘Now I’ve got you wondering! But, look, before I tell you the whys and the wherefores, let’s go back to that silly little church of yours. The light is fading, and I would like to have a peek at this mysterious skeleton.’

CHAPTER 3

    Athelstan and Cranston walked slowly back to St Erconwald’s. The crowd was still there but a short, blunt speech from their parish priest soon dispersed them except for a sleepy-eyed Crim on guard at the door.
    ‘The workmen are just finishing, Father.’
    ‘Good!’ he answered. ‘You may go now, Crim.’ And tossed the lad a penny.
    Inside the church Athelstan groaned at the dust which now covered everything.
    ‘You would think the place had been under siege,’ Cranston chuckled. He pulled his face straight when Athelstan glared at him narrow-eyed, then at the workmen busy gathering their tools into leather-handled bags.
    ‘No more skeletons, Father,’ the foreman shouted.
    The ripple of laughter his mockery caused ended abruptly as Athelstan walked purposefully towards him.
    ‘I was only joking, Father,’ the workman added. ‘You can’t hold us responsible.’ He pointed towards the sanctuary, desperately trying to change the subject. ‘Look, most of the flagstones are up.’
    Athelstan stared round: the sanctuary floor was now just beaten earth except for that dreadful hole where the altar had once stood. The stones lay neatly stacked against the wall and the old gravel and sand had been piled in heaps. Athelstan clasped the man’s shoulder.
    ‘You have done a good day’s work,’ he replied, and went across to look at the stones. ‘Listen,’ he said, fishing into his purse for a coin and flicking it at the workman, ‘have a pot of ale. You’ll be fully paid when the job is done, but you look as if you are experienced in the cutting of stone.’ He tapped one of the slabs. ‘So tell me, were these stones put down when the church was built?’
    ‘Nah,’ the fellow replied. ‘These were put down in a hurry, and not so long ago neither.’
    ‘How long?’
    The fellow shrugged. ‘About ten or more years. You see, Father,’ the fellow tapped the beaten earth floor with his dusty boot, ‘I reckon this church is about one hundred and fifty years old and, when it was built, it had no sanctuary stone, just a mud-packed floor. You can still find churches like this in London . Now, because we are so close to the river, the earth is wet and soaked: I think one of the priests hired someone to put the flagstones down. He even left his mark.’ The fellow took a candle from the wooden box in front of Our Lady’s statue. He lit the candle with his tinder and held it up against one of the paving stones.