Murder most holy

woman’s barbed reply, whilst grinning wickedly out of the corner of his eye at Athelstan. He knew the priest was a good man, saintly, but with a weakness for this woman which fascinated Cranston . It was the only time Athelstan ever became nervous, those first few minutes whenever he met Benedicta, and this time was no different. The friar fussed around the woman like a lovelorn squire, making sure she was comfortable, whilst Benedicta, shy at such attention, murmured that she was well. Athelstan privately concluded that she was: Benedicta had lost her strained anxious look, her black glossy hair under its white gauze veil smelt fragrant, and he admired her close-cut gown of pink satin, tied at the throat by a heart-shaped brooch. Benedicta winked at Cranston and glanced sidelong at Athelstan.
    ‘You have been to the church, Father?’
    ‘Yes, and have given Pike a piece of my mind. Cecily fled before I could tell her a few home truths. Benedicta, I left you in charge!’
    The woman shrugged daintily. ‘You know Watkin, Father. He has a mouth like a trumpet. At least I kept them out of the church. What would you have me do?’ she asked innocently, her eyes twinkling. ‘Lie down in the graveyard with Cecily?’
    Cranston snorted with laughter. Athelstan smiled.
    ‘Any reply to the letter?’ she asked hopefully.
    Cranston covered her delicate hand with his huge paw.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he confided between gentle burps. ‘I sent the swiftest messenger. He was to go from Dover to Boulogne and is under orders to await a reply.’
    Benedicta gripped one of his fingers and squeezed it tightly.
    ‘Sir John, you are a gentleman.’
    Cranston grabbed his blackjack and pushed his face deep into it to hide his embarrassment.
    ‘The business at Blackfriars?’ she asked.
    ‘Murder, my lady,’ Cranston answered darkly. ‘Bloody murder! Silent death! But I have a few theories as my clerk will tell you later.’ He glanced suspiciously at Benedicta as she bit her lower lip whilst Athelstan suddenly became interested in his own wine cup.
    ‘I want to meet you, Benedicta,’ Athelstan intervened smoothly, ‘before going back to Blackfriars. The coffin is to be returned to the church and left there. Today is Thursday. I will return next Tuesday to hear confessions before Corpus Christi . Tell Watkin I want to find nothing amiss.’
    ‘And what else?’
    Athelstan leaned back against the wall. ‘I have been thinking about what Father Prior said to me just before I left Blackfriars. He talked about the first miracle. You know, I think it’s time we visited Raymond D’Arques. Come on.’ He rose as Cranston grabbed his tankard and drained it to the dregs. Athelstan nodded towards the door. ‘Perhaps the mist is beginning to lift in more ways than one.’
    D’Arques’s house was a two-storied, narrow building on the corner of a lane. It was half-timbered with a red-tiled roof, small windows on both storeys and a passageway down the side. Athelstan walked along this and looked over the small gate at the bottom. He glimpsed a huge yard, empty except for a few beggars crouched there. Surprised, he returned to the front of the house and knocked on the door, Cranston and Benedicta standing behind him. D’Arques’s pleasant-faced wife answered and welcomed them in with a smile.
    ‘Father Athelstan.’ She glanced quickly at Cranston and Benedicta.
    ‘Two friends,’ he replied. ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the City, and Benedicta, a member of my parish council.’
    The woman turned and walked back into the shadows of the house.
    ‘Come in,’ she said softly. ‘My husband is working. You have come to see him about the miracle worked at St Erconwald’s?’
    ‘Yes,’ the friar replied. ‘The news has spread throughout Southwark, even across the river.’
    D’Arques was sitting in the cool, stone-flagged kitchen: the coins scattered across the table, the strips of parchment, ink horn and quill, and the small, black-beaded abacus, showed he was in the middle of doing his accounts. He pushed back his stool as they entered, and rose, inviting them to sit at either side of the table.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, you are welcome.’
    The introductions were made; he clasped Cranston ’s hand and nodded politely at Benedicta. Athelstan sat down and looked around. The kitchen was neat and tidy. A huge cauldron above a small log fire gave off a delicious odour. D'Arques caught his glance.
    ‘Beef stew,’ he commented,