Murder most holy

‘but it’s not my wife’s cooking you’re interested in.’ He rolled back the loose sleeve of his gown to reveal a healthy arm. ‘You see, Father, the infection has not returned.’
    Cranston and Benedicta stared at the wholesome skin, searching for any mark, but they were unable to find any. D’Arques’s wife sat at the other end of the table watching them intently.
    ‘Master D’Arques.’ Athelstan shifted uneasily as he felt he was now intruding on this happy household. ‘You’ve lived in Southwark all your life?’
    ‘I am Southwark born and bred.’
    ‘And you’ve been a carpenter?’
    ‘I’ve had various trades, Father. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Have you ever been married before?’
    D’Arques threw back his head and laughed, then winked at his wife. ‘Once bitten, twice shy, Father! Margot Twyford,’ he nodded at his wife, ‘is my first and only wife. My first and only love,’ he added softly.
    The woman looked away in embarrassment.
    ‘Twyford?’ Cranston interrupted. ‘Are you a member of that family?’
    ‘Oh, yes, Sir John. The famous Twyfords, the merchant princes. I am one of their kin. My father was most reluctant for me to marry outside the family circle and the great trade guilds which the Twyfords dominate.’
    Athelstan felt he had gone as far as he dared. He was about to turn the conversation to more mundane matters when there was a sudden knock at the back door.
    ‘I am sorry,’ D’Arques muttered. ‘We have other tasks to attend to.’
    His wife rose. Collecting a huge tray from a side table, she went and knelt before the fire, ladling the stew into small earthenware bowls.
    ‘Do you wish to eat?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘Something to drink?’
    ‘No, thank you,’ Athelstan answered quickly, glancing at Cranston . ‘You have children, Master D’Arques?’
    Again the man laughed. He rose and went to open the door. Athelstan glimpsed the beggars he had seen before now staring expectantly into the kitchen.
    ‘Go and sit down,’ D'Arques said quietly to them. ‘Sit against the wall and my wife will bring out the food.’
    The beggars quietly obeyed as Mistress D’Arques rearranged the bowls so as to lay a huge platter of cut bread between them. She smiled at her visitors and disappeared through the door, to be welcomed by cries of thanks and appreciation.
    ‘You feed the poor?’ Benedicta asked, her eyes shining with admiration.
    ‘St Swithin’s is our parish, Mistress Benedicta. We all have our tasks. At noontime every day we feed the poor within the Parish boundaries. It’s the least we can do.’
    Athelstan nodded, rose, and went across to the door. He glanced quickly round and caught sight of a small, beautifully carved cupboard.
    ‘You made this, Master D’Arques?’
    ‘Of course, it carries my mark.’ D’Arques joined Athelstan and pointed to the small emblem just above one of the hinges, an elaborate cross with two finely etched crowns on either side.
    ‘Father,’ he murmured, ‘why are you here?’
    Athelstan smiled. ‘Miracles are rare occurrences. I came to make sure yours had had lasting effects.’ Athelstan beckoned to his companions. ‘Sir John, Benedicta, we have wasted enough of Master D’Arques’s time. Sir, my regards to your lady wife.’
    The carpenter ushered them out and Cranston at least waited until they turned the corner before giving vent to his feelings.
    ‘Athelstan, in the name of God, what on earth were we doing there?’
    ‘A wild guess, Sir John. D’Arques started the great mystery at St Erconwald’s. I thought, an unworthy suspicion, that Master Watkin had put him up to it.’
    ‘Do you believe that?’ Benedicta asked.
    ‘Of Watkin, and his ally and one-time enemy Pike the ditcher, I believe anything!’ Athelstan snapped. ‘But, come, one last call.’
    They visited physician Culpepper in his musty, shabby house in Pig Pen Lane , but the old doctor could give little help.
    ‘Master D'Arques,’ he confirmed, ‘is a worthy member of the parish; an honest trader, who had a hideous infection on the skin of his arm. No,’ Culpepper announced, ushering them to the door, ‘you do not get the likes of Master D’Arques having anything to do with the shady dealings of Watkin the dung-collector and Pike the ditcher.’
    All three walked slowly back to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan bade farewell to Benedicta and, taking a now reluctant Sir John by the arm, walked briskly down towards London Bridge