Murder most holy

John had taken. At last they were free of Whitefriars and entering a small street leading up to the Fleet. Athelstan suddenly stopped and leaned against the wall. He was drained and tired, as if body, mind and soul had been buffeted. The coroner peered at him.
    ‘Only one thing for you, my lad,’ he murmured, ‘Sir John Cranston’s usual remedy for the ills of mind and body.’
    He pushed the friar into the dark, welcoming warmth of a corner tavern. Sir John, using his powerful lungs and authority as King’s Justice, soon cleared a space for them near the high-stacked wine barrels, and the prompt delivery of two great cups of claret and a dish of spiced duck. Cranston said they could share this but Athelstan shook his head, sipping the wine greedily, relishing its sweet warmth. He drained the cup so Cranston ordered another, gently removing the pieces of parchment Athelstan still clutched in his hand. The coroner studied them carefully, roaring for a candle so he could see them better.
    ‘By a fairy’s buttocks, Athelstan! What’s so frightening about these? Greasy, yellow pages from a church muniment book!’
    ‘It wasn’t that, Sir John.’ Athelstan leaned back and blinked. He had drunk the wine too quickly and now felt a little unsteady.
    ‘Did Fitzwolfe threaten you?’
    ‘In a way, yes.’
    Athelstan briefly described what he had seen and felt in the room. When he had finished, Cranston gave a large belch and smacked his lips.
    ‘Funny people, priests!’ the coroner announced, glancing sideways at Athelstan. ‘They get to know secrets. They twist the good to get power for themselves. Not all of them, but a few. Some become avaricious and amass wealth; others like to slip between the sheets of other men’s beds. And a small number search for something greater — magical power.’
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘I know what I saw, what I felt, in that room.’
    ‘Perhaps. But I have met the best magicians, Athelstan. I know what they can do with herbs, and candles fashioned out of strange substances. As Ecclesiastes says, “There is no new thing under the sun”.’ He patted Athelstan’s hand. ‘True, Fitzwolfe might be a Satanist but I suspect he is a conjuror.’
    Athelstan sighed and rubbed his face in his hands.
    ‘There’s nothing like old Cranston ,’ he muttered, ‘to bring one’s feet firmly back to earth.’ He pushed his wine cup away. ‘You must finish that. We still have business at Blackfriars and I do not want the Master Inquisitor to dismiss me as a toper.’
    ‘By the devil’s bollocks, who cares? He already thinks I’m one!’ Cranston answered.
    Athelstan stretched across and picked up the sheaves of parchment, studying them, trying to decipher the close, cramped hand and usual abbreviations used in any such book. He looked carefully at the date in the top left-hand column of each page. There must have been fifty or sixty pieces sewn together with fine hemp, covering the years 1353 to 1368, the year the old priest Theobald had died.
    ‘I’d like to study them now,’ he murmured, but glanced at the hour candle burning high on a shelf next to the wine tuns. ‘Sir John, we should return to Blackfriars. I told Father Prior I wished to see him and the others, and it’s already too late. We should return, at least to present our most grovelling apologies.’
    Cranston twisted his neck and peered through the window.
    ‘Bollocks!’ he muttered. ‘The sun’s beginning to set. Listen, Brother!’
    Athelstan strained his ears and heard the great bell of St Mary Le Bow tolling as a sign that the day’s business had finished. He felt tired, exhausted, and the wine he had gulped was already beginning to curdle in his empty stomach. He waited for Cranston to drain his wine cup then folded the pages, collected his quarter-staff and left the tavern.
    Athelstan need not have worried about being late for his meeting at Blackfriars. The news of Brother Roger’s death had spread through the enclosed community, causing the prior both confusion and endless questioning. When Athelstan met him in the chamber, Father Anselm looked distinctly harassed.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ he announced. ‘We waited for you. Brother. But I knew some other matter must have delayed you. You have had further thoughts?’ he asked hopefully.
    ‘Father Prior, this problem is as muddy as any stagnant pond. Have you discovered when Brother Roger was last seen?’
    Anselm sat down wearily. He