Murder most holy

beef, the sauce and the wine disappearing between murmurs of ‘Delightful!’, ‘Lovely woman!’, ‘Grand lass!’.
    By the time Cranston had finished and sat burping and dabbing at his lips with a napkin, Benedicta had dressed and come downstairs again with a small wooden box containing her toiletries. She cleaned and prepared her face whilst Athelstan told her about their visit to the D’Arques household. She listened carefully, nodding in approval. Athelstan watched, fascinated, as she rouged her lips lightly, darkened her eyelashes, then picked up a swan’s down puff soaked in powder, dabbing her face lightly. She glanced impishly at Athelstan.
    ‘If you men only knew the labour and travail of a woman preparing herself for the day.’
    ‘In your case, My Lady,’ Cranston gallantly answered, ‘it is truly a case of painting the rose or gilding the lily.’ Benedicta leaned forward, her eyes rounded in mock innocence. ‘Sir John,’ she whispered, ‘you are a veritable courtier and a gentleman.’
    Cranston preened himself like a peacock. He was in his element. He had eaten a good meal, drunk the richest claret, and was now being complimented by a beautiful woman. The coroner drummed his fingers on his broad girth.
    ‘If I were single and ten years younger...’
    ‘There’d be a lot more food and drink about!’ Athelstan answered tartly. But all he got in reply were wicked smiles from both Benedicta and an ever more expansive Sir John.
    Benedicta dabbed her cheeks one final time with the powder puff, Athelstan watching the fine dust rise in the air.
    ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ he whispered.
    ‘What’s the matter?’
    ‘Nothing, Sir John. Benedicta, may I borrow that powder puff?’
    She handed it over and, whilst she teased him, Athelstan examined it carefully, squeezing it between his hands until a fine dust covered his robe. Cranston leaned closer, wrinkling his nose.
    ‘You want to be careful when you go out, Brother. You smell like a molly-boy!’
    The friar apologised and handed it back to Benedicta then rose, dusting his robes carefully.
    ‘Sir John,’ he announced, ‘we have to go. Benedicta, inform no one of what I have told you but let my parishioners know that I will celebrate mass tomorrow and wish everyone to be there. I have an important announcement to make.’
    ‘Where are you off to, Brother?’
    ‘Back to my church, Sir John.’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘Oh, no, monk, we have work to do.’
    ‘Sir John, I must return.’
    Cranston rose and stuck out his chest. ‘Do you think, while we’ve been running backwards and forwards to Blackfriars, the city sleeps? There was a death last night near the Brokenseld tavern on the corner of Milk Street . The body now lies in St Peter Chepe and a judgement has to be delivered.’
    Athelstan groaned.
    ‘Come on, Brother.’ Cranston linked his arm through the friar’s. ‘Let’s collect our horses and go.’
    Shouting fond farewells to Benedicta, Cranston hustled his tight-lipped colleague through the door and back into the streets of Southwark. They collected their horses from St Erconwald’s, Philomel even more obdurate and obstinate for it had been a long time since he had travelled far and done any work. They made their way down to the bridge, Athelstan trying to hide his displeasure whilst Cranston , burping and belching, fed his good humour with generous swigs from the miraculous wineskin. He beamed around, hurling abuse at the stall-holders who now had their booths piled high with fripperies, girdles, cups, tawdry rings, sets of false stones, buckles, pater nosters and small cut throat knives. Other stalls displayed food, large gleaming slabs of meat and fish — some fresh from the river, the rest at least two days old and stinking to high heaven.
    A group of urchins played football amongst the stalls. A cut-purse, looking for easy profit, caught Sir John’s eye and fled like a rat up an alleyway. At the stocks near the entrance to the bridge, two water-sellers were being forced to stand holding leaking buckets above their heads which any passerby could fill, usually with the dirty fluids from the sewers or thick pools of horse urine. Athelstan glimpsed some of his parishioners: Pike the ditcher, mattock and hoe slung across his shoulder; Watkin on his dung cart, making his way down to the riverside with his cart piled high with rotting refuse. Cecily the courtesan was standing in the doorway of a tavern and promptly