Murder most holy

to your conscience and that is all.’
    ‘I was sad, Father, because, you see, I love another man. Sometimes I desire him.’
    ‘There is no sin in loving anyone.’ Athelstan was sure Benedicta was going to continue.
    ‘I see, Father,’ she softly answered. ‘In which case I am truly sorry for these and all other sins.’
    Athelstan set her a small penance, almost gabbled the words of absolution and sat tense as a bowstring until Benedicta rose and slipped quietly out of the church, closing the door gently behind her.
    He let out a loud gasp and slumped back in his chair. He knew what Benedicta had been going to say and was only too happy she had not continued. He rose and stretched, went through the rood screen and stood looking up at the crucifix on the altar. ‘Father Paul was right,’ he murmured. ‘Love is a terrible thing!’ For a few minutes he squarely faced his own conscience. He loved Benedicta! He stared at the twisted figure nailed to the wooden cross. Would Christ understand? Did he, who was supposed to love everyone, love anyone in particular? Athelstan rubbed his eyes. He remembered scripture, the women who followed Christ, the women who were with him when he died. Athelstan took off his stole. If he started following that line of thought, what conclusions would he reach? He genuflected hurriedly before the sanctuary and strode out of the church, locking the door behind him. He must concentrate on other things.
    The business at Blackfriars was like a game of chess. So far his opponent, hidden in the darkness, controlled every move. Athelstan had to make sure that the initiative he had gained would not be lost.
    Once back in the kitchen Athelstan sat down and hastily wrote a short letter, getting his wax and seal out of the large chest beside his bed. He studied the letter again, concluded it was appropriate, melted the wax and affixed a seal. An hour later Crim, who had now forgotten everything about onions, was running like a hare across London Bridge . He clutched Athelstan’s letter tightly in his hand, lips breathlessly repeating the instructions the friar had given him.
    Late in the evening, just before sunset, Pike and Watkin returned to St Erconwald’s, the former having procured a sheet of canvas, a pinewood coffin and some rope. In a pathetic ceremony the skeleton of the former whore Aemelia was placed in its shroud and laid before the altar. Athelstan, accompanied by an inquisitive Bonaventure, went back to the church, lit the candles and, wearing a purple cope, began the funeral ceremony. Pike and Watkin stood on either side of the poor remains as Athelstan invited the angels to come out to welcome this person’s soul. He was careful not to name the woman. He passed incense over the coffin and blessed it with holy water then, followed by Watkin and Pike acting as pallbearers, took it to the shallow grave in a far corner of the cemetery. In the fading light Athelstan read the final prayers. He blessed the grave and, picking up a lump of clay, threw it down so it rattled like raindrops on the wooden lid. He then took off his cope and helped Pike and Watkin to fill the grave in.
    ‘Shall we leave it like that?’ Pike asked.
    Athelstan wiped the muddy clay from his hands and looked sad.
    ‘No, no, it would not be right. Tomorrow, Pike, ask Huddle to fashion a cross. Something simple.’
    ‘Shall a name be carved on it?’
    ‘No.’ Athelstan stared up at the darkening sky, watching the evening star glow like a diamond in the heavens. ‘Tell Huddle to carve: “Sweet Jesus, remember Magdalene”.’
    ‘He won’t know what that means,’ Watkin objected.
    ‘Who cares? Christ will.’

    Early the next morning Athelstan met Cranston on the corner of Bowyers Row. They entered a tavern where the landlord defied city regulations about opening and closing times. Cranston insisted on breaking fast and, though Athelstan quietly cursed, he felt it was neither the time nor place to object. The lord coroner had lost his ebullience of the previous day and Athelstan suspected he had already been at the miraculous wineskin. They breakfasted on ale and oatcakes, the coroner moodily chewing his food while staring into the middle distance.
    ‘Damn My Lord of Gaunt!’ he breathed.
    Athelstan touched him gently on the hand. ‘Sir John, I do not wish to be questioned but I believe I have a solution.’
    The change in Cranston ’s face was marvellous. His eyes became alive with excitement,