The Anger of God

corpses are taken out mid-stream. Yesterday I thinks: The river’s calm, she means me well. The corpses will be lapped into shore.’
    Athelstan hid a shiver.
    ‘Now there was a man walking up and down, up and down, as if he was waiting for someone. Oh, I thinks, a suicide if ever I saw one. However, I didn’t wish to be greedy, so I walks away. The man was standing behind the stalls, between them and the riverside. I hears a cry. I looks around. The man has gone.’ The fellow sipped from his wine cup. ‘I runs back along the quayside and there he is, bobbing in the river, arms extended, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. I had my fishing line.’ The fellow tapped the leather pouches round his waist. ‘I had him in, clipped my mark on his chest and took him to my shop.’
    ‘Shop?’ Athelstan queried.
    ‘You’ll see.’
    Cranston looked wamingly at Athelstan.
    ‘But there was no one else?’ the Coroner asked. ‘You saw no one around?’
    The fellow shook his head.
    ‘No one at all. I tell you, Sir John, the place was deserted. I saw no one. I heard no one.’
    ‘But how?’ Athelstan broke in. ‘How can someone approach Sturmey, stick a knife in his heart then disappear like a puff of smoke?’
    The Fisher of Men shrugged and drained his wine cup. ‘I only takes the bodies out,’ he replied. ‘I don’t account for why they died. Come, I’ll show you.’
    He led them out of the tavern, down a side street and turned into a narrow alleyway. He stopped beside a long barn-like structure and opened the padlocked door. Athelstan immediately covered his face and mouth against the terrible stench. The Fisher of Men lit torches, the pitch spluttered into life and Athelstan gazed round at the trestle tables, about a dozen in all, which filled the room. Some were empty but others bore bundles covered by leather sheets.
    ‘Now, which one’s Sturmey?’ the Fisher of Men muttered to himself. He pulled back one sheet. ‘No, that’s the suicide.’ He stopped, a finger to his lips, and pointed to another covered bundle. ‘And that’s the drunk. So this,’ he said triumphantly pulling back the sheet, ‘must be Sturmey!’
    The dead locksmith lay sprawled there, his face a ghastly white, his hair and clothes sodden. In the centre of his chest was a dark purple stain. Beside the corpse lay a long knife. Athelstan picked it up gingerly.
    ‘The same type,’ he murmured, ‘as used on Mountjoy.’ He took another look at the corpse. Cranston turned away and busily helped himself to his wineskin.
    ‘How do you know it’s Sturmey?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘He had a list of provisions in his wallet with his name on,’ the Fisher of Men replied. ‘And My Lord Coroner had already directed myself and others of my Guild to search for this man.’ His face became even longer. ‘The rest you know. Have you seen enough?’
    ‘Hell’s teeth, yes!’ Cranston snapped. ‘Cover his face!’
    ‘When you pay the threepence, Sir John, I’ll release the corpse.’
    Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘All right! All right!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Athelstan, let’s get out of here!’

CHAPTER 7

    Cranston and Athelstan walked back to collect their horses from the stable.
    ‘A cup of claret, Brother?’
    ‘No, Sir John. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Tell me, have you remembered why you knew Sturmey’s name?’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘But one thing I do know: Brother, Sturmey was killed because he knew something. He could solve the mystery of how the chest was robbed.’ Cranston stared as two lepers, garbed completely in black, crept along the street, fearful of being recognized. ‘Sturmey was lured,’ he continued, ‘down to Billingsgate. But why? What forced a reputable locksmith to become involved in treason and robbery?’
    ‘There’s only one answer, Sir John. I doubt if he was bribed so the answer must be blackmail. If you search your prodigious memory, I am sure you’ll find something rather unsavoury about Master Sturmey.’ Cranston nodded and they led their horses further up the street, where their attention was drawn to a huge crowd which had assembled around a sinister figure dressed in goatskin. The man had long, grey hair falling down over his shoulders, the lower half of his face was hidden behind a thick, bushy beard; strange mad eyes scanned the crowds, fascinated by this latter-day prophet and the tall, burning cross