The House of Shadows

down stood a great windmill; even so, the air reeked with the stench from the nearby tanneries. Fishermen in their hures, shabby caps of sheepswool, were preparing for a night’s fishing. Near the steps, the boatmen had brought in their catches of oysters, whelks and mussels, laying their baskets before the Serjeant of the Whelks and the Assayer of the Oysters, two officials who guaranteed the quality of each catch before they were sold at fourpence a bushel.
    The officials stood under a leather awning. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, eating oysters and onions, a hog’s head serving as a table, whilst the coroner shared out his miraculous wine skin. Further down, young boys with baskets ran about offering salmon, mackerel, haddock, eels and herring at only tuppence a catch. The boys stopped to ridicule a fishwife who had been forced to stand in the stocks for selling whitebait, which had now been draped around her neck. Whilst Cranston chattered to the officials, Athelstan wiped his mouth and walked to the steps leading down to the river. He tried to forget the sounds and smells, so as to imagine this quayside on the night of the great robbery. He went as close as he could to the edge. The river was ebbing, the mist blocked off all view, except for the glow of a torch or lantern horn as some barge made its way down to Westminster. The mist tendrils curled like the cold fingers of a ghost.
    ‘Be careful, Father!’ one of the boys shouted.
    Athelstan stared down at the green-slimed steps.
    ‘The Lombard treasure arrived,’ he murmured. ‘It would be unloaded, probably left on the quayside. Culpepper and his companion, helped by the two bargemen, would...’ He stopped his whispering. ‘No,’ he reflected, ‘Culpepper would have waited until those who had brought the treasure had left. He and his accomplice would then kill the bargemen, load their bodies with stones, and arrange...’ Athelstan chewed on the corner of his lip. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘This is all nonsense, I must find out more.’
    ‘What are you thinking, Brother?’ Cranston came up beside him, sucking on an oyster.
    ‘I can think of nothing, Sir John, nothing now.’
    ‘I don’t think I’ll go home,’ Cranston declared.
    ‘But the Lady Maud will miss you.’
    ‘I’m going to stay at the Night in Jerusalem , but only after a few more oysters.’
    Athelstan patted Sir John on the hand. He made his farewells and, grasping his writing satchel and walking stick, left the quayside.
    When he reached St Erconwald’s, he found his parish a hive of activity. The Judas Man had lit braziers and his comitatus were grouped round these, warming their hands as they roasted strips of bacon. Athelstan knew better than to object. They had every right to food and warmth on the Crown’s business, yet, he smiled to himself, the men hadn’t had it all their own way. Apparently the women of the parish had decided to do their washing and, as usual, had laid the wet clothes over the tombstones and the walls of the cemetery. He glimpsed the Judas Man standing near the lychgate and raised a hand. The Judas Man popped a piece of meat into his mouth and turned away. Athelstan shrugged. He entered the cemetery by the small wicker gate at the side and glanced around. The soil here was very thin and it was not unknown for some of the children to play skittles using bones for pins and skulls for balls. He walked along the winding path around the church to the death house. Thaddeus was picking at the grass, whilst God-Bless must have joined the comitatus.
    Athelstan went inside to make sure everything was safe. He unlocked the mortuary chest; the parish pall, pickaxe and shovel were still there, as was the rammer used to press corpses down into the soil. He relocked the chest and patted each of the three parish coffins stacked on the three-wheel trestle. God-Bless was keeping everything tidy. As he left the death house, Athelstan noticed two chickens busy pecking at the earth and wondered if God-Bless had stolen them or if they had just wandered in. He went across, unlocked the coffin door and entered the church. The usual smell of ancient walls, incense and candle wax greeted him. In the sanctuary a candle glowed, as did tapers before the small Lady Chapel. Athelstan walked carefully round. The scurrying of mice echoed from shadowy corners.
    ‘You shouldn’t be here, little ones,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Bonaventure the killer will find you!’
    ‘Who