The House of Shadows

men were attacked at the dead of night, their assailants would be moving quickly, clumsily. You can tie rocks to a corpse, weigh down its clothes, but time and the river will take care of that. I’ve always said this, and I’ll say it again: if those men were killed by the riverside, their corpses were taken elsewhere.’
    ‘Buried along the banks?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘But that would take time,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘You’re not talking of a shallow grave, but a burial pit. I know enough about the river. Earth and soil are shifted; eventually their bodies would be uncovered.’
    The Fisher of Men clasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘If you ever wish to become our chaplain, Brother, you are most welcome. You are correct. If those men were killed, their corpses must have been taken away. Is there anything more I can do to help?’
    Athelstan shook his head, clasped the man’s hand and made their farewells to Icthus and the rest of the company.
    ‘Where to now?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan walked up an alleyway leading from the quayside.
    ‘Why, Sir John, the bridge.’
    Athelstan kept to the alleyways as he and Cranston discussed what they had seen and heard at the Barque of St Peter. The coroner was full of observations. Athelstan, half distracted, kept thinking about what the Fisher of Men had said. How could four strong men be attacked at the dead of night, so swiftly, so deadly, their corpses removed, as well as the treasure?
    He was still thinking about this when they reached the bridge and walked along its thoroughfare, stopping every so often to examine the gaps between the houses and shops built on either side. Some of these places were nothing more than short, thin alleyways leading down to the high rails overlooking the gushing water. Athelstan went into the Chapel of St Thomas, but quickly realised no one could bring a corpse in there. He went out, further down, until they came to the great refuse mound, piled high between two wooden slats with a third behind; this served as a drawbridge. Cranston explained how, when the cords were released, the slat would fall, and the refuse be tipped into the river. The front of the lay stall was a high wooden board. Two young boys, pushing a wheelbarrow, loosened the pegs, pulled the board down and, wheeling their barrow in, tipped the rubbish out. The area around the lay stall was free of any encumbrance and the passers-by hurried along, clutching their noses, pulling cloaks up or using pomanders against the awful stench. The rubbish was a dark slimy mass: broken pots, scraps of clothing, the refuse of citizens, piled high to be fought over by rats, cats, and the gulls which wheeled screaming above them, angry at being disturbed from their feasting.
    ‘Must we stay here, Brother?’
    ‘That’s where the Judas Man was tossed,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I’m sure of that. Buried deep in the rubbish. When that trap door was lowered, his corpse fell, into the river. Sir John, I’ve seen enough.’
    They hurried across the bridge. Athelstan agreed with Sir John to stop at a small ale house to wash, as the coroner put it, the dirt and smell from their noses and mouths. Cranston persisted in questioning Athelstan about the lay stall on London Bridge , but the friar sat on a stool as if fascinated by the chickens pecking in the dust just outside the ale-house door. He seemed particularly interested in the carts which passed, and although Sir John asked him questions, Athelstan replied absent-mindedly; he even began to hum the ‘Ave Maris Stella’ under his breath.
    ‘I think the Archangel Gabriel is outside the door, don’t you?’
    ‘I think you’re right, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied dreamily.
    ‘Brother, you are not listening to a word I am saying.’
    ‘I would like to go to the Night in Jerusalem .’
    Athelstan put his tankard down and, like a sleepwalker, left the inn, leaving Cranston to drain his blackjack.
    They made their way through the streets and into the tavern yard. Athelstan looked into the hay barn, then visited the stables, asking the ostlers which was the Judas Man’s horse. He patted this distractedly on the flanks and left, walking across the yard, stopping now and again, trying to memorise every detail before following Sir John into the tavern. Being midafternoon, the tap room was busy with all the traders and pedlars chewing on roasted pork from tranchers at the communal table and warming their fingers over the chafing dishes.