By Murder's bright Light by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

Roffel did the pillaging.’ Ashby kicked the bowl with his foot. They were murderers. Ospring was a devil from hell, he squeezed every penny from his tenants. He didn’t give a fig about God or man.’
    ‘Is that why you killed him?’
    ‘No,’ Ashby replied. ‘I did not kill him.’
    Athelstan got up and looked at Cranston . ‘Sir John, we have learnt enough here.’
    Cranston sighed and lumbered to his feet. Athelstan pointed to a large niche in the sanctuary.
    ‘Rest there,’ he said. ‘You have some ale and a blanket and bolster. When I return I will make you more comfortable.’
    ‘Father, is there anything I can do?’
    Athelstan grinned and pointed to two heavy wrought-iron candlesticks on the altar.
    ‘Yes, you can clean those and trim the wicks of the candles.’ He looked down at Ashby. ‘You have a dagger?’
    Ashby smiled and patted it.
    ‘Well, I would consider it a great favour if you could also scrape the candle grease from the floor. I will see you on my return.’ He pointed to Bonaventure sleeping at the base of the pillar. ‘And, if you get lonely, talk to the cat. He’s not a great conversationalist but he’s a wonderful listener.’
    Athelstan followed Sir John out of the church.
    ‘Stay there, Sir John.’
    Athelstan checked the stable. Old Philomel stood leaning against the stable wall, happily chewing on a bundle of hay. The priest patted him gently on the muzzle. Philomel snickered with pleasure and snatched another mouthful whilst Athelstan hastened to his house. He collected his cloak and the leather bag that contained his writing instruments, then he and Sir John strode down to the quayside. It was now past midday. The skies were overcast but the streets and alleyways were as frenetic as ever. Children ran screaming around the stalls. Beggars whined for alms. Hucksters, their trays slung around their necks, offered ribbons, pins and needles for sale. Athelstan glimpsed Cecily the courtesan standing outside a tavern door.
    ‘Go to the church, Cecily!’ Athelstan shouted. ‘We have a visitor.’ He tossed a coin, which she deftly caught. ‘Buy him one of Mistress Merrylegs’ pies!’
    They passed the stocks, strangely empty. The commissioners of gaol delivery would not meet for another week; when they did, the stocks would be full of a week’s harvest of villains. Bladdersniff the ward bailiff, drunk as a lord, was sitting at the foot of the stocks chatting to Ranulf the rat-catcher, who kept stroking the pet badger that now followed him everywhere. Athelstan had even glimpsed it in church, the creature’s little muzzle peeping out from beneath Ranulf’s tarred, hooded cape. Both men shouted greetings. Athelstan replied, surprised that Sir John was so strangely quiet — usually the coroner commented on everything and everyone as they walked through the streets. Athelstan caught Cranston by the arm.
    ‘Sir John, what is wrong?’
    Cranston took another swig from his wineskin and smacked his lips. He wrinkled his nose at the foul fish smell from the nets laid out to dry on the quayside.
    ‘I don’t know, Brother. This whole business is rotten. Ospring and Roffel were two murderous bastards and got what they deserved.’ He belched noisily. ‘But the disappearance of the watch from the God’s Bright Light, Roffel’s strange sickness and the unexplained stabbing of Sir Henry — it all adds up to nothing.’
    ‘Did you notice something strange about Ashby?’ Athelstan asked.
    Cranston grinned wickedly and touched Athelstan gently on the tip of his nose with his finger. ‘You are a cunning , conniving priest, Athelstan. I have learnt a lot from you. What’s that saying you sometimes quote? “Four things are important: the questions you ask, the answers you receive and...”?’
    ‘”…the questions you don’t ask and the answers you don’t receive”,’ Athelstan filled in. ‘Never once did Ashby try and explain how Sir Henry died. He Protested his innocence but