Murder most holy by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

sat and thought about what had happened, regretting the way his own peace of mind had been so abruptly disturbed. At last he sighed and got down his ink horns and rolls of parchment. He was finishing the final draft of his letter to the Dominicans outside Boulogne when he heard a gentle rap on the door.
    ‘Come in!’ he shouted.
    Then he remembered he had locked himself in and got up, pulling back the bolts, half-expecting to see Benedicta. He was surprised to find Cranston standing there looking mournfully at him. Athelstan stepped back in astonishment and motioned him in. Cranston walked across the kitchen like a sleepwalker. Something’s wrong, Athelstan thought. The large, fat coroner usually arrived like the north wind, noisy and full of bluster.
    ‘Sir John, it’s pleasing to see your sweet face.’
    ‘Sod off!’ Cranston muttered, sliding on to a stool. ‘You got my message from that idle bugger Leif?’
    Athelstan sat opposite him. ‘The Lady Maude?’
    ‘Aye, she’s well.’
    ‘And the two poppets?’ Athelstan chose the word Cranston often used to describe his twin sons.
    ‘Lusty and hungry.’ The coroner wiped his sweaty brow and pushed his fat, red face closer to Athelstan’s. The friar flinched at the anger seething in the icy blue depths of his eyes.
    ‘Sir John, you are out of sorts. A cup of wine?’
    ‘Bugger that!’ Cranston snapped. ‘What I need is a blackjack of ale. Let’s go to the Piebald!’
    Athelstan agreed but groaned to himself.
    ‘What’s that you’re writing?’ Cranston tapped the letter with a stubby finger.
    The friar explained and Cranston smiled slyly at him.
    ‘So, Benedicta might not be a widow any longer?’
    ‘Sir John, you do me wrong.’
    ‘Aye,’ Cranston murmured, pocketing the letter. ‘I’ll get the bloody thing sealed and sent. Then her husband will return, leaving you to moon over someone else.’
    Athelstan bit back his hasty reply as Bonaventure jumped up on the window sill. He took one look at the coroner and Athelstan would have sworn that if a cat could smile Bonaventure did then. The old tom leapt outside and reappeared with a large rat between his jaws. He padded across and laid the grisly trophy at Cranston ’s feet as if it were a rose or a goblet of silver. The coroner made a face and shifted his feet away.
    ‘Sod off, Bonaventure!' he grumbled, but the cat’s delight at seeing the fat coroner only seemed to intensify as he rubbed briskly against Sir John’s stout leg.
    ‘Oh, come,’ Athelstan murmured.
    He rose, picked up the dead rodent by the tail and, followed by a watchful Bonaventure, took it outside to throw it on to the grass. He went back and scrubbed his hands, then followed by a still muttering Cranston , left the house and crossed to the church.
    Two of Watkin’s children stood on guard but Athelstan noticed with alarm that a number of people had gathered, talking excitedly amongst themselves and gesturing at the church door.
    ‘What’s the matter with those idle buggers?’ Cranston grumbled.
    ‘I’ll tell you in a while, Sir John.’
    The Piebald tavern was quiet; the inhabitants of Southwark’s ugly alleys and packed tenements apparently enjoying the fine weather, either down by the river or in their own little garden plots. The one-armed ex-pirate who owned the tavern greeted Sir John like a longlost brother, ignoring the coroner’s scowls and muttered curses.
    ‘Some ale!’ Cranston roared. ‘Good and rich with a fine head! None of your Thames bilge!’ He tossed a coin at the fellow who caught it deftly.
    ‘And for you, Brother, a cup of watered wine?’
    ‘No, Sir John, after all it’s Sunday. I’ll have the same ale as you. I think I am going to need it.’
    The taverner overheard him. His eyes crinkled in pleasure at the prospect of increased custom.
    ‘Aye, Father, we have all heard the story. St Erconwald’s will be famous.’
    ‘What story?’ Cranston muttered as they sat under the window for