The boy’s strange mouth opened in a grin. He stepped out of his gown, leaving it crumpled on the deck and stood with his thin body clad only in a pair of woollen breech clouts. Ignoring the laughter of the sailors at his thin body, he climbed on to a bulwark, bared his gums at Athelstan in a brief smile and slipped into the river. A few bubbles appeared on the surface and then he was gone. Athelstan stared into the dark water, waiting for the boy to reappear, but time passed and his stomach churned with fear. He looked across at the Fisher of Men.
‘Will he be safe?’
‘Safe as he would be here,’ the Fisher of Men replied caustically, glaring at the sniggering sailors behind him.
Cranston took out his wineskin. He offered it to the captain who shook his head so the coroner took a generous swig, belched and lumbered to the ship’s side.
‘Come on!’ he roared down at the water. ‘Where the bloody hell are you?’
The water rippled and, as if in answer to Cranston’s shout, Icthus appeared. He spluttered, smiled strangely, closed his mouth, breathed through his nose, then disappeared again. He reappeared a bit quicker this time, clapping his hands as he trod water and gestured with his hands in a stabbing motion, holding one finger up.
‘He wants a dagger!’ the Fisher of Men cried. ‘Sir John!’
Cranston took out his long stabbing dagger and tossed it to Icthus, who caught it expertly before disappearing again. This time he re-emerged with a grisly burden in his arms.
‘May God be blessed!’ Cranston breathed. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it!’
Ropes and nets were lowered and sailors ran forward to help. They grasped the body Icthus brought to the surface and pulled both the swimmer and the water-logged corpse on board.
‘It’s Alain!’ Peverill declared, pushing his way through. ‘Hell’s teeth! What’s that?’
Icthus had put his robe on and now crouched by the corpse, in his hand a rope with a metal ball attached. He made signs to indicate that it had been tied around the corpse’s neck. Athelstan stared at the corpse’s thin face, which had turned a pale green and bore the same purple marks as Bracklebury’s. The corpse was sodden with water, disfiguring both features and body. Athelstan noted the purple welts on either side of the neck and the bruise where the ball had hit against the dead man’s chest.
‘Well, Brother?’ Cranston asked, swaying rather dangerously on his feet.
Athelstan took the heavy, metal ball, noting how the rope was laced through a small loop on top.
‘Captain, the ship’s armament includes these?’
The seaman nodded and pointed further down the deck where crates of similar iron-balls were stacked.
‘We place them in the catapults,’ he explained.
‘Sometimes the rope is hardened with pitch and set alight so the ball not only causes damage but spreads fire.’
The captain stared down in disgust at the corpse. He noticed one of the eyes had been eaten through and walked away.
Minter, the ship’s surgeon, now crouched by the corpse and began to examine it carefully.
‘Whoever killed Bracklebury and Alain,’ Athelstan explained, ‘rendered them unconscious and placed those metal balls around their necks so they would sink to the bottom.’
‘As far as I can see, apart from the lacerations on the neck and the blow to the chest, there is no other wound,’ Minter reported.
Cranston snapped his fingers, inviting the Fisher of Men and his strange companion to join them. He placed a silver coin in Icthus’s hand.
‘Was there any other corpse down there?’
Icthus shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’ Cranston persisted.
Icthus nodded.
Cranston shuffled his feet in anger and stared up at the darkening sky.
‘Hell’s teeth, Brother, what are we to do?’
The friar, too, stared at the sky; his mind was a jumble of different ideas, sensations and impressions. He wanted to go back to St Erconwald’s, sit before his fire and impose order on this chaos.
‘Brother?’ Cranston asked suspiciously. ‘Are you all right?’
Athelstan smiled and turned to the captain. ‘Tell me, sir, do the stars move in the heavens?’
Southchurch shrugged. ‘Most people say they do, Father.’
‘And you?’
‘I once served in the Middle Sea. I met an Egyptian sea captain who claimed the stars didn’t move but the earth was a sphere spinning in the heavens.’
Athelstan stared up at the dark clouds. He’d heard such theories before.
‘Athelstan!’ Cranston snapped.
The friar winked at Sir John. He stared across at the officers, watching Cabe carefully. The man still seemed deeply shocked by what he had seen that afternoon.
‘We’ve found Bracklebury,’ Athelstan said, ‘and we’ve found Alain, but where’s poor Clement’s corpse?’
Athelstan dug into his own purse and gave coins to Icthus and the Fisher of Men. He thanked the captain and grasped Cranston by the elbow.
‘Come on, Sir John, enough is enough. God knows I have had my fill of human wickedness.’
A bumboat took them ashore. They walked quietly – back through the warren of streets to the Holy Lamb of God, where Athelstan could collect his horse.
Cranston grew increasingly infuriated at the friar’s prolonged silence. Athelstan even refused refreshment, muttering he must get back to St Erconwald’s.
‘Brother!’ Cranston roared in exasperation as Athelstan made ready to leave. ‘What are you thinking about?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘I don’t even know myself, Sir John.’
‘Should I issue a description of Clement?’ Cranston asked. The coroner hawked and spat. ‘At this rate I’m going to make a bloody fool of myself. Every time I look for someone he turns out to be drowned!’ He glanced at his companion. ‘You still haven’t told me how Bracklebury and Alain were killed!’
Athelstan stood in the stable yard waiting for Philomel to be saddled. ‘Bracklebury, Alain and Clement were all drugged.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how or by whom, but when I examined Bracklebury’s corpse I surmised someone had tied a weight around his neck and tossed him overboard. A vigorous man, Bracklebury must have been unconscious not to resist. However, there’s no bruise to his head or wound in his body, hence my conclusion that he had been drugged.’ Athelstan paused to greet Philomel. ‘The same fate befell Alain and Clement. They were probably all thrown overboard from the deck near the stern castle; this, and the heavy river mist, would give the assassin every protection.’
‘So, how did Bracklebury’s corpse surface?’ Cranston asked.
Athelstan smiled. ‘For that we must thank Eustace the Monk.’ He grasped the fat coroner’s arm. ‘Just think, Sir John, the dipping oars of the galleys, their crashing into our ships, the corpses tumbling into the river making the water eddy and swirl.’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘The assassin must have worked quickly. Perhaps the rope around Bracklebury’s neck wasn’t so secure and worked loose, aided, perhaps, by the battle. The weight slips away, the corpse surfaces.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘And the deep gave up its dead. The discovery of Alain’s corpse simply proves my-’ He smiled. ‘Our theory.’ He patted Cranston’s shoulder. ‘So, forget about Clement, only God knows where his poor corpse is.’
‘And the murderer?’ Cranston snapped.
Athelstan seized Philomel’s reins, mounted and stared down at Cranston.
‘Sir John, go home, kiss the Lady Maude, play with the poppets. Rest and think.’ He urged Philomel forward, leaving an even more infuriated Cranston glaring speechlessly behind him.
Athelstan found St Erconwald’s quiet. Marston had long disappeared and so had the parishioners who had been working on the stage. Huddle’s painting of the backcloth was at last near completion and for a while the friar stood gazing in silent admiration at the great mouth of Hell, from which sprang black demons with the red faces of monkeys. Behind the canvas he found the metal pans and wooden tubs that Crim and the other boys would use to create sounds. He picked up the silver trumpet that would be blown before God spoke. He put it to his lips and blew a short blast then blushed with embarrassment as Ashby suddenly appeared from behind the rood screen.