‘I promise.’
‘Well, two days ago I got a note. It was written in some scrivener’s hand but it bore Bracklebury’s mark, a circle with a dot in the centre. It simply said that he had jumped ship and was in hiding from the law. The message also claimed that, somehow or other, Bernicia had seized the silver. The whore had double crossed everyone!’
‘You know Bernicia was a man?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Yes, I discovered that when I killed the slut.’
‘So, you did murder Bernicia?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Cabe replied. ‘I followed her to that drinking-hole.’
‘You didn’t wonder how Bernicia could have found the silver?’
‘At first I did. But then I remembered Bernicia being on board, just after we docked, and thought perhaps she could have found it then.’
‘Why did you use Bracklebury’s name?’
‘Well, in his note he said that he was in hiding because you, Sir John, had circulated his description along the riverside as well as in the city. Now, I was still suspicious. I thought Bracklebury could be playing some devious game.’ Cabe shrugged. ‘So I went to that tavern and met Bernicia. I didn’t actually say I was Bracklebury but merely hinted at it.’ He blew his lips out. ‘Bernicia didn’t seem to know the difference and that, I thought, proved the message correct – Bernicia must have the silver. So I killed her. I then ransacked the house but found nothing.’ Cabe laughed softly. ‘Do you know, I still thought Bracklebury was alive and that I’d fallen into some subtle trap. When his body was washed up, I just gave up.’ Cabe paused and looked at Athelstan. ‘You never explained how that happened?’
The friar shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was the river battle or perhaps the rope worked loose!’
‘When I saw his corpse,’ Cabe continued flatly, ‘I didn’t know anything any more.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
‘Do you know who sent that message?’ Cranston asked.
‘No, but-’
‘But what?’ Cranston insisted.
‘What if Bracklebury is still alive? What if that corpse is someone who just looks like him? Where is the other member of the watch, Clement? Who else knew about the silver? Who knew Bracklebury’s personal mark?’ Cabe leaned over the table. ‘Sir John, in God’s name, what did happen?’
‘In God’s name,’ Cranston replied slowly, ‘we don’t really know.’
‘What about me?’ Cabe asked.
‘When does the God’s Bright Light sail?’
‘In two days’ time.’
‘Be on it!’ Cranston ordered. ‘And I’ll see to it that, before it sails, you’ll get a royal pardon. That pardon will only be effective provided you are not seen in London, and I mean London, for the space of three years!’
Cabe got to his feet. He turned to walk away, stopped and looked around.
‘I hope you trap the bastard!’ he hissed. ‘I hope you hang him high!’
Athelstan watched the sailor leave.
‘Do you know what to do now, Sir John?’
‘Yes, Brother, I do,’ Cranston replied. ‘One thing, however, does puzzle me, Brother – how did Roffel and Ospring expect to steal that silver and escape the scrutineers?’
Athelstan sighed. ‘Both men would have lied, perhaps even blamed the spy. Sir Henry was powerful enough to bribe officials.’ He drained his tankard. ‘Sir Jacob is still in St Bartholomew’s?’
‘He is and none the worse for wear.’
‘Good! Then let the dance begin!’
CHAPTER 14
Tabitha Velour answered the door and her face crinkled in a smile as she waved Athelstan in.
‘Good morrow, Brother, surely not more questions?’
She ushered the friar into the small parlour where Emma Roffel sat before the fire, a book of accounts in her lap. She smiled as Athelstan entered.
‘Brother, why are you here? Please take a seat? She turned to Tabitha. ‘Bring Brother Athelstan some ale!’
Athelstan sat down. Tabitha came back with the ale and a platter of fresh milksops which she placed on the corner of the hearth.
‘Well, Brother, what can I do for you?’ Emma Roffel’s face seemed softer, calmer.
Athelstan smiled. ‘I was on my way to see Sir Jacob Crawley at St Bartholomew’s hospital and I stopped by to see if you could stitch this’ – he showed a rent in the sleeve of his robe – ‘as well as to ask you a few questions before this matter is ended.’
‘Ended?’ Emma Roffel straightened up in her chair.
Athelstan nodded. ‘I am going to meet Sir John at St Bartholomew’s. He will be there with bailiffs and warrants to arrest Sir Jacob Crawley for the murder of your husband and of Bracklebury and his two shipmates.’
Emma Roffel closed her eyes. ‘God save us!’ she muttered.
She leaned over and took the sleeve of Athelstan’s gown. ‘As you know, Tabitha is a good seamstress. She can stitch this.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, woman!’
Tabitha hurried to the small box seat under the window, opened it and took out a small casket and crouched beside Athelstan. The friar jumped at a loud knocking on the door.
‘I’ll see to that!’ Emma Roffel declared.
Athelstan heard her go down the passageway, open the door, say a few words and close the door again.
He didn’t look up as she came back into the room.
‘Who was it?’ Tabitha asked.
Emma didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen and returned, her hands up the sleeves of her voluminous gown. She sat down and stared into the fire.
‘We have a clever, clever little priest here, Tabitha!’
Athelstan looked up. Emma Roffel’s face was a mask of fury, pale, tight-lipped, her dark, powerful eyes blazing.
‘Mistress?’ he asked.
‘Leave his gown, Tabitha, and come and sit next to me!’
The maid scurried across. Athelstan clasped his arms over his stomach and hoped his fear wouldn’t show. Emma leaned across. ‘A cunning, conniving priest, who’s not going to St Bartholomew’s!’ she spat out. ‘Do you know who knocked on the door, Tabitha?’ Her eyes never left Athelstan’s face. ‘Another priest, that stupid, ancient, dribbling Father Stephen from St Mary Magdalene church.’
‘Why should that alarm you, mistress?’ Athelstan asked innocently.
Emma Roffel shuffled in her seat. She, too, smiled, as if enjoying this clash of minds.
‘You know full well, priest, but tell me anyway!’
‘Oh, yes, I will, madam. I’ll tell you a story about a young Scottish girl born in a fishing village near Edinburgh. She married a defrocked priest, but a marriage she thought was made in heaven became a hatred forged in hell. You, Mistress Roffel, hated your husband. It curdled both your souls. Roffel turned to his male whore Bernicia, and you to your love, Tabitha.’ Athelstan looked at Tabitha, who gazed coolly back. ‘You planned to murder your husband,’ he continued, ‘by poisoning his flask of usquebaugh. You thought that, if this was detected, someone on board the God’s Bright Light would surely be blamed, for your husband was hated by his crew.’
‘But, Father,’ Emma Roffel purred, ‘William always kept the flask by him. He, not I, took it to be filled at Richard Crawley’s tavern.’ She hugged her arms closer. ‘I am sure that, if you and that fat coroner make enquiries, you will find that my husband drank from the flask and suffered no ill effects. Indeed, as you know, I drank from it. You drank from it, too. There was no poison in it.’