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especially,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘then monks and even coroners. By the way, Huddle, I must have a chat with you about your most recent painting. Now,’ Athelstan hurried on, ‘as you know there’ll be no Nativity play. You also know the reason.’
    He glimpsed Imelda dig Pike viciously in the ribs.
    ‘I will not rehearse the sorry reasons why. We took a vote and decided to form our own choir. Now, I have translated the “O Antiphons”.’ Athelstan gestured at the bell clerk, who officiously began to distribute the stained, dog-eared but precious scraps of parchment. ‘I know some of you cannot read.’
    ‘All of us!’ Tab joked.
    ‘Perhaps.’ Athelstan clasped his hands. ‘However, we’ve been through the words, we have learnt them. Now let us arrange ourselves in the proper voices.’
    The usual confusion ensued but at last Athelstan had his choir ready. The gravel-hard, deep voices of Watkin, Pike and Ranulf at the back, the clear, lucid singers of Benedicta, Crim and Pernel at the front with the others in between. Once he had silence the front line, under Athelstan’s direction, began:
    ‘Alleluia, Oh Root of Jesse thrusting up, a sign to all the nations.’
    The line of singers behind repeated it, and so on. Athelstan caught Benedicta’s eyes and smiled in delight.
    ‘Wonderful,’ he whispered as he directed them with his hands. These poor but grace-enriched souls sang so strong, so passionately, with all their hearts the great hymn to the Divine Child. Athelstan felt the tears prick his eyes. The antiphons continued.
    ‘Oh, Morning Star  . . . Oh, Key of David  . . .’
    When they had finished, Athelstan shook his head in wonderment.
    ‘All I can do.’ He opened the wallet on his cord and took out a silver coin, a gift from Cranston. He twirled this between his fingers. ‘The labourer, or rather in this case,’ he proclaimed, ‘the singers, deserve their wages. Merrylegs, your pies are baked fresh and piping hot  . . .?’
    Athelstan’s parishioners needed no further encouragement. The coin was snatched and Athelstan had never seen his church empty so swiftly.
    ‘Was it so good, Father?’
    ‘Benedicta, even the angels of God must have wept.’ Athelstan walked over and grasped her hands, warm in their black woollen mittens. ‘Benedicta, I am starving. Would you please look after the church and put the vessels back in the fosser?’
    With Benedicta’s assurances ringing in his ears, Athelstan left by the corpse door. Bracing himself against the cold, the friar walked back up the lane to the priest house. He opened the door and stared at the huge figure seated on the stool, horn spoon in one hand, crouched over a steaming bowl of oatmeal. Beside Athelstan’s guest, watching every mouthful disappear, was Bonaventure, waiting so when Sir John Cranston, Lord High Coroner of London, finished the bowl he could lick it really clean.
    ‘Judas,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Cat, your name is Judas.’ He raised his voice. ‘My Lord Coroner, what is the penalty for stealing a poor friar’s breakfast?’
    ‘Murder.’ Cranston, wrapped in a Lincoln green war cloak, a brocaded beaver hat of the same colour on his head, turned, his rubicund, white be-whiskered face wreathed in a smile. ‘Murder, my little friar! I have left enough for you then we must go. The sons and daughters of Cain await us.’
    ‘The eyes of the dark robe of night. The shadow lands which stretch past evensong, these are all part of my story  . . .’ The enterprising taleteller, perched on an overturned barrel at the end of the lane leading on to the thoroughfare down to London Bridge caught Athelstan’s attention. The friar plucked at Cranston’s arm and paused to catch the dramatic words and colourful images which he hoped to use in a future sermon.
    ‘There,’ the teller of tales bawled, ‘the larvae of human souls wander whispering like bats twittering in a cave, for this truly is the realm of the screech