By Murder's Bright Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

frightened boys around their leader. They stared up in awe at the great cloak-swathed figure standing, legs apart, on the church steps. Marston, his face covered in blood and bruises, still had fight left in him. Sir John waggled a finger warningly.
    ‘You asked who I am. And, now you have left the church, I’ll inform you. I am Sir John Andrew Patrick George Cranston, personal friend of the king. I am coroner of this city, law officer, husband to the Lady Maude and the scourge of thugs like you. So far, my buckos, you have committed a number of crimes. Trespass, blasphemy, sacrilege, attempting to break sanctuary, attacking a priest, threatening a law officer and, ipso facto’ – Cranston hid his smile – pro facto, et de facto, guilty of high treason, not to mention misprision of treason. I could arrest you and you’d stand trial before the King’s Bench at Westminster!’
    The change in Marston was wonderful to behold. He forgot his blood and bruises, his mouth gaped open and his arms hung limply on either side of his body as he stared fearfully at the coroner.
    ‘Now, my lads.’ Sir John tripped down the steps of the church, Athelstan following him. Tell me what happened, eh?’
    Marston wiped the blood away. ‘We are the retainers of Sir Henry Ospring of Ospring Manor in Kent. Our master was staying at the Abbot of Hyde inn in Southwark whilst journeying into the city.’
    ‘Oh, yes, I have heard of Ospring,’ Cranston said. ‘A mean-spirited, tight-fisted varlet I gather.’
    ‘Well, he’s dead,’ Marston went on. ‘Stabbed in his chamber by the murderer now sheltering in that church.’
    ‘How?’
    Marston licked his lips, feeling the lower one tenderly because it was beginning to swell.
    ‘I went up to the chamber this morning to rouse Sir Henry. I opened the door and my master lay sprawled in his nightshirt, on the floor, the blood pumping out of him. Ashby knelt above him grasping a dagger. I tried to arrest the bastard but Ashby fled through the window. The rest you know.’
    ‘The Abbot of Hyde inn?’ Cranston queried. ‘Well, let’s see for ourselves.’ He turned to Athelstan. ‘Lock the church, Father. Let’s visit the scene of the crime.’
    Athelstan did what he asked. Cranston strode off up the alleyway, leaving the rest to hurry behind him. They found the Abbot of Hyde a scene of chaos and commotion – slatterns crying in the taproom, other servants sitting around looking white-faced and terrified. The landlord was gibbering with fright. He bowed and scraped as Cranston made his entrance and demanded a tankard of sack. Draining it immediately the coroner swept up the broad wooden stairs. Marston hurried before him along the passageway to show him the murder chamber.
    Cranston pushed the door open. Inside all was confusion. Sheets had been dragged from the great four-poster bed, half-open coffers lay overturned and a cup of spilt wine was nestling among the rushes on the floor. What caught their attention, however, was the corpse lying near the bed, its arms spread wide, its thin hairy legs pathetic as they peeped out from beneath a cream woollen nightshirt. The dagger in the man’s chest was long and thin and driven in to the hilt. The blood had splashed out in a great scarlet circle. The corpse’s face, lean and pointed like that of a fox, still bore the shock of death in its open, staring eyes. From a corner of the gaping mouth ran a now dry trickle of blood.
    ‘God have mercy!’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Help me, Sir John!’
    Together they lifted the corpse on to the bed. Athelstan, ignoring the blood spattering the white hair, knelt down and spoke the words of absolution into the man’s ear, sketching a benediction in the air.
    ‘Absolvo te,’
he whispered, ‘
a peccatis in nomine Patris et Filii.
I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son.’
    Cranston, more practical, sniffed at the wine jug and, whilst the friar performed the last rites,